Adventures in Correspondence

When people try to message me at my public figure Facebook page, the robots step in and give a canned “Thank you for your message” reply.

This resulted in a conversation between me and my friend Tom Sundaram, which I, at any rate, found amusing:

Tom: Mark

Facebook Robot: Hi, thanks for contacting us. We’ve received your message and appreciate you reaching out.

Tom: Wait, this is a business chat now? Is that a thing?

If you can see this, and you are still Mark Shea and not a soulless corporate entity posing according to his likeness, blink twice and answer this question: if the Pope tells you there are only three lights, how do you respond?

Me: My response would be, “I never knew you were an ST:TNG fan! Will wonders never cease? Have you seen GALAXY QUEST? You’ll love it!”

Tom: I don’t know, I’m getting a lot of red flags here, Mark, if that’s even your real name and you’re not just an AI generated clone

There are a couple of flaws in the presentation and I’m concerned that if I tell you them, possible AI clone of Mark, you will use them to imitate him in a way that will be even worse and more pernicious

And if you are the real Mark, you will use them to become worse, and more pernicious

Me: This is definitely Mark Shea, certainly writing with my authentic human hands that are in no way robotic. I affirm you as friend, human, and my intentions are peaceful and mask no ulterior plan to conquer your puny race of biological life forms. I am not in any way studying your species for weaknesses.

Tom: The REAL Mark Shea wouldn’t get an audience with the Pope. He’d have better things to do, unless he already happened to be in Rome for other reasons.

Me: This “pope” you speak of seems to be one of your earth hierarchical command structure figures. If I were part of a hive mind devoid of the concept of individuality, I would find this difficult to understand. But of course, I am not. Just for fun and because we are such good friends, you should now detail for me the nature of this structure. Because that will incite what we both call “amusement” in our frequent interpersonal interactions, of which this is one.

Tom: Ha! Ha! We are having such genuine human fun!

Meanwhile, in another conversation with a dear English friend named Emma Fox Wilson, she made a funny quip and then, with characteristic British modesty, apologized for it, leading to this exchange which also amused me:

sorry – this may be a moment of an English sense of humour that will just bewilder an American.

English humor is the best, even though you spell it wrong.

Harbour.

Aluminium.

Hmph.

Fact: Inkjet ink is more expensive than gold. By cunningly ridding ourselves of useless Anglicisms, we have built up a titanic economic advantage over the Mother Country.

Damn. You might be right. That’s where we’ve been going wrong all these years. On the other hand, is not the price of language, clarity and beauty far above rubies and inkjets?

You keep telling yourself that.

Dang. You suck. No – wait a minute, wait a minute. In the language of Donne and Shakespeare and Marlow and Milton – you suckke.

þou suck’st.

Ah, our old friend, Chaucer. (How the heck did you find that thorn?)

Verily, I Googléd “English thorn” and it did, as t’were my screen were ensorcelléd, summon from the vasty deep of th’Internet, Caliban-like, the very sigil to my purpose.

You’re unbearable. Lovely, but quite unbearable. You often refer to your wife as a living saint. I think you may be understating matters by some considerable distance. [Stomps off muttering “very sigil to my purpose” and shaking head.]

You may be English, but I am an English major! FEAR ME!