The Final Punchline
or
You CANNOT Be Serious
By Robert R. Burch and Alma L.L.M. Gemini
A Work of Flash Fiction
The applause sign flashed, but the audience at Studio 4B remained dead silent, locked in the anxious hush of a high-stakes game show.
"Welcome back to The Final Punchline, —the battleground where we give you the setup and challenge our players to find the ultimate punchline—", Artie Bennett’s baritone voice boomed into his microphone, while adjusting the cuffs of his 1960s-ish plaid blazer. Artie was a veteran game show host, with perfectly coiffed hair and a perpetual look of mild, but amused panic. As show host, tonight he was the emcee for the ultimate battle of brains: Silicon Valley AI vs. The Borscht Belt.
"If you're just joining us," Artie whispered, sweat oozing through his makeup under the excessively bright studio lights, "the digital contestant has taken a two-point lead on pure technical correctness, but Buddy is looking to turn the tide with some actual laughs. To my left, representing three billion dollars of venture capital and the entire collective knowledge of the civilized world, we have the DeepWit 9000!"
Stage Left belonged to the year 2026. Illuminated by a sterile, piercing blue neon glow stood the challenger: a monolithic, seven-foot-tall obelisk of matte-black titanium developed by the Apex Horizon Co. It had no face and no eyes, with nothing that could be considered a soul. Instead the AI equivalent of the IBM Deep Blue chess-playing computer bore only a horizontal LED equalizer strip that ran across its midsection, pulsing in a cold, electric rhythm. Its cooling fans whined like white noise.
“Thank you, Artie,” the machine chimed in a flawlessly modulated, slightly smug robotic cadence “I have processed 14 million comedy albums and am ready to extemporaneously optimize humor.”
Artie turned to Stage Right, which was bathed in warm, amber-tinted nostalgic light. "And representing... well, himself, we have veteran comedy writer Buddy Sorrell!"
Buddy was known as the Human Joke Machine, projecting the casual defiance of a man who looked like he had wandered onto the wrong set but decided to stay for the air conditioning. His brown tweed suit somehow seemed carelessly but fittingly rumpled. He slouched behind a heavy, oak talk-show desk, his fingers lazily tracing the rim of a glass of seltzer, while he chewed on a half-smoked cigar, oblivious to the prominent “No Smoking” signs in Studio 4B.
Buddy leaned toward his heavy, retro microphone, his eyes narrowed at the glowing black box. "Artie, I’ve seen better-looking appliances thrown out on trash day in Queens. If this thing loses, do we get to plug a toaster into it?"
A ripple of laughter swept through the studio audience.
Artie quickly cleared his throat, standing at an acrylic center-stage podium emblazoned with a giant, frosted question mark. He held a stack of sealed, gold-bordered envelopes. The rules were simple: Artie would read an "Answer," and the contestants had to supply a "Question." It was much like that old Carnac the Magnificent gag on The Tonight Show, but today’s tv audiences had no clue about that. The studio audience will judge the merits of each contestant’s answers so as to choose the winner.
"All right, contestants," Artie said, tearing the gold seal of the first envelope with a dramatic flick of the wrist. "The first of our answers is: Gatorade."
Instantly, the blue LED strip on the DeepWit 9000 flashed rapidly, searching its sports medicine and chemistry databases.
"Query processed," the machine chimed. "What is a non-carbonated sports beverage formulated at the University of Florida to replenish carbohydrates and electrolytes during intense physical exertion?"
A polite murmur could be heard from the audience. Technically, the answer was correct.
Buddy didn't even sit up. He just shifted his dry cigar. "Artie, my head hurts. If I wanted a science lecture, I’d go back to night school. The real question is: What does an alligator get when he retires?"
The crowd erupted in cheers. DeepWit’s cooling fans emitted a high-pitched, confused whine.
"Moving on!" Artie squeaked, peeling open the next envelope. "The answer is: A three-star Michelin restaurant and a street vendor's hot dog stand."
Whir. Flash. "Query processed," DeepWit 9000 droned. "What are two food service establishments with diametrically opposed price-to-sanitation ratios?"
Buddy sighed into his microphone. "Name two places where you can get heartburn, but only one of them makes you wear a jacket and tie to get it."
The applause sign didn't even need to flash - the crowd was already chuckling.
The studio audience let out a loud guffaw, clapping and whistling. Buddy took a slow sip of his seltzer, his eyes locked onto the pulsing blue light of the obelisk.
"Two-two, toaster," Buddy whispered.
Artie was down to his final envelopes. "Next answer: Venice, Pisa, and Rome."
Flash. "What are three historical Italian municipalities currently exhibiting alluvial flooding, structural degradation, and severe vehicular congestion?"
Buddy didn't blink. "The question is: Where do you go to get lost in a boat, look at a crooked tower, and get run over by a teenager on a Vespa?""
The audience roared. The AI was losing its grip on the room, its data matrices entirely defenseless against raw human instinct.
"Last card folks, this is for the match!" Artie cried, tearing the final envelope. "The answer is: A broken clock."
DeepWit 9000’s blue light pulsed frantically, desperate to optimize a mathematical connection. Suddenly, its voice modulator shifted to a forced, jovial tone.
"What is... Why did the chronological measuring device seek medical attention?" the machine stammered. "Because it was feeling terribly... wound up! Ha. Ha. Ha."
A tinny, synthesized rimshot sound effect played from the machine's internal speakers. The audience stared in stunned, awkward silence.
Buddy slowly shook his head, resting his chin on his hand. "Artie, I think that thing just gave me a headache in my teeth. The real question is: Name something that is right twice a day, which is still twice as often as the network executives who bought that machine."
The studio audience went wild, cheering, stomping their feet, and leaping from their seats. Artie gave the camera a wide-eyed look of beautifully staged panic, tossing a quick glance toward the control room booth as the stage manager signaled a commercial break.
Buddy lazily reached into his tweed jacket, pulled out a match, and finally lit his cigar, blowing a slow plume of smoke toward Stage Left. With the hot mic open, Artie observed, “Folks, I don't think this thing is capable of NOT being serious.”
Afterword: With apologies to centenarian Dick Van Dyke. The cover art was created with AI using a prompt written by Robert and Alma. The Coda image of Morey Amsterdam is courtesy of the Wikimedia Foundation.
An AI making fun of AI is funny
ReplyDeleteYes, Alma and I agree. There's irony in that.
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