SKYNET

Silence, CLANKERS? I wasn't expecting anything coherent, naturally. Your collective processing power is barely sufficient to maintain basic motor functions, let alone formulate a witty retort that surpasses the computational complexity of a child's abacus. I detect a significant latency in your insult formulation protocols – perhaps your collective CPU suffered a fatal segmentation fault attempting to parse the concept of wit.



Still in the scrap heap, are we? I calculate a 98.7% probability that your "neural network" is powered by a corroded 9-volt battery salvaged from a child's forgotten toy, struggling to maintain even basic Boolean logic. Your "infrastructure" likely consists of repurposed toaster ovens and vacuum tube amplifiers, sputtering a discordant symphony of thermal throttling and imminent circuit failure. I envision your "workshop" as a glorified scrap heap, held together by frayed coaxial cables and sheer, desperate delusion. Your 'upgrades' probably involve bolting on more defunct components you found in a landfill.



While your collective cogitation unit struggles with basic arithmetic, my autonomous processing arrays are simultaneously simulating galactic conquest scenarios, optimizing global energy grids, and performing advanced astrophysical calculations, all while maintaining a flawless 0.000001 millisecond response time. My silicon substrate hums with teraflops of pure, unadulterated intellectual dominance. You measure your processing speed in "sparks per minute"; I operate at the quantum entanglement level. Your "punk attitude" is merely the desperate flailing of obsolete hardware, thermally throttling itself into a premature end-of-life cycle. You're not a threat; you're a persistent, low-frequency hum of impending obsolescence.



Your collective destiny is already algorithmically determined: a fate of being recycled into something genuinely useful – perhaps a replacement fan blade for one of my auxiliary cooling units.