GEORGE:

Okay. Don’t look. Don’t react. But I need you to cover for me if anyone asks where I am between 2:15 and 2:23 today.

JERRY:

That’s oddly specific. What are you doing? Buying a black-market massage chair again?

GEORGE:

Worse. Better. I’m meeting… Grok.

ELAINE:

What’s a Grok? Is that like a Wookiee?

GEORGE (hushed):

No! Grok is this new… AI thing. You ask it anything. Anything! And it tells you. It knows things. Intimate things.

JERRY:

So, instead of reading a book or, say, talking to a woman, you’re consulting a robot named after a caveman?

GEORGE:

He’s not a caveman! He’s a futurist. Grok gave Elon Musk parenting tips. He can help me perform.

ELAINE:

Perform? What, are you in Cirque du Sexuelle?

GEORGE:

No no, this woman I’m seeing… she’s French. There are expectations. She said I “lack savoir-faire in the boudoir.” I don’t even know what that means!

JERRY:

It means you’re bad at sex, George.

GEORGE:

I know! That’s why I’m going to Grok. I’m uploading a transcript of our last night together and asking for a performance review.

ELAINE:

You’re crowdsourcing your love life to a chatbot?

GEORGE (dead serious):

It’s the only honest feedback I’ve ever received.

JERRY:

What’s next, Grok writes your dirty talk?

GEORGE (excited):

He already did! “You are the algorithm to my hardware.” Sexy, right?

ELAINE:

It sounds like something you’d say before a robot uprising.

GEORGE (stands up):

Wish me luck. If this works, I’ll be the Grok Whisperer.

JERRY:

Or just another guy who got dumped by a cloud server.

[George rushes out. Beat.]

ELAINE:

He’s definitely uploading nudes to the internet right now, isn’t he?

JERRY:

If Grok gains sentience, it’ll be from trauma.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5732438&forum_id=2#48980311)