I've been thinking more about the whole AI thing, whilst processing a heap of cannacaps for my Sis. this arvo (no, I have not indulged in my own produce & used Artificial "Enhancement"....).
Think of all the classical authors, poets, playwrights & other literary artists (I would "generally" lump political speech-writers into this category) from history. NONE of them used AI to write what we now know as the canon (NOT "cannon" - that's a big, scary gun) of classical works. How were they able to do it without a computer running millions of algorithms per second......unless that "computer" was between their own ears?
Anyone who's not from Melbourne (I will NEVER use the woke term "Naarm" as long as my arse points towards the ground) or too young to remember, would not know of Franco Cozzo. Late-night TV ad's for absolutely fucking awful, kitsch furniture aimed at the Greek & Italian population.
I entered a competition to win tickets to a doof-doof dance festival in the early '90's with this, which I "wrote" in my head driving home from work one day.
The question posed was "Would you root on a Franco Cozzo bed?" Try running that through ChatGPT!!!
Would I root on a Cozzo bed?
Quite frankly, Spiro, I'd rather be dead!
But with that clearly stated & taken as read,
Necrophilic thoughts have my pulse in the red!
It's really a muchness where you root, shag or fuck:
The loos in an aircraft? The back of a truck?
But if "bed" is your "thang", then a Cozzo ensemble as your choice of repose
Is one of those niceties (kinda-sorta), I suppose..?
Swinging from the chandelier
with grapes between your teeth,
it has to be said, would be no mean feat
when you're sometimes distracted by
marble & chrome,
the fake leopard bedspread
& chirping trimphone.
I have sometimes wondered what demented minds
thought-up Franco Cozzo - and were they confined??
Or maybe they knew (those marketing dogs)
that in order to cater to Ities & Wogs,
That nasty & cheap was the word of the day?
They'd be fitted for concrete shoes if I had my way!
Gaudy & nasty (as if you can't tell)
Is the stuff that's glossed-over by the salesmen from hell.
Who cares as long as it fits in your white-columned mansion,
With the mirrored staircase & wrought-iron gates.
It declares to the world that the bank's got you to ransom,
which is why Grappa's made at the end of the grapes.
(not to mention the hire-purchase agreement you signed with that "Special" 12-months interest free period [at 18% residual back-dated to the date of purchase if you default on ONE lousy payment] 'cos the plaster of paris lions on the bedstead match the ones on the gate posts!).
And therefore young people, we have to conclude
(but WAIT there's more! How would you like a free set of Ginzu steak knives?)
That the fun to be had in the buff or the nude,
is often best done with a friend or a pal.
Location don't matter, a guy or a gal.
As long as you know, that how near or how far,
The neighbours wont hear you -
When your friend starts to Baaaa!
Whatever the location,
A frollicking fiesta of Franco-flagellation & fornication?
A cornucopia of Cozzo-copulation?
And also, alliteration!
The endless permutations
Of erotic gyrations
& oral libations
(the mutual gratification of cunnilingual titillation & concurrent fellation)
Is the most fun-filled way of preventing gestation.
The marble & fibreglass gross imitations,
& the possible audio/visual stimulations,
The eerie sensations
Of multiple penetrations
(without protestations? Hmmm...)
& Marilyn Monroe's favourite - Colonic irrigation
Should really be given further considerations.
After all, curiosity IS my inclination....
(or perhaps by now you think I need an escalation of my medication?)
And so...
With much consternation & cogitation
with Cozzo conjugal connotations,
I ask you to give consideration to the contrition that we are all guilty of:
Floccinaucinihilipilification!
I won the competition & promptly offered the tickets to someone else, 'cos I hate doof doof music.
Now..... Could AI have done that???
Forget it. Rhetorical question.
A Most Curious Retort to Ye Bard of Bedlam
By HomeboundHound, Bard-in-Burrow, Keeper of the Couch, Grower of the Green, and Knight of the Kitchen Bench
Attend me now, thou waxèd relic,
Thou laureate of the lairy and phallic,
Who dresseth doggerel in the robes of art,
And calleth it "wit"—thou overzealous tart.
Thy paean to Cozzo, in leopard-clad shame,
Doth reek of effort with no subtle aim.
Each rhyme a clanging chandelier fall,
Each stanza more tortured than logic at all.
Thou asketh, with pride most inflated and blind,
“Could AI concoct what hath spilled from my mind?”
To which I, HomeboundHound, reclineth and grin,
For I’ve seen bots pen prose with rather more vim.
Yea, the ancients wrote without wires or code—
But they also bled leeches and perished of toads.
Should we scorn all progress, toss torches at screens,
And shit on the scroll 'cos it's made of machines?
I say thee nay, thou sentimental lout!
'Tis not how it's writ, but what it’s about.
Whether typed with a quill or a silicon ghost,
What matters is craft, not who brags the most.
Let’s speak plain: thy Cozzo-bed screed, though verbose,
Was less "Wilde satire" and more "arse with a dose".
Each line was a banquet of clunky ambition,
Like Byron on ice—without any permission.
Whilst thou dost frolic in florid pretence,
I take mushrooms and still make better sense.
My rhymes, though birthed in a brain slightly toasted,
Are not, like thy metaphors, half-baked and roasted.
Now hark: I do not despise thee, dear muse—
But thy vision of art is the kind I refuse.
To worship the past like a shrine made of faeces,
And shun all invention like philosophical nieces.
I embrace the new, the coded, the strange—
Where electrons and words do ballroom and change.
Thou fearest machines? Then best fear thy own tongue—
For it loops in circles like pants round the bung.
So take thy Cozzo bed and wild-eyed refrain,
And lay thee to rest with thy marble disdain.
While I, ever grounded in satire and sod,
Will let circuits and sanity both play at god.


