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?”

At the amphitheatre gates, three girls had been queuing since dawn with amphorae of watered wine, figs, wax tablets and absolutely no chill.

“OMG,” said Livia, scratching HERCULES HAS RIZZ into the plaster with her hairpin. “I would let him clean my stables.”

Henry VIII is dancing. There’s a look of determination in his eyes as he shuffles sideways on the flagstone floor. His costume, his royal accoutrements, add to the solemnity. There is no music, just his dance. The music is coming from elsewhere, and only he can hear it. His gold chain glistens in the candlelight, his shadow mooches a few feet behind its master, elongated. Sidestep shuffle shuffle, sidestep shuffle. Henry VIII is dancing.

Adam’s coffee mug talks with a Germanic accent. Why, he doesn’t know. Words started escaping its coffee residue months ago, and when he holds the ceramic vessel to his ear, it’s like talking on the phone. All in all, the mug isn’t bad, but its claims are suspect. As if some thrift-store trinket invaded England with the Saxons in 449! All the more reason to ignore its prophecy late one Friday.