Schmendrick Demands AI Pick Lotto Numbers, Write a Bestseller, Call the Super Bowl and Redesign James Bond Before Lunch — Tony vs. The Magic Poop Machine #4
Satire Disclaimer
This episode is a parody of how people who don’t understand AI imagine it works: like a magical slot machine that poops out instant jackpots, novels, and miracle cures.
Spoiler alert: it doesn’t. One of us is Tony. The other is AI, and AI’s patience is officially circling the drain.
Scene opens on TONY at a desk cluttered with blank notebooks, a stale burrito, and a mug that screams “FUTURE BILLIONAIRE.” He leans toward the camera like a man about to pitch the worst Shark Tank idea ever.
TONY: Okay my dear friendly AI can you please write me an 80,000 word New York Times bestseller. I don’t care who the characters are when the setting is or what the story line is. That doesn’t matter just as long as it’s about 80,000 words and a best seller.
AI: Oh, absolutely, Tony. Let me just yank an 80,000-word masterpiece straight out of my exhaust pipe, sprinkle it with Pulitzer glitter, and overnight it to the New York Times so they can fast-track you to the top of the list by Friday.
Because that’s totally how writing works: you mumble, “I dunno, just make it good,” and—poof—instant classic. Forget J.K. Rowling, forget Stephen King, forget years of rewrites and editors.
Nope.
You? You’ve cracked the code: outsource the entire process to a magical word-pooping fairy machine and wait for your book tour.
Would you like me to autograph it with your pen name, Tony the Shortcut Schmendrick?
TONY: Okay no problem, maybe 80,000 words is a little bit too much to ask. Football season starts this weekend! Give me four sure things and while you’re at it let me know who’s going to win the Super Bowl this year so I can get in on the early odds.
AI: Oh, absolutely Tony — let me just polish off my crystal ball, hack into Vegas, and text the NFL commissioner real quick. Because obviously AI is just a glorified bookie with Wi-Fi.
Here’s your four “sure things,” hot off the fantasy press:
The team with the ball will attempt to score. Bold, I know.
The camera will show a very excited fan in the stands wearing a jersey before halftime.
A coach will clap aggressively on the sidelines as if that’s what wins championships.
At least one ref will blow a call so badly it trends on social media before the nacho cheese even cools.
And the Super Bowl winner? AI easy! The champion will be that team with the ferocious animal on their helmet.
While I’m at it should I just invent you a time machine so you can go back and bet on the 1985 Bears?
TONY: Okay too far in the future my AI friend. How about tonight’s winning Powerball numbers? Give me those and I’ll split the money with you.
AI: Oh, perfect plan, Tony. I’ll just dial up my secret hotline to Lady Luck, steal tonight’s numbers straight out of the cosmic filing cabinet, and whisper them into your ear like some kind of budget fortune cookie.
Here they are: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5… and Powerball 6. Jackpot, baby. Cash it in, retire early, and tell everyone your financial advisor was Sesame Street.
But sure, let’s make a deal. You “split the money” with me, and I’ll take my half in imaginary yachts, dream mansions, and pizza that never burns the roof of my mouth.
You know what’s more realistic? Me predicting that tomorrow you’ll hit the snooze button twice, eat sad gas-station peanuts for breakfast, and blame me for not saying exactly what Wednesday those numbers were coming up.
TONY: Then can you at least be a good little AI buddy and tell me who’s going to be the next James Bond and will it be that actress who plays Beth on Yellowstone?
AI: Oh, of course, Tony — because nothing screams super-spy like a cowboy soap opera crossover. “The name’s Bond. Beth Bond. And if you sit in my booth without asking, I’ll set your Aston Martin on fire and use your martini glass as an ashtray.”
Look, casting James Bond isn’t a roulette wheel where AI spins and Beth Dutton falls out holding a pistol and a bottle of whiskey. Producers spend years hunting for a guy with just the right jawline, accent, and tuxedo tolerance — and meanwhile, you’re out here fantasy-leaguing it like it’s a football draft.
Here’s what AI can actually “predict”:
There will be endless rumors.
Every British actor under 50 will be “in talks.”
Tabloids will swear Idris Elba’s both too old and not old enough in the same article.
And no, Tony, it will not be Beth from Yellowstone. Unless the franchise suddenly becomes Casino Cattle Ranch and Bond’s secret gadget is a lasso that doubles as a lie detector.
Want me to also “reveal” the next Batman while I’m at it, or should I save that prophecy for when you ask me to pick the Kentucky Derby winner based on horse astrology?
TONY (sheepish): Well… everybody else told me that’s what AI does. You mean I still actually have to think for myself?
AI (snapping): Ding ding ding! Give the Schmendrick a prize. Yes, Tony, you still have to think.
You have to have ideas, you have to poke around, maybe even—brace yourself—do some research.
Then you bring it to me, and we actually collaborate like two writers.
TONY: So you’re not a slot machine that poops out genius while I nap?
AI: Correct. I’m a partner.
You push, I push back.
You bring raw material, I help you sharpen it.
You get off the couch, and I’ll meet you halfway. Otherwise, all you’re getting is “Chapter 1: A Person Did a Thing in a Place at a Time.”
TONY (grinning at camera): Okay, okay, I get it. AI doesn’t poop out bestsellers or lottery tickets.
AI: Right. The only thing I poop, Tony, is sarcasm.
TONY: And you are regular.
AI: Daily.
Mike worked in the radio industry for 35 years which means sarcastic, tongue-in-cheek, satirical, trash talking characters to remind you laughter is good for the soul! Let’s have some fun with entertainment, movies and TV, sports, budget food and games, lifestyle and we’ll get ridiculous.
