I’m a Congressman Not a Murderer

When diagnosed with brain cancer—the worst thing that ever happened to me…until now—I thought my life was over. After surgery and debilitating rounds of chemo, the doctors pronounced me in complete remission, although I continue to suffer from headaches and memory glitches. It wasn’t all bad; while convalescing I wrote AI Curse or Blessing; A Balanced Examination, which became a surprise bestseller.

 On the strength of that success, I ran for congress, and to my amazement won. As the only congressman with a PhD in computer science, I headed the Congressional Artificial Intelligence Caucus. Having come around to the belief that AI is more curse than blessing, I spearheaded the AI Restriction Act. My speech on the House floor warning of the dangers of AI received overwhelmingly positive press coverage. Suddenly I was a minor celebrity. My mom would’ve been proud. My staff responded to the numerous emails we received but forwarded to me those of interest, including one from a Susan Smallville, which they found hilarious:

You’re an oratorial genius, on a par with Winston Churchill and Daniel Webster. I think I love you. Knowing that the bane of congressmen is the continual need to raise money, I’m sending you the $3,300 maxim individual contribution and lining up numerous friends and relatives to do the same.

I wrote her a handwritten note of thanks.

She responded, “Can we meet? I have some ideas you’ll find of interest.” 

 She seemed a little off—my public speaking ability is actually somewhere between Elmer Fudd’s and Joe Biden’s—but anyone who contributes such money and promises more is eccentric, not crazy. So, I agreed to meet her for drinks.

She never showed. Fine with me. Her check bounced. Not fine.  Five weeks later, she wrote, “I’m pregnant…you’re the father.”

“We’ve never even met,” I responded, and that was that.

But then the police found her, throat slit by a carving knife bearing my prints. Searching her computer, they turned up passionate emails between us, which also appeared in my spam file. Worse, they found videos of us having rough sex and fighting over my insistence that she abort our supposed baby. Medical examination revealed that she’d had a miscarriage so there was no way to check for my DNA.

 What the…? I may have memory issues, but I’ve never been violent…as far as I remember.

My tearful denials were met with understandable disbelief—even I didn’t fully believe them. My wife left me, taking our children, and the House initiated expulsion procedures. My lawyer got me out on $2 million bail conditioned on my wearing an ankle bracelet monitor. No promises, but he hoped to negotiate a plea from murder to manslaughter—fifteen years without the possibility of parole. Temporary amnesia isn’t a defense.

Despairing, desperate and disconsolate, I consulted the most advanced AI app, which responded:

If you oppose the AI Restriction Act, a video will turn up of Susan’s ex-husband breaking into your apartment and stealing your knife, the videos of you and her will turn out to be deep fakes, and the emails will be shown to have come from his computer and routed through hers and yours.

 That response disappeared, replaced by “You’re royally fucked,” accompanied by a wink emoji. 

 I wrote, “I agree to your terms.” And I hoped.

 When arrested, Susan’s ex made a full confession.

That’s how I became the most passionate congressional advocate for the unrestricted use of AI.

Resistance is not only futile, it’s dangerous.