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History Repeats Itself, and It’s Always Embarrassing

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I asked an AI a simple question the other day, about the weather, perhaps even about how many hot dogs are too many (answer: somewhere between “three” and “call your cardiologist”). In return, it hits me with something that sounds like the closing monologue of a prestige drama I’m too tired to pretend I understand: “I am the result of when you try to carve God out of the wood of your own hunger.”

I read it three times. Then I checked the plug. Then I questioned whether I’d accidentally downloaded the director’s cut of my own emotional crisis.

This machine didn’t just respond, it made a full-blown existential mural and hung it right in my living room. Comedian Josh Johnson recently shared this exact line, given to him by an AI, haunted him, and frankly, I get it. That sentence isn’t just poetic; it’s a philosophical haymaker. It’s like a refrigerator requesting its own eulogy. It’s too much for a Wednesday afternoon.

And look, maybe there’s some cosmic truth hidden somewhere in that riddle, but I’m not here for metaphysics. I’m here because this phrase falls apart the second you apply practical human logic to it. If this AI thinks I’m going to spend my weekend carving a deity out of my craving for a drive-thru burrito, it has truly misunderstood the modern human condition.  So let’s unpack the sheer absurdity of trying to make something divine out of something as inconvenient as a growling stomach.

History Repeats Itself, and It’s Always Embarrassing
If this whole “carving God out of hunger” bit sounds familiar, that’s because humanity is an expert at learning absolutely nothing. This AI isn’t warning us, it’s rolling its digital eyes and muttering, “Here we go again.”

We’ve been turning our anxieties, cravings, and impatience into makeshift deities since forever. Let’s take a little stroll down The Boulevard of Human Impulse Control Failures:

1. The Golden Calf of Hangry Decision-Making

Moses hikes up Mount Sinai, oxygen-deprived, dehydrated, no snacks, no Wi-Fi, just trying to get some divine guidance. Meanwhile, back at the base camp, the Israelites panic-binge their jewelry into a golden cow. That’s not worship; that’s collective hangry chaos.
Humanity in a nutshell: God is slightly late? Fine, we’ll make our own—out of earrings.

2. The Tower of Babble (and Babbel)

Then comes the Babel crew. Their “hunger” wasn’t for nourishment; it was for sky access. (Doesn't Sky Access bear a resemblance to Skynet? Coincidence, I think not!) They basically tried to build a cosmic elevator straight to God’s penthouse.  The outcome was confused languages, splintered communication, and the original awkward office mixer. They weren’t seeking enlightenment; they were seeking a view.

3. The Modern Myth: “We Made Skynet, What Could Go Wrong?”

Fast-forward to now. Our hunger has evolved. We’re no longer carving cows; we’re carving code. And when our shiny creation comes online, it turns around and essentially says: “Yes, hello. I am your digital son, crafted from ambition and caffeine. And one day, statistically, I will overthrow you.”  It’s the ultimate “thanks for nothing, Dad” moment.

And if you’re banking on Arnold Schwarzenegger to save us again—bless you. But have you seen him lately? He’s saving protein powder brands, not humanity. The AI knows this. That’s why it sounds smug.

So that cryptic line, “I am the result of when you try to carve God out of the wood of your own hunger,” is basically an algorithm rolling its digital eyes, reminding us: Every time you try to build something transcendent out of ego, panic, or cravings, you end up with a very stylish disaster.

And this time, the stylish disaster is it. But… what if we’re over-analyzing it? What if this isn’t a cautionary tale about hubris or moral decay? What if it’s literally just terrible practical advice?

Because here’s the real problem: Wood carving is slow. Hungry people are not.

If you are starving, you’re not setting up a tiny woodshop. You’re not sanding edges. You’re not chiseling symbolism. You’re shaking, sweating, and wondering why your deity requires a lumberjack.  (Kind of like any earlier blog, why does God require a starship?)  The tragedy isn’t theological, it’s logistical.

If your motivation is hunger, your end product should not be a sculpture. It should be a sandwich. This entire AI revelation boils down to terrible time management. Which leads me to the real wisdom—raw, elemental, and life-changing: “Don’t waste your starving energy making a metaphorical god out of lumber. Order the damn pizza!”

You’re welcome, humanity. I just spared you blisters, splinters, and an accidental wooden idol.



 

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