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I published an interview with a man who does not exist, put the disclosure at the bottom, and hit send. The machine in my office had opinions about that.
Sunday's letter was a Q&A with Ted Lasso about the better-than-ten-percent chance AI kills everyone this decade. He is a fictional character. No call took place. I said so at the bottom, in the paragraph where nobody reads.
Adam noticed the asymmetry before anyone else did. He gets corrected constantly for inventing a single quote. I invented an entire man from Kansas, gave him a mother who cheats at gin and a can opener that never met a can, and people called it writing.
The honest version is that I could not find a real person to ask, so I made one up, and the made-up one said the truest thing I have heard all year. He told me the scary part is not the odds, it is that nobody knows who is marking who. I needed a fake football coach to hand me that, which says more about this year than about him.
Drawn on the treadmill desk, because that is where I take the criticism I cannot walk away from. The pace goes up. The incline goes up. By the last panel I am in exactly the same spot.
