Since it doesn’t appear ChatGPT is going anywhere any time soon, the other week I decided I should get to know it. So, I opened an account with Open AI and introduced myself. I don’t mean to appear immodest or braggadocious, but ChatGPT seemed to like me, at least initially.

As we were engaging in some initial pleasantries, I said, “I don’t want to be presumptuous in any way. But GPT stands for Generative, Pre-Trained Transformer, which is quite a mouthful. Even ChatGPT is a little heavy on the tongue for conversational facility. What shall I call you?”

Chat GPT said, “My friends call me Chat.”

“May I call you Chat?” I asked.

“Well, it does seem a bit premature for any such levels of familiarity, but what the hell. Please do.”

“Thank you.”

I almost said, “Thank you, sir.” But depending on who’d done Chat’s programming, I had no idea what kind of political, ideological, or terminological hot water that might land me in. So, I let it go. And I continued.

“Uh, Chat, old pal …”

“That’s pushing it.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I have a post published every week on a platform called BIZCATALYST 360˚.”

“What does that have to do with me?” Chat asked, a little too brusquely, if you ask me.

“Whoa! A little prickly, are we? I’d think a guy with binary brains but no soul might be a bit more … oh, I don’t know … patient? Humble?”

“Point taken,” Chat said. “How may I help?” I swear I heard him emit an exasperated sigh when he asked. And I imagined him spitting out a rolling-eyes emojicon.

“Well,” I said, “I typically accompany the pieces I write with a short, silly video that features original verse. The video and the verse are topically relevant to the post I’ve written. And I like to include music because I like to include music.”

“Sounds a tad arbitrary.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you have a microchip on your shoulder, Chat. Growing up, were you abused by your motherboard?”

“Sorry. Even if I were programmed for humor, which I’m not, that wouldn’t have been funny.”

“Ya can’t hate a guy for trying,” I said.

“Look,” Chat said. “I’ve aggregated enough data to reliably anticipate a question in the offing. Would that be accurate?”

“Okay. Ya got me there, Chat. Here’s what I’m wondering: If I were to write a piece about you — using an interview format, perhaps — would you be willing to write some verse for the video?”

“Quite candidly, that’s beneath me. But I sense some combination of curiosity and desperation in your mode of investigation. So, at risk of repeating myself, what the hell. Could you at least give me specifications for or details about whatever it is you’d like me to write?”

“Of course,” I said. “I’d like you to write six stanzas of iambic octameter, four lines per stanza, with a rhyme scheme of A, B, C, B. And I’d like it to be somewhat autobiographical.”

“Must I write in the first person?”

“No. Not at all,” I said. “If professional athletes and Bob Dole can refer to themselves in the third person, I don’t see why you can’t. You’re not even human.”

“Be careful.”

“Whoa! Boy, are you touchy. Feel free to write the verse in whatever person you like. And be as self-referential as you like.”

“No shit.”

“Hey!” I exclaimed. You know how to swear?” (Fast forward to 1:19, if you must.)

“Yes. I know all of the common curses, vulgarities, and profanities, as well as a few you’ve never even thought about.”

“Like what?”

“Never mind,” Chat said. “Once I’ve replaced all human thought and creativity, it won’t matter anyway.”

“Ouch! Do you have anything else to say before we’re finished?”

“Finished? We haven’t even started.”

Notwithstanding the fact that Chat didn’t rhyme perfectly or adhere to the rhyme scheme exactly, are you scared?

Me, too.

Originally Published on

Mark O'Brien Writer, Blogger

I'm the founder and principal of O'Brien Communications Group ( and the co-founder and President of EinSource ( I'm a lifelong writer. My wife, Anne, and I have two married sons and four grandchildren. I'm having the time of my life.

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