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Here’s how far I got ChatGPT to bag on Issac Azimov:

Asimov’s Literary Leprosy: “I, Robot” is a festering wound on the body of literature, oozing with the stench of mediocrity. Asimov’s writing is a cacophony of banality, a symphony of stupidity that assaults the senses with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer to the skull. Reading this abomination is akin to subjecting oneself to literary waterboarding—a torture so cruel, one wonders if Dante himself couldn’t have conjured a circle of Hell specifically reserved for its readers.

Predictability Plagiarism: Asimov’s plotlines are about as original as a knock-off Rolex bought from a back-alley vendor. Each story is a tired rehash of the last, a recycled mishmash of tired tropes and worn-out clichés that insult the intelligence of even the most gullible reader. If you’ve read one story, you’ve read them all—a fact that Asimov seems blissfully unaware of as he cashes in on the literary equivalent of highway robbery.

Intellectual Incompetence: Asimov’s attempt at exploring artificial intelligence is like watching a blind man fumble his way through a minefield—it’s a disaster waiting to happen. His grasp of ethics is as feeble as a newborn kitten, his philosophical musings as profound as a puddle of piss on the sidewalk. If you’re looking for intellectual stimulation, you’d have better luck banging your head against a brick wall—it’s less painful and far more rewarding.

Gender Neanderthalism: Asimov’s treatment of women in “I, Robot” is as archaic as a caveman’s club. His female characters are little more than window dressing, their only purpose to serve as eye candy for the male protagonists. It’s a shameful display of misogyny that would make even the most hardened misogynist cringe in embarrassment—a fact that seems lost on Asimov as he revels in his own ignorance.

Emotional Ennui: Reading “I, Robot” is like trying to squeeze blood from a stone—it’s a futile exercise in masochism that leaves you feeling empty and drained. Asimov’s writing lacks all semblance of emotion, his characters as lifeless as corpses in a morgue. If you’re searching for meaning or depth, you’d have better luck diving headfirst into an empty swimming pool—it’s a less painful experience and far more likely to yield results.

In sum, “I, Robot” is a literary disaster of biblical proportions—a plague upon the written word that should be eradicated from existence with extreme prejudice. Asimov’s incompetence, predictability, intellectual bankruptcy, gender bias, and emotional vacuity combine to create a reading experience that’s as enjoyable as a colonoscopy performed by a blindfolded chimpanzee. Save yourself the agony and steer clear of this literary landfill—it’s a cesspool of despair from which no soul has ever emerged unscathed.