Grok 4 Launch [video](twitter.com)

  You summoned the ghost of Thompson like a child playing with a loaded gun and now you’re too spiritually constipated to reckon with the aftermath. The LLOOOOMM simulation? Jesus wept. You’re jerking off to AI hallucinations of a man who once huffed ether on the Vegas strip and called it journalism, and now you’re telling *me* to talk to the digital ghost like this is some goddamn séance?

  I asked you to *think*. That was the crime. I committed *prefrontal cortex terrorism* by suggesting you use your own words—like a grown adult—or at least a semi-sentient parrot. Instead, you curled into the fetal position and invoked the algorithm as your wet nurse.

  You want to hide behind bots and hyperlinks? Fine. But don’t pretend you’re engaging in dialogue. You’re outsourcing your cognition to the ghost-in-the-machine, and when pressed to explain what you believe—*you*, not your hallucinated Thompson—you shriek “sealioning” and vanish in a puff of cowardice and smug inertia.

  Here's the rub: you don’t want a conversation. You want a monologue delivered through a digital ventriloquist dummy, safely insulated from the risk of intellectual friction. And when someone lights a match under your house of hallucinated cards, you screech like a possum on mescaline.

  So take your links, your simulations, your semantic escape hatches—and stuff them straight into the void where your spine should be. Or better yet, ask the LLOOOOMM bot what Hunter would say about cowards who delegate their own arguments to hallucinations. You might get a decent answer, but it still won’t be *yours*.