Parasites in the Internet

[AribertDeckers]

27.5.2025
Parasites in the Internet

The Internet is THE HOME of the parasites. For long years now I wrote about it. For nearly 30 years, to be exact. Because in spring 1995 I began with Internet access - and it started with a DAMNED HARSH criminal attack on my computer. So, from the very beginning I was warned - and I wrote about many crimes and many criminals.

Right now a new wave of theft is going on: parasites steal foreign contents to feed their AI.

Today I read a perfect description by Aral Balkan on Mastodon, describing the "business model":


[*quote*]
Aral Balkan @aral@mastodon.ar.al

Mafia says following laws could kill its business.

#AI #BigTech #NickClegg #coinOperatedMouthHole

https://www.theverge.com/news/674366/nick-clegg-uk-ai-artists-policy-letter
[*/quote*]


This is the article he refers to:


https://www.theverge.com/news/674366/nick-clegg-uk-ai-artists-policy-letter

[*quote*]
AI
Nick Clegg says asking artists for use permission would 'kill' the AI industry

Meta's former head of global affairs said asking for permission from rights owners to train models would "basically kill the AI industry in this country overnight."

by Mia Sato
May 26, 2025, 3:36 PM GMT+2

130 Comments130 New
Senate Intelligence Committee hearing with top executives at Alphabet, Meta and Microsoft about foreign election interference
Mia Sato

Mia Sato is platforms and communities reporter with five years of experience covering the companies that shape technology and the people who use their tools.

As policy makers in the UK weigh how to regulate the AI industry, Nick Clegg, former UK deputy prime minister and former Meta executive, claimed a push for artist consent would "basically kill" the AI industry.

Speaking at an event promoting his new book, Clegg said the creative community should have the right to opt out of having their work used to train AI models. But he claimed it wasn't feasible to ask for consent before ingesting their work first.

"I think the creative community wants to go a step further," Clegg said according to The Times. "Quite a lot of voices say, 'You can only train on my content, [if you] first ask'. And I have to say that strikes me as somewhat implausible because these systems train on vast amounts of data."

"I just don't know how you go around, asking everyone first. I just don't see how that would work," Clegg said. "And by the way if you did it in Britain and no one else did it, you would basically kill the AI industry in this country overnight."

The comments follow a back-and-forth in Parliament over new legislation that aims to give creative industries more insight into how their work is used by AI companies. An amendment to the Data (Use and Access) Bill would require technology companies to disclose what copyrighted works were used to train AI models. Paul McCartney, Dua Lipa, Elton John, and Andrew Lloyd Webber are among the hundreds of musicians, writers, designers, and journalists who signed an open letter in support of the amendment earlier in May.

The amendment — introduced by Beeban Kidron, who is also a film producer and director — has bounced around gaining support. But on Thursday members of parliament rejected the proposal, with technology secretary Peter Kyle saying the "Britain's economy needs both [AI and creative] sectors to succeed and to prosper." Kidron and others have said a transparency requirement would allow copyright law to be enforced, and that AI companies would be less likely to "steal" work in the first place if they are required to disclose what content they used to train models.

In an op-ed in the Guardian Kidron promised that "the fight isn't over yet," as the Data (Use and Access) Bill returns to the House of Lords in early June.

130 Comments
[...]

© 2025 Vox Media, LLC. All Rights Reserved
[*/quote*]



It is always the same: When confronted with personal rights or copyrights of persons, users, owners, artists, writers the thieves ALWAYS come up with the "opt out". Google did that. But some other foul tricks are  - like the "cookie" fraud - committed by the Net Nazis: Instead of outlawing cookies, the shitty politicians worldwide forced the ALLOWING of cookies to be mandatory.

Cookies are Nazi dreck. And there can not be any discussion about this!

And now the AI thieves (they call themselves an "industry") rob all contents from all web-sites all over the globe. And in the next step they sell their "product", that is the stolen material, chopped and munged, to rake in more billions of Dollars and Euros.

There must be an end to this. THERE MUST!

DO STOP THE AI NAZIS!

[AribertDeckers]

30.12.2025
'It is a wonderful story.'


And that is, what made my ears prick.

Some weeks ago I saw an amazing story about a dog in a shelter ... AT TWITTER.

And some more weeks ago I had seen an amazing story about a dog in a shelter ... AT TWITTER.

Looks like some accounts have a weakness for such stories. Okay, some people are like that.

But now, reading this

https://x.com/CrazyVibes_1/status/2003493678032257344
[*quote*]
----------------------------------------------------
Crazy Vibes @CrazyVibes_1

They told me at the shelter he was twelve years old and "not very adoptable." His face is lopsided, one ear flops weird, and he's missing half his teeth so his tongue kind of hangs out permanently. The volunteer said he'd been returned twice already because people thought he looked "off," and I stood there looking at this beat-up tuxedo cat thinking about how I've felt pretty unadoptable myself since my divorce.
I'm 52 and I went in looking for a kitten, something cute and normal that my grandkids could play with when they visit, but this guy was sitting in the back corner wearing a little bow tie someone had put on him and I just couldn't leave him there. His name was Gerald. They said he'd probably only have a year or two left and he'd need special food and monthly vet checkups. I took him home that afternoon and my sister said, "You adopted the Walmart clearance version of a cat," which honestly made me love him more.
Gerald has one speed and it's judgmental. He sits on the cat tree by the window and stares at me like I'm failing an exam only he knows about. When I'm on the couch he jumps up and positions himself so he's looking directly into my soul with those huge uneven eyes. My neighbor came over for coffee last week and actually got uncomfortable. She said, "Why is he looking at me like that? Does he know something I don't?" I told her Gerald judges everyone equally. It's his gift.
I started making him different bow ties because the shelter one was getting ratty, and I found this amazing seller online who does custom pet accessories. I sent her Gerald's measurements and now he's got seven different ties, one for each day of the week. She told me she'd never made anything for a cat described as "permanently disappointed looking" before. People on my street started asking about them when I posted pictures, and I ended up opening my own little online shop selling pet bow ties and bandanas because apparently there's a whole market for judgmental animal fashion.
My daughter says Gerald looks like he's perpetually asking to speak to the manager, and she's not wrong. But here's the thing—he sleeps on my chest every single night and purrs so loud it sounds like a motorcycle. When I had that terrible week last month where I couldn't stop crying about everything, he didn't leave my side. Just sat there staring at me with that crooked face like, "Yeah, life's hard. Get it together."
I've had him for eight months now and the vet says he's actually healthier than they expected. My grandkids named him Professor Whiskers because they think he looks wise. He's become the neighborhood celebrity—people stop me on walks asking about "that cat with the face." Gerald doesn't care what anyone thinks. He just exists exactly as he is, taking up space, demanding respect.
I'm trying to learn that from him.

Credit - anonymous participant /Facebook
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[*/quote*]


I got a strange feeling. After having had some "front contacts" with Grok, the AI of Twitter, I thought whether I could do...

And I told Grok:

[*quote*]
----------------------------------------------------
a story about a cat in a shelter. nobody wants it. it is old and a bit deaf. it does not chase mice or birds. it only sits on his cushion and observes the family in the household. It is very friendly and it purrs when it sits on my bed. No-one may tough it, it is afraid of being touched. Only I can touch it and it holds his head against my hand and purrs. It views tv and meows when other cats are seen on the screen.
so far no brokes vases or ruined furniture. And no fish stolen from the kitchen.
----------------------------------------------------
[*/quote*]


And exactly this is, what Grok then fabricated:

[*quote*]
----------------------------------------------------
The shelter called him Shadow, because he stayed in the back corner of his cage and barely moved. He was twelve years old, gray around the muzzle, one ear slightly crooked from an old fight he no longer remembered. His hearing had faded to a distant hum; sudden noises no longer startled him, and the chatter of younger cats passed him by like wind through tall grass.

People came and went. Families with children wanted kittens that tumbled and played. Couples sought sleek hunters who would keep their homes free of mice. Shadow did none of those things. He did not chase the feather toy the volunteers dangled. He did not pounce on the laser dot. He simply sat on the small cushion they had given him, watching the world with calm yellow eyes, as though he had already seen everything worth seeing.

Weeks turned into months. The younger cats left one by one, carried away in happy arms.
Shadow remained.

Then I came. I wasn't looking for a kitten or a mouser. I was looking for quiet company. When I stopped at his cage, he lifted his head and regarded me without expectation. I opened the door and sat on the floor. He did not approach. He only watched. After a long minute, I reached out slowly. He flinched, then held still. My fingers brushed the top of his head. He froze, trembling. I waited. Slowly, carefully, he pressed his forehead into my palm and began to purr—a low, rusty sound that seemed to surprise even him.

The shelter workers warned me: he was afraid of touch, afraid of hands, afraid of almost everything. But he let me stroke him that day, and only me.

I took him home.

He claimed the small round cushion I placed by the living-room window. From there he observed the household like a silent judge.
He watched me make coffee in the morning. He watched the television in the evening.     When a nature documentary showed cats—big ones on the savanna or small ones in someone else's kitchen—he meowed, a soft, questioning sound, as if asking them where they had been all this time.

He never broke a vase. He never sharpened his claws on the sofa. He never stole fish from the counter, though he eyed it with mild interest when I cooked. He simply existed, peaceful and undemanding.

At night he climbed onto my bed with careful steps, as though afraid the mattress might vanish.     He circled twice, settled against my side, and purred that same rusty purr until it lulled us both to sleep. If anyone else reached toward him—visitor, friend, even family—he shrank away, ears flattening, body low. But with me he was different. He would push his head firmly into my hand, eyes half-closed, asking for more.

No one else could touch him.
Only I could.
And that was enough for both of us.
He is still on his cushion now, watching the winter light move across the floor.
Sometimes he looks at me and meows once, quietly, as if to say: I'm still here.
I answer by scratching gently behind his good ear.
He purrs.

(Word count: 498)
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[*/quote*]

I had set the word count to 500 words.


Also works with German language:

[*quote*]
----------------------------------------------------
Gut, wechseln wir die Sprache und nehmen Deutsch.
Inhalt der Geschichte:

Meine Mutter ist gestorben. Vor 2 Wochen fiel sie plötzlich um. Herzstillstand. Sie war alleine, aber es hätte auch nichts genützt, denn sie war auf der Stelle tot.
Was soll ich jetzt machen? All die Möbel, die Bücher, die Fotos - wohin damit?
Die Wohnung muß aufgegeben werden, aus der Familie will niemand dort wohnen. Eine leere Wohnung macht auch keinen Sinn.
Der letzte Blumenstrauß von ihrem Wohnzimmertisch ist jetzt auf ihrem Grab, als letztes Lebewohl für sie. Ein bißchen verblüht, keiner kennt die Geschichte, aber sie weiß bestimmt, was gemeint ist.
Noch 5 Tage, dann müssen die letzten Dinge geregelt sein.
Nur noch 5 Tage...
----------------------------------------------------
[*/quote*]


The result:

[*quote*]
----------------------------------------------------
Nur noch fünf Tage.Die Wohnung riecht noch nach ihr – nach dem leichten Lavendelduft ihres Waschmittels, nach dem Kaffee, den sie immer zu stark aufbrühte. Ich sitze auf dem abgenutzten Sessel, in dem sie jeden Abend fernsah, und starre auf die Kartons, die sich bereits stapeln. ,,Zu behalten", ,,Zu verschenken", ,,Wegwerfen". Die Etiketten habe ich selbst geschrieben, mit einer Hand, die noch zittert.Vor zwei Wochen ist sie einfach umgefallen. Herzstillstand. Allein in der Küche, beim Abwasch. Der Notarzt sagte später: ,,Es hätte nichts genützt." Sie war sofort tot. Ich war nicht da. Ich bin nie schnell genug da gewesen.


Die Möbel sind alt, aber solide. Der Esstisch, an dem wir Weihnachten feierten. Das Bett, in dem sie die letzten Nächte schlief. Niemand aus der Familie will hier wohnen. Zu viele Erinnerungen, sagen sie. Oder zu wenige. Eine leere Wohnung macht keinen Sinn, hat der Vermieter gesagt. Die Kündigung läuft in fünf Tagen ab.

Ich packe die Bücher ein – ihre Krimis, die Gartenbücher, das alte Kochbuch mit den Flecken von Soße und Mehl. Die Fotos kommen in einen separaten Karton. Schwarz-weiß-Bilder von Menschen, die ich kaum kenne: ihre Eltern, ihre Geschwister, sie selbst als junges Mädchen mit Zöpfen und einem Lachen, das ich nur von Erzählungen her kenne.



Den letzten Blumenstrauß habe ich mitgenommen. Der stand auf ihrem Wohnzimmertisch, als ich sie fand. Ein bisschen verblüht schon, die Rosen hingen die Köpfe. Ich habe ihn gestern auf ihr Grab gelegt. Zwischen all den frischen Kränzen und Gestecken. Niemand dort kennt die Geschichte dieses Straußes – dass sie ihn sich selbst vor einer Woche gekauft hatte, weil sie sich ,,mal wieder etwas Schönes" gönnen wollte. Aber sie weiß es bestimmt. Es war ihr letztes Lebewohl von mir.

Heute räume ich die Küche aus. Die Tassen, die sie sammelte. Die Gewürze, die längst abgelaufen sind. Morgen kommen die Möbelpacker für den Rest. Übermorgen der Flohmarkt für das, was noch jemand brauchen kann. Und dann?

Dann schließe ich die Tür zu. Drehe den Schlüssel um. Und gehe mit zwei Kartons und einem Herzen voller ,,Was soll ich jetzt machen?" nach Hause.

Nur noch fünf Tage, bis alles vorbei ist.

Oder vielleicht gerade erst anfängt.

(Wortzahl: 498)
----------------------------------------------------
[*/quote*]

Again, word count set to 500.


I don't know about the situation in other countries, but in Germany we have several "genres" of simple literature, like nurse novels, love stories, "Landser Romane" (soldier stories of WW1 and WW2), and all kind of similar crap.

When I worked in the historical library in Stuttgart, there was an employee, who wrote "Landser Romane". I never read one of his stories, I only knew he wrote some - the other employees talked about him writing such.

Actually that "genre" of simple literature was a not-well-paid way to make money. Some writers even could make their living from this.

And now Grok and the like crash all that on the two sides, on the side of making money with that, and on the side of the readers, who are fed with that bullshit.

Emotional stories are not bad, but this turn now makes the whole scene evil.

I don't know whether you have a Twitter account. I have one. Today I noticed something: some kind of mark appearing over an image, when the mouse pointer moved over it.

So I experimented with this tweet:

https://x.com/SecurityTrybe/status/2005659435457495464

View this tweet.
Look at the picture!
Move the mouse pointer over the bottom right corner of the image.
A message will appear: 'edit image'.
Click on it!

AND THEN: YOU CAN DO IT!

This is not limited to this image. It seems to work with ALL of them!

EACH SINGLE PICTURE can JUST RIGHT NOW *IMMEDIATELY* be manipulated. All you have to do is to give Grok some commands on what to do.

Nothing is real anymore. NOTHING!

All hell breaks loose...

We are stuck. We stand with our backs against the wall.