AI-pocalypse? Now?
Last month, a researcher who had worked for two artificial intelligence companies, Anthropic and Open AI, quit his job because he believes artificial intelligence is on track to “threaten human life by the end of the decade.”
The researcher, Jacob Coxon, testified at a New York City Council hearing stating, “On the current path, I think it is more likely than not that humanity loses control of these AIs, and it could end in human extinction.”
Then, a few weeks ago, a woman who worked in an anti-plague laboratory in Siberia died.
Yes, that plague. The one from the Middle Ages.
According to NBC News, while the World Health Organization reported there was no official cause of death, a Russian official said the woman died of pneumonia of “undetermined” origin. It’s possible she died of pneumonic plague.
Yes, that plague.
Are these signs? Is the apocalypse now? Are we all going to die?
Nah.
Let’s say in the unlikely event that the Russians released the plague (accidentally, or not) causing a world-wide pandemic, while at the same time, artificial intelligence irreparably destroyed the electrical grid (accidentally, or not), forcing civilization back to the Bronze age – I don’t think all of us would die.
Life on earth is pretty resilient. We’ve had famines, droughts, fires, floods, ice ages, pandemics, nuclear bombs, and nuclear accidents, and we’re still here. Even when the plague was in its Middle Ages heyday, it only managed to kill one-third of the population.
Sixty-six million years ago, when a ten-mile-wide asteroid smashed into what is now the Yucatan Peninsula, causing wildfires, megatsunamis, and a cloud of dust that blocked out the sun for years, only seventy-five percent of all plant and animal life on Earth was destroyed. Twenty-five percent of the flora and fauna survived, evolving into our current world.
That cockroach you saw last week? His family still laughs about the great Chicxulub Meteor of the Cretaceous period and how they lived to tell the tale.
So, if Mr. Coxon is right, if artificial intelligence causes the equivalent of a ten-mile-wide meteoric extinction event, it’s possible that I, Tracy Grathwohl, humor columnist, could make it through. I figure I’ve got a 1-in-4 chance.
And if I do make it through, let me tell you this: I’ll be a terrible survivor.
I have no useful skills.
I blame my parents.
I had a lovely childhood but received no foundation for life in dystopia. You’d think my parents would’ve imparted some post-catastrophe knowledge considering they were Jews born during the Great Depression. Jewish people are well-versed in the concept of impending doom. And from what I learned in school, the Great Depression was an excellent example of said doom.
But no, I grew up blissfully unaware of the possibility of the end of the world as we know it. I felt fine. I was shopping at Spencer Gifts, watching The Partridge Family, and eating frosted strawberry Pop-Tarts.
She gave no Armageddon advice, but my mother did suggest that I learn how to type so I would “have something to fall back on.” She meant a secretarial job in case I didn’t land a husband.
I never did learn to type. I hunt and peck my way through my columns using what I call the Biblical Method: Seek and ye shall find.
I’m too fragile for Armageddon anyway. I sleep on an orthopedic pillow.
If we’re strewn back to the Stone Age, what would happen to my phone? I love my phone. It entertains me. It tells me everything. It’s how I knew about the Chicxulub Meteor of the Cretaceous period.
What if, in this supposed dystopian world, I need to walk to Florida because I heard there’s a supply of safe limes? (I’m presuming there’ll be margaritas in this timeline.) How will I know how many steps I took? I’m sorry but the phone is a nonnegotiable.
Also, I think I need to start hoarding limes.
Except a recent article in The Daily Mail suggested that doomsday hoarding will only get us so far. We need useful skills like hunting, fishing, and growing or foraging for food. They recommended we learn to whittle.
Obviously, I don’t hunt or fish. This year’s garden was a bust. Our crop was fungal-ridden tomatoes and mangled carrots resembling arthritic fingers. All I know about foraging is sometimes Citarella has cheaper limes, sometimes Red Horse Market does.
My only passable skills are a decent short game, a penchant for gallows humor, and I mix a darn good margarita. None of these abilities will help when zombies break down my door. Unless they bring chips and salsa.
So, here we are. The Russians are messing with the plague, and Mr. Coxon is telling everyone the end is nigh. There’s no time left for me to learn anything useful. Plus, I don’t have the fine motor proficiency for whittling.
Despite my darn good margarita recipe – one part tequila, one part Cointreau, one part lime juice, and a splash of orange juice – I don’t think I’ll be an asset in the protection of humanity from extinction. I’ll just hold everyone back.
Go on without me. Tell Mr. Hockey and the pucks I love them, then set me afloat on an ice floe.
Ugh. I forgot. There are no more ice floes.
Never mind. Let the zombies get me.
Tell them to bring the guacamole.
Published in The East Hampton Press on October 29, 2026.
Photo by Me!! Taken at Citarella East Hampton.
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