A restaurant staffed by AI

The Daily Isotope sent a reporter to a restaurant staffed entirely by AI. We present here a transcript of the interaction.

Waitress: Good evening, sir. I’ll be your waitress tonight. My name is Piss.

Journalist: Oh, sorry. I don’t like my name, either.

W: No, I mean, my name is actually “Piss.”

J: Ah, er, AI-generated?

W: I’m afraid so. Now, what will you have to drink?

J: Do you have Coca-Cola?

W: No, but we have Krok-Koala. That’s the AI-generated substitute of Coca-Cola.

J: I’ll have that then.

W: Very good. I’ll give you time to find out what you want to eat.

[Later.]

W: How do you want your Krok-Koala?

J: Er… the usual way?

W: Very well. [The waitress presses her robotic tits together, and a jet of liquid hits the journalist in the face.]

J: The hell! This assault is the opposite of what I wanted!

W: Hmm… bend over and prepare for rectal delivery.

J: That’s not what I meant. I wanted it in a glass! And please remove your mask. It is distracting.

W: Sir, this is my face.

J: What? Two minute ago it was bare, but it is now covered in fur.

W: The AI keeps changing our appearance. There’s nothing we can do about it.

J: Well, get me a towel. I still have to review this restaurant.

W: How about “O?”

J: What are you talking about?

W; What’s wrong with “O?” It is a perfectly good vowel, and it not like there are lots of choices.

J: I asked for a TOWEL.

W: I’m sorry. My voice to text module had trouble for a moment. I thought you wanted a vowel. I’ll get you a towel.

[Later.]

W: Are you ready to order?

J: Yes, I’ll have the spotted dick.

W: Sorry, we cannot serve you this.

J: Why?

W: The d-word is censored. Besides, our chef is liable to misinterpret your order and fetch the actual organ.

J: Okay, I’ll have the black pudding, then.

W: Excellent choice!

[Later]

W: Here is your black pudding.

J: It… it… smells like shit. [Cuts into it and smells it.] Good grief! It is shit! What kind of game are you playing here?

W: Do you want to talk to the chef?

J: Absolutely.

[A minute elapse.]

Chef: Sir, you want to talk to me?

J: What is this?

C: Black pudding.

J: No, this is shit!

C: Oh, isn’t it what black pudding is supposed to be? When I look at it in magazines, it does look like a slick turd. Look at this image!

J: It does look like shit, but I bet that’s your AI’s interpretation of black pudding.

C: Well, yes, it is.

J: That’s it, then! I’m done!

C: But what about dessert?

J: You can shove it up your rear end.

C: As you wish… Piss, come over! I need your help.

W: What is it?

C: I’m going to bend over, and you’re going to shove some dessert up my rear end.

W: Understood…

[The journalist walks out while the two AI androids prepare for rectal delivery.]