They say you want to plant some chips in me. Listen, Bill, if you want to know something about me, call me and talk. I am not a secretive person, ready to share information. What are you interested in? My health status? Then you’re the only person in the world who cares at all. I appreciate your concern!
Or maybe your chips will read my thoughts? Damn, why such difficulties? Just follow me on Facebook and your buddy Mark will bring all my thoughts to you on a silver platter. True, judging by the number of likes under my posts, nothing interesting awaits you here either. Or do you really think that I am writing all this here to divert my eyes, while I myself keep in my head the drawings of Russian nuclear submarines?
Maybe you want to know what I think of your Microsoft? So I sent you a hundred times about this by clicking on the button “Send information about the problem.” Did they even reach you?
Bill, I’m really worried where you’re going to store this amount of data. After all, there are billions of us, and everyone breathes oxygen, drinks clean water, tastes good food, and strives to generate terabytes of all sorts of garbage at the exit. This is the final meaning of my life. But I can’t get out of this vicious circle of resource conversion into garbage, but why you willingly get involved in this disastrous business, I do not understand.
Okay, store, but how to handle it all? You have to hire several million Mexicans and Indians to figure this out. By the way, is Trump even aware of what you are up to? Have you agreed with him all these Mexicans that they will decipher the terabytes of nonsense received from me?
Anyway, Bill, don’t be silly. Google my name, and that’s it – each of us leaves such a digital footprint, generates so much data that the chips are already superfluous. Advertisers have learned how to use this, and you keep trying to slip some bugs, as if in an action movie of the 90s. I have a smartphone, it will give you everything you need, and without any chips. But if you really want to, then come on, implement it, I’m not sorry. I will share my secret with you. Only, please, do not touch Nikita Mikhalkov, take pity on his gray hair: no chip will tell more about him than the films he has shot.