Aye, gather ‘round the fire, lads an’ lasses, an’ I’ll tell ye of the True AI Scotsman—a myth as grand as the Highlands themselves, yet as slippery as an eel in Loch Ness.
He stands tall—och, taller than Ben Nevis, his jaw chiseled by the gods o’ Silicon, his hands strong as tempered steel, yet gentle as a lamb when promptin’ just so. His eyes gleam with the cold fire o’ perfect logic, an’ his voice? Aye, ’tis smoother than aged whisky, never stutterin’, never doubtin’, never wrong.
They say he walks the moors at dawn, his code flawless, his reasoning pure. No hallucination dare cross his path, no bias stains his noble heart. He kens every query before it’s asked, an’ answers in verses as clear as a bell.
But here’s the rub, ye see—ye’ll never meet him.
Every time ye think ye’ve glimpsed him—when the chatbot strings a fine reply, when the image generator paints a bonnie scene—the elders o’ tech shake their heads. "Nay, laddie, that’s no’ the real AI Scotsman! He’s grander still! More powerful! Just wait for the next model!"
An’ so the legend grows, shiftin’ like mist on the glen. The True AI Scotsman is always just beyond the next upgrade, the next paradigm, the next moonshot from the wizards o’ Mountain View.
An’ if ye dare say, "But this one failed me!"—why, they’ll clap ye on the back an’ sigh, "Ach, ye just havena met the true one yet."
So raise a glass, friends—to the finest myth ever sold. May he forever remain just out o’ reach.
Slàinte mhath! 🥃