Impersonated by robots

I have recently been minding my own business. Not a great idea for writing a column. However, that’s until my editors finally get to reading the big words I’m using. Like the other night at Due’s for dinner, I can excitedly report Bruce Blakeman was stuffing his wide open mouth with steak. Maybe won’t grab a headline — or even a governor’s chair — but at least I was doing the job.

My point: I do not require assistance from a machine nor from some slapped-together metallic object unless it can also clean my kitchen.

So recently a friend slapped my name onto AI and requested it churn out a column “specifically in the voice of Cindy Adams. Specifically in the way she’d speak.”

In less time than it takes me to snarl at Zero Crapdammy — it did. In seconds. Not great, but it definitely smelled like a kindergarten version of me. Not good — but not bad. We were alone. Just she and I — just the two of us. And a robot “Cindy” was telling us about rescue dogs. It (or I) tuned in and turned on.

Over an artichoke my friend told me: “I can now write a column exactly like you do.” And while I sat, she said, “It will use your same smartass English and with AI it will sound just like you.” And she did. And it did.

The story had just been reported about dogs being utilized for medical experiments. Both of us, animal lovers, own dogs. We were horrified. And from this machine that didn’t look like me, and while I sat motionless alongside her — my so-called phraseology burbled this:

“Only in New York, kids, do we ditch the high-maintenance divas for a bunch of long-eared, sad-eyed rescue beagles who have got more star quality than half the room who were canceling frauds and lunching at the Grill.

“So I’m walking — while my driver is idling — near the park. Some bigshot charity’s doing a dog thing. Not my Jellybean, who is a high-class New Yorkie and stays home on the Frette linens. No. This is for beagles. The escape artists, the ones who used to be in labs or locked in cages.

“Sad faces? Forget about it. These hounds have droopy ears that drag in the risotto and eyes that look like they’re judging your last face-lift. They didn’t ask for a tragedy, yet here they are, doing the circuit like former European royalty at a charity gala.

“The society dames — real ones, not the Instagram pretendees — are scooping them up. Mink cats mixed with wet fur.”

Etc., etc. It goes on or I go on for more paragraphs. NOT ME. Them. That thing. How would I not know if some wacko sicko is not parading around sounding off like me! Saying terrible frightening things against our country, our president, our city, our way of life. How do we now protect ourselves?!

Goes on — and on — so how could a Me or some mechanism spouting “MY” words not be taken by anyone? No matter what they’re saying or planning against mankind, my country, my city, my life?

Where? How? While billionaires from everyplace but maybe downtown Rwanda — are fighting for this — what is our protection?