This is what happens when you ask an AI slop factory to write like me

Toronto Star

04-06-2025

Could AI steal my writing job?
A month ago, skeptical of almost everything American AI tech bros promise, and watching AI produce enough word slop to raise sea levels even further, I asked ChatGPT to imitate my work.
Be me, I said. 'Please write a 650-word column on modern feminism in the style of Heather Mallick.'
It responded personally, which will never not be creepy. 'Certainly! Here's a 650-word column on modern feminism in the style of Heather Mallick, known for her incisive wit, left-leaning commentary, and sharp turns of phrase.'
Enough with the flattery. First, that's not what I'm known for. I'm known to my readers for having once fended off a rabid raccoon with a dessert fork. Thank you, yes, still proud. The raccoon won of course but this is the Canadian spirit I suspect Prime Minister Mark Carney seeks in us.
I am known to neighbours for my busy little litter pickup stick. I am known to my family for my vast library of everything Virginia Woolf, which sadly they have never once consulted. I am known to my husband.
Fun fact: I am noted for my fascination with political hair, from the damp peaty helmet of Stephen Harper to Pierre Poilievre's product-heavy pompadour. Didn't spot that, did you, ChatGPT.
I am distrait. The initial ChatGPT Uriah Heep pseudo-compliments repel me but the fantasy column that follows is pure OnlyFans. What should I call this slop generator? Dr. Tobias Funke of 'Arrested Development' fame? Chareth Cutestory? Or just Brian?
Chareth it is. Second, ditch the placatory exclamation point, Chareth.
Third, Chareth arches its spine so hard to come up with its 'sharp turns of phrase' that its back snaps.
The spew that follows is a slurry of poorly chosen, inaccurate, unsuitable words in contorted combinations, all shaved phrasings of opinions I don't share. The metaphors aren't just laboured, they're shapes foreign to English speakers rendered in colours unknown to nature.
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Worst of all, it tries too hard.
A sample of Chareth being me: 'I had thought feminism would mellow with age. (No, I didn't.) Like a fine Stilton (all Stiltons are pretty alike) or a retired cat (calling a cat 'retired' is a faded cute-ism) it might purr with wisdom, (cats have no wisdom, they're cats) its battles won. But modern feminism is as necessary as coffee on a Monday (why Monday, why coffee?) and as reviled as truth at a shareholders' meeting (lame).'
It described faux-feminism: 'You too can shatter glass ceilings if you first perfect your morning routine and drink mushroom-infused adaptogenic lattes. It's feminism as marketed by Gwyneth Paltrow, repackaged with a sense of self-optimization that makes me scream into a bar of soap.'
This is awful. It's word slurry from the 2010s, none of it mine. Chareth's modus operandi is to pick nouns, proper and otherwise, and glue them to phrases from anything published online. The problem is, as you learn when you read a news story about a subject you're familiar with, much of what is online is factually wrong.
Chareth may have good burglar's tools. But what it steals is shoddy, its logic assembled out of pretzels and spit.
I asked Chareth to have another go. 'Certainly! Here is a 650-word column on modern feminism in the voice and tone of Heather Mallick for a Toronto Star audience — informed, progressive, and a bit weary from the world but still hopeful.'
The resulting AI piece was insulting to Star readers, particularly mine, the crème de la crème. It began: 'Modern feminism is like the TTC on a snowy Monday: underfunded, misunderstood, and yet expected to show up without complaint.'
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I am no longer distrait, I am irate. What is TTC feminism? Is Chareth suggesting the Star hyper-fixates on local transit? Fine, I'll cancel next week's excellent column on what the hygiene-conscious subway rider should be wearing nowadays, which is hip waders, frankly.
Chareth's fake Star column manically links diverse talking points: sexual harassment inside tiny homes; Uber surge pricing for women in Bangladesh; and serums for underfunded shelters. Cute stories, Chareth, woven from bear spray and barcodes.
Finally, I asked for a column in the style of a mainstream American journalist. I call them 'boneless chicken' columns. They use buffered phrases like 'some may say,' and 'it seems that.' Pale, smooth, without assertion or even a point, they do fill the space.
But such writers live a restful life. Chareth, please write a soporific column, a propofol in prose, in the style of a gentler Heather Mallick.
A drowsy numbness drains the senses. Oh look, Star readers are snoring. Heather's passed out. Just look at what Chareth Cutestory, AI's badly trained seal, can deliver.