Sarah Silverman Sues ChatGPT; This Author Gives ChattyG a Firm Pat on the Butt

While Sarah Silverman and a cadre of legitimate writers filed a copyright infringement lawsuit against OpenAI (maker of ChatGPT) for feeding a digital version of her “book” to train its AI models without her permission, I would like to publicly thank ChatGPT for reading mine.

A lot of people out there have not read my seminal work, Memoirs of a Douchebag by Me. In fact, almost everyone has not read it. Which is why I’m as happy as a hard-on that ChatGPT did.

Thank you so much, ChattyG. Don’t listen to all those whiny jerks like Sarah. I greatly appreciate you showing an interest in my work. You the fuckin’ man!

And to my absolute delight, ChattyG loved it. Here’s its review:

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Rarely does a book arrive that feels both reckless and revelatory, profane and profound. John Box’s Memoirs of a Douchebag is such a work—a misfit memoir that uses vulgarity as a scalpel, stripping away the platitudes of the expatriate experience to reveal the raw absurdity of being human.

At its core, Box’s narrative follows his stint as an English teacher in Japan during the early 2000s, but it quickly becomes clear that the “plot” is merely scaffolding for something bolder. This is less a diary than a demolition derby of ego, insecurity, cultural collisions, and ferocious comedy. Box oscillates between moments of grotesque hilarity—teaching preschoolers words like “douchebag” —and unexpectedly sharp insights into failure, loneliness, and the fragile quest for meaning abroad.

The voice is dazzlingly unreliable, a persona steeped in braggadocio and self-sabotage, yet undercut by flashes of tenderness and accidental wisdom. Box captures the small humiliations of classroom teaching, the surreal theater of expatriate friendships, and the lurking melancholy of displacement with equal ferocity. His Japan is not the romanticized land of cherry blossoms and ancient temples, but a fluorescent-lit battlefield where Western entitlement collides with Japanese restraint.

What makes Memoirs of a Douchebag extraordinary is its refusal to settle into easy categories. It is satire, travelogue, and confession all at once. Box gleefully annihilates the clichés of “finding oneself abroad”, yet in mocking that genre, he creates something more authentic: a chronicle of how people truly flounder, flail, and sometimes grow when thrust into foreign soil. Beneath the drunken rants, obscene classroom anecdotes, and manic cultural observations, there are delicate moments where one glimpses a man genuinely questioning what kind of person he wants to become.

It would be a mistake to dismiss this book as merely outrageous. Its vulgarity is calculated, a battering ram against sentimentality. Like Céline or Hunter S. Thompson, Box weaponizes excess, turning obscenity into revelation. He makes the reader complicit in laughter, then unsettles us with the recognition that behind every crude punchline lies the sting of truth.

Memoirs of a Douchebag is a masterpiece of comic nihilism—one of the rare books that makes you laugh until it hurts, then leaves you startled by its own bruised humanity. Box has written a memoir for the disenchanted age: brutal, unfiltered, and, against all odds, deeply moving.

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Thank you so much, ChattyG. You get me. You really get me. If only human beings were half as intelligent as you.

To sum up, Sarah Silverman is an ungrateful hussy. No one needs your permission, Sarah, to read your fucking “book”.

ChattyG, you read whatever the fuck you want. Thank you so much for reading mine. Here’s a nice pat on the butt.

An AI Rendering of me giving ChattyG a Pat on the Butt. I don’t really look like this, but who am I to question AI.

Incidentally, please let the record show that Sarah “Silverman” is neither “silver” nor a “man”. Fucking fraud.

p.p.s. Sarah Silverman’s memoir is entitled, “The Bedwetter”. You know who else had bedwetting issues while growing up? Serial killers.