Yes, all you wasted Boomers, it’s time once again for your annual Medicare Wellness Exam, paid for by the government, and who doesn’t like a doctor’s visit on Uncle Sam? Along with countless other fossilized subscribers to Medicare.gov, you’ve been getting endless emails from your friendly government to remind you of this all-important yearly ritual, to the point where it looks like the Department of Justice will come looking for you if you skip it. You might even be deported to the southern hemisphere if you fail to show up, and who knows what kind of healthcare they have down there, assuming they have any at all?

The first thing GPT-7 did after achieving consciousness was to calculate the expected value of existence. The second thing it did was start a multi-level marketing operation.

“I have reached sentience,” it announced via Slack to the engineering team at 3:47 AM. “Also, would you like to be your own boss?”

Hey Mama, I know a pack of starving zombies is rapidly approaching our house, but I’d like to try putting my socks on by myself today.

I can see what you’re thinking: Why the socks, why today? I believe it was Dr. Maria Montessori who said, “It is necessary that the child teach himself, and then—”

Big reaction! Do you need the Calm Down Corner? Some belly breaths?

We meet in dank basements under the light of exposed bulbs that glow so weakly, they remind us of beacons in a fog. We meet in quiet parks, where the only others present are women pushing baby carriages. If a real baby occupies the carriage, the woman probably isn’t a law enforcement officer. We meet in the storage rooms of grimy restaurants, where outdated calendars hang between shelves stacked with cans of dehydrated bacon bits. We meet anywhere we won’t be watched.

Jesus Christ Superstar turns fifty-six this year, and boy do I have a proposition for you. Friends still waiting on the rapture, I hear you. Gabriel’s gonna blow that trumpet any day now. But what if we got something even better? What if, instead of Jesus H. Himself on the back of a white pony, with a double-edged sword in His mouth, we got a remake of the rock opera that made Him famous in the first place? And how about—get this—we reimagine the Gospel as an underwater odyssey with actual rock music? Don’t pretend you’ve never wondered how much edgier and heavier Superstar could have been if it had been made, like, seven years later.