Troim-Kryzl

Author: Troim Kryzl

  • Task Director

    Hi there, nice to meet you. Just pretending, of course. You guys are bound to brim with prejudices, and will cut the truth out of this footage faster than I can say “Go play somewhere else, please, and let the grownups get ahead with making the world a better place.”

    Oh yes, you heard me all right, all six words of it: “Making. The. World. A. Better. Place.” There, I said it again. And I will repeat this statement for as long as it takes.

    First and foremost, nice entertainment is important. Intrinsic value, if you need me to put it in a posh way. It’s great to have a safe roof, good food and nice entertainment. That’s all it takes to keep ninety-nine percent of people happy. And we want that, we want to contribute to human happiness. I certainly do. You might prefer them angry, as in revolutionary masses. But that’s your problem. Not mine.

    But Campetition is much more than nice, family friendly entertainment. We really make the world a better place, episode by episode, season by season.

    Campetition is educational. No, don’t you roll your eyes.

    Do join me on a little mental trip, please, let’s say five years back. Remember the ambiance, back then?

    In those pre-Campetition days, what did the people, mister and miss Average, think, upon hearing words like ‘refugees’ or ‘camps’? What did they know? What kind of emotional reaction did the topic trigger? Did they care? Where they keen on hearing more? Did they focus on individual fates, feats, talents and biographies?

    Come on guys, you’re bound to have that kind of background, you do know what I’m talking about. You remember what the ambiance was like in the ‘good old days’ before Campetition.

    It took one big leap of fate, on the venture bucks side, to go up against that public mood and bet on empathy.

    And hey, here we are. Just like magic. Couple of good scenarios later, mister and miss Average are emotionally engaged, in a totally novel way. They won’t miss one minute of the show, they discuss the tasks over lunch and they bet on their favourite participants instead of clutching their purses, because all those robbers roaming the streets. Total change of ambiance. Refugees can be so cute, who’d have thought?

    And they’d so love a Campetition participant on their team on the job, or as their son in law…

    Oh come on you idiots! That last one was just kidding. There is still a fine line, between what mister and miss Average like to think of as ‘them’ and ‘us’. Campetition is entertainment, we don’t do miracles.

    But the overall ambiance is much improved. Can show you the data, and advertising bucks don’t lie.

    No, the tasks are not ‘demeaning’. We take great care to keep everything safe and harmless. And we’ve got the records to prove it: Not one severely injured participant, over so many seasons. Couple of bruises, a broken toe here, a loose tooth there, but never no serious accident. According to our occupational safety chief, it’s much more dangerous to handle the stage lights or cook for the crew than compete. We’re much safer than sports like football or cycling. Never mind shows like Ninja warrior or Takeshi’s castle. Campetition is safe, and that’s a big part of the family entertainment value.

    If I believe the bullshit I’m telling you? Guys, if you want a believer, go find yourself a church and a pastor. I’m a professional creating top notch family entertainment that also improves societal cohesion, based on solid science, and yes, I’m proud of being at the centre of this enterprise.

    Last not least: Campetition is a chance for refugees to shine, and escape their sordid circumstances. What’s not to like?

    Of course you can quote me!

  • Talent Screener 3

    Well…, what is it like, how best to describe it… This is really hard, you know? Would you like an honest answer, me describing as it is? Or do you prefer the official legend, as in splendid opportunities, new horizons, chance of a lifetime, and bla, and more bla,…?

    The truth. Okay… That is one big word, you know?

    Let’s try the facts, then. An average of 1.117 applications, per week. Not that many, considering there are some dozens of millions of refugees, if you trust sources like UNHCR. Quite a lot, if you take into consideration that to be able to apply, you need to be in a camp, officially registered, have access to a functional phone with sufficient data volume to provide the required set of three pictures and one video, and pretty good English. We are totally missing out on non-English speaking talent. Breaks my heart, because hey, that’s so not inclusive at all!

    No, of course I can’t ‘read’ 1.117 applications. No manual processing involved at the first two stages. Central casting sets the parameters, for age, gender and region of origin – bit of a proxy for race, that one, but psst, no mentioning of this aspect, big bad dirty secret, and then the software does it’s job.

    Stage one, the software sorts the applications according to the parameters. We typically get loads of young men, and hardly any old women, meaning the latter get a much better chance to move to stage 2. Can you do me the favour to spread the word? I’d really appreciate a better selection of at least middle-aged ladies. The older, the better, actually. A granny would be cool to have, on the show, but they seem to rarely make it to the camps or manage to apply, for whichever reason.

    Sorry, I’m digressing…

    Stage two, the software does some advanced sorting, of the pictures. It’s a special algorithm, trained on audience preferences, that delivers a likeability score. You need high and low scorers, for emotional involvement. Officially, the algorithm is very secret sauce and high tech. If you look at what it delivers, you see the usual: Symetric face, good teeth, nice skin and hair = high score. Asymmetric face, bad teeth, pimples and bald spots = low score. Pretty obvious, like for the heroes and villains movies, just look at those teeth to guess who’ll be the bad guy, in the end.

    Stage three is my job: I get presented with perhaps a dozen of promising candidates and call them to check if they’re anything like their applications. More often than not, I can’t reach them, or they’re fake in one or more respects. I often go for days without meeting any valuable talent.

    That’s as much truth as I can come up with. Will that do, or would you prefer anecdotes? You won’t believe the kind of stuff I get to see in the application videos…

  • Grumpy Old Creative

    You found me? Wow! Congratulations, your research skills must be outstanding. Or do you happen to be romantically engaged with the masters of the streaming universe? No? Sure? Ok, I believe you.

    No, I don’t! That’s not how it works.

    Someone must have told you, and his, or looking at you more probably her guard must have been down, as happens in the context of sex. Or drugs. Or – no, I won’t go full cliché. Shut up, go away, leave me alone.

    Yes, I would consider alcohol drugs. Yes, this statement does apply to really old whiskey. It’s still drugs.

    Ok, you’re starting to make sense to the grumpy old creative.

    A couple of shots of whiskey can work wonders on a lady habitually running on decaf and low calorie isotonic slurp. Still surprised she mentioned me, after all these years. Quite pleasant, to be remembered. Would be even more pleasant to get my share, pecuniarily speaking, but still…

    It all started with a textbook unsolicited submission.

    You can’t just wake up and pitch to Webflix. You need an agent, to do it for you. His job, if you want to call this kind of address hoarding a job, is to know whom to contact, and what forms to use. The likes of Webflix, they won’t write on their website “Please contact let’s call her alice.bob@netflix.com to propose a show”, you know?

    You need an agent. Or a dark web friend with access to a big bucket full of magically rerouted emails and some data mining skills. And here you are, contacting that same alice.bob@netflix.com, with exactly the right kind of header. A more diligently criminal mind than yours truly would have faked a known sender, to avoid any risk of being identified as spam, but I’m scared of police, never no go illegal.

    And yes, it worked. Twenty minutes later, we were chatting via Netex. Or rather, she was shouting at me. She was so upset, all wild. Called me a a raving disgrace to humankind, and more. Because even coming up with the idea for this show was supposed to be worse than all crimes against humanity ever committed. Bit harsh, bit over the top. But people in her line of work perhaps need that kind of temper, with all the entitled extroverts they have to deal with?

    Anyway, she made it very, very clear that she would never, ever allow anything like this show to happen, on Webflix or wherever else I might dare pitch it. And me to promise to forget the stupid idea, and switch back to writing SciFi. End of encounter.

    And here we are, five years later, wondering what happen afterwards. Did she change her mind? How? Did someone else come up with that same idea, title and all, and reach out to a more experimentally minded strategy person? Who dunnit? Do you know?

    An in-house development, too vaguely inspired by my initiative to make it worth mentioning or paying me? Honestly?

    See now, why I’m a grumpy old creative?

    Or would you like me to aggravate my humiliation by showing off the site sucker documentation of the website where I published the original scraps?

    Just kidding, no plans to waste your time any further. And now you f*ck off, please? I’d really appreciate!

  • Junior Accountant

    It’s a job, you know? Just a job. I do the numbers, that’s it.

    Don’t care if it’s for Campetition or whatever. Numbers are numbers, the spreadsheet looks the same. We buy stuff, we pay staff, we rent places, management takes business trips, taxman gets his share.

    It’s basically the same routine everywhere.

    There are some limits, though. Wouldn’t feel very good working for an arms manufacturer, or big tobacco. Would prefer not to mention that kind of job on social occasions. Someone has to do those numbers, too, of course, and it’s not the numbers people doing the killing, of course not. But I’d still prefer not to mention, if ever I had to do the numbers for this kind of company.

    Whereas being involved with Campetition, that’s pretty cool, for my line of work. Makes for good small talk. Pretty much everybody is watching it, and cheering for someone. Like that girl from Syria, two seasons back, don’t remember her name, but so cute. My wife got asked at her gym, if she might be available for hire as personal trainer, and if I might help.

    This show really is win-win all over. Fun to watch, and educational. You wouldn’t believe the progress my kids made, for geography, since they are allowed to watch. Clara, she’s first grade, but she can say Afghanistan, and locate it on her beach ball. Very educational, the country clips explaining where the contestants come from. And never too harsh, no risk of causing nightmares. Very family friendly.

    And for the contestants, it’s even more win-win. Best case they hit the jackpot and get to stay, with all rights to all benefits. Worst case they get deported back to whichever camp they came from, but as famous people with a little cash. You can bet most of them will achieve some kind of what passes for a career under their kind of circumstances. And if they don’t, there are still the nice memories and the pictures.

    Embarrassed, for being involved with Campetition? Certainly not!

  • Stage Hand 18

    If it’s racist? You are asking me, the black guy on the minimum wage – and wish it was payed on time and matching the real hours for once! – if Campetition is racist?

    Any kind of idea how much how back breaking work is involved to make this big b*llsh*t of a show happen?

    Do the fences go up by themselves?

    Does the bloody pool for the f*cking paddle boat race fill by magic?

    Does all that water mop itself up?

    Ever asked yourself who does the dishes after the all-cooked-zero-waste food package challenge?

    Give you a hint: It’s not the camera fodder getting themselves exploited here, dawn to dusk, with barely a lunch break and no canteen. It’s us, the workforce, a.k.a the proletariat, the toiling masses, the idiots of the day.

    That said – and it really needs saying more often, even if it puts me at risk of getting the sack – of course it’s racist, Campetition. The whole world order is one big fat bloody racism. Why and how should prime time family entertainment be the one exception?

    The camera fodder is darker skinned, on average, than management and the audience. No one needs to explain how one more young man from the Middle East or Africa ended up in a refugee camp and desperate enough to apply to do this b*llsh*t. But an Oxbridge-degree blonde, he would look out of place, right?

    Thought you’d agree. Now guess who has a master in Sociology from Imperial College London and still needs to toil as a stage hand, because no career opportunities forthcoming, always invited, for diversity, never hired? You didn’t guess, did you? And now you feel awkward? Why not blame me, my oh so fragile friend?

    Yes, sarcasm. What bloody else do you expect?

  • Sounds & Tunes Lady

    Yep, I’m the lead acoustician. Yep, it takes a degree in acoustic engineering to make sh*t like Campetition sound right on all screens. Yep, I’m fed up if referred to as the sounds & tunes lady. Might chew on your balls for dinner, to teach you manners.

    Course not, none of the above, no need to go all pale, just kidding. You need one big fat sense of humour not to get mad on this set.

    My degree might have helped me land this job, theoretically. It does feature in my CV, somewhere near the bottom of the credentials pile. But I’d rather guess no one cared, or even noticed. Most of what I learned at poly to manufacture manually is performed by tools and libraries. My role is to keep on top of those tools, not as easy as it sounds with a rhythm of two releases per year, at minimum. And to refrain them from going for perfect and make the experience sound fake.

    Stuff like Campetition flies by authenticity. An also-ran needs to sound like a loser, his steps, his voice, his breathing. And a champ needs to sound it, confident, authoritative. And just a tad self-deprecating. Otherwise they’d all hate the bragging nuisance, right?

    Campetition Sounds & Tunes would be a no-brainer if management got itself kissed by wisdom. As in finally accepting that professionals like me need to know in advance who is destined for glory and who isn’t, to deliver top notch product.

    But no, never no wisdom at management level. They insist on pretending that Campetition is like traditional sports, as opposed to show biz. So I have to guess, and take precautions for the unexpected.

    Like that bloody teenager, from Syria I think she was. Must have done some ballet, or kung fu, or whatever. Tiny, tiny, and not particularly clever looking, textbook Campetition loser. Only hedged a bit on that one, and had to adjust on the double when the bloody nuisance swept through the first round. Quite a mess. Especially as Lights & Looks had guessed my way, too. Music had to carry a lot on this one. Not my proudest moment.

    Anyway, was nice talking to you, but need to run now.

    Intro needs an update of the booms, to make any watching NATO veterans feel at home. You wouldn’t believe how fast some of those guys reach for the keyboard if you don’t adjust war sounds to current state-of-the-art ammunition!

  • Participant Season 1

    Evil? Campetition? No, not really, not in any serious way, in my humble opinion.

    Evil, that’s guys wanting to shoot you, for no better reason than you being there, unarmed, and them needing to boost their collective fighter ego. Evil, that’s police threatening to break your fingers, for trying to report mafia boys threatening to break your legs for not paying up. That’s evil. Campetition isn’t.

    Won’t deny a certain embarrassment, especially around the video of me abysmally failing a delivery task that looks so simple on screen. Some of that footage is still circulating on social media, after all this time. Just the other day a four-year old pointed at me on the bus and went “man no know bike ride, man no know bike ride!”. His mom must have seen it too, she tried so hard not to laugh that she ended up with a hiccup. Nice lady, very nice lady, still regret we didn’t talk.

    Embarrassing, yes, having been on Campetition is embarrassing. But the show only inflicts very minor humiliation. As a refugee, you quickly learn to endure much worse, day in, day out.

    In my old life, as a professional, even the idea of participating in a contest to prove my ability to work as a delivery boy on a bicycle would of course have been anathema. You don’t think about this kind of career option, right? But when the casting crew shows up at your refugee camp and you haven’t eaten or slept properly for months, one week in a proper hotel, with breakfast, lunch and dinner, clean sheets and warm showers, sounds like an improbably good opportunity, and you go “Yeah, pick me, oh pleeeeease, pick meeee! And that’s before starting to hope to win, and get that fabulous one-year-visa, with work permit.

    I didn’t even last through week one. Far too old and clanky, not fit enough, physically. I was the first in a long line of archetypical Campetition losers, only there for the laughs. With hindsight, an ice cube would have better odds at lasting in an oven than me in that show.

    But, guess what, even the most embarrassing failure can bring about opportunity. Months after the show, and my subsequent relocation from Lesbos to Turkey under what they call the New Refugee Deal, a nice sounding name for a horrible dead end, I was contacted by the Red Crescent.

    One of my former clients, from back home in Herat, my company used to handle all kind of logistics for the US troops, back in the good old invasion days, this military person, back home in the US, he had seen the footage of me crashing my bike and spilling my pizza boxes under the effect of the fire hose. He wasn’t watching the show, not his kind of entertainment, but this clip was all over social media, for a couple of hours.

    He recognized me, worried I might have been seriously injured, called his Member of Congress, another veteran, and got me onto a medical evacuation list. Next stop Ramstein air base in Germany, and new embarrassment, because my bruises had long healed. Except for a little diarrhoea, curtesy of the filthy water at the New Deal camp, I was as healthy as a refugee can be. They discharged me from the hospital on the same day, but allowed me to stay on base, for the time being.

    Currently, I review Pashto social media post for the military intelligence guys, and translate whatever hints at terrorism plots targeting the US. Based on this job, and the free army barracks type of housing that comes with it, the Germans issued me with an identity card. It has to be renewed every twelve months, but overall, I’m living refugee paradise.

    Do you really think Campetition would have handed over my contact details if I had reason to rubbish them? Yes, that’s how it works.

  • Junior Casting Manager

    Yes, pretty new in the job, still counting in months, if you know what I mean.

    Used to assist casting for toothpaste miracle testimonials. So much easier, ethically. But try looking at six toothy grins per minute, three angles each, for eight hours a day, twelve in emergency recruitment mode, for more than a year… Just try it, before blaming me.

    Campetition is evil, ok, not arguing with that statement.

    But that’s just your normal, globalisation-does-this-to-people-all-the-time variant of evil, ok? It’s actually far more honest than my old job. Teeth don’t grow bigger and more even through brushing, right? See what I mean?

    Advertising is one big storytelling hoax. Whereas in Campetition, people do win. Very few people, as in two, ok. They don’t win much, from our point of view, sure. We’ve already got the passport, the wealthy parents, the education, you name it…

    Your parents aren’t wealthy? Cool! Mine are, and they expect me to earn a living, for all the studying they sponsored. That pressure, all the time, is so killing me. It’s inhumane, really.

    Anyway, yes, Campetition is evil.

    Like the pole dancing task for the girls. We use it in casting, to weed out the shy ones. That’s really, really bad. No one should be forced to pole dance. But now listen to this: They never even complain. None of the girls. Never.

    We’ve of course got an agony aunt, official title Stage Intimacy Counsellor. the agony aunt, she’s present at all times, not just for the sexy scenes. Ours is a clean stage, and backstage. We won’t feature in no #metoo scenario. And guess what? The lady in question is bored stiff, because none of the girls talk to her. Full blown bore out candidate, the poor shrinkess, and whining about it to pretty much everyone she can get hold of. Cornered me on my second day.

    The girls, they see the dresses they are supposed to wear, very revealing dresses, very tight. Are they going “Eek, rampant sexism, down with male chauvinism”? Nope. They go all happy happy wild.

    Just yesterday one asked me “Madam, any chance I can keep this robe?”. “Madam”! Never was I so embarrassed before, really didn’t know where to look. And the so-called robe, it was more negligee than dress, revealing lots of matching underwear, all laces. Would rather get myself shot than be seen in this abomination!

    I told the girl to please call me Beo, and never ever madam again, and asked her if her mom wouldn’t be aghast, at seeing her in this kind of undress-dress. And guess what happens? She laughs, pulls out her phone and shows me her Instagram. Turns out she has a gig as a dessous model, for her mom, who sells sexy wear.

    Meaning to say, it’s all a question of perspective.

    If they get to keep the dresses? Of course not, we’re one a budget!

    Meaning the girls always have to dress before makeup, and they get de-makeupped before they can change back into their own clothes. Always feel sorry for them, when I see them shivering and rubbing their bare arms to feel warmer. We really should provide them with towels, bathrobes, something to keep them warmer, I think. Will raise this issue, once I make senior casting manager.

    I really do need the money, you know? Otherwise, my parents shoot me. Don’t we all need the money, and it makes us do stuff? Just saying, I’m not like the only one in this situation.

  • Task Author 5

    You’re asking me if if feel bad about this job? Really, honestly? You need to ask?! Man, you might have a problem, just saying.

    Of course I do feel asshole. That show, that’s exploitation, that is. Full blown, no holds barred, maximum warp exploitation. The worst of the worst, full stop.

    And no free will involved, on the merch side, guarantee you that.

    Just imagine yourself riding a bicycle against the kind of rain we simulate by targeting the merch with a water canon. That monster, real proper police hardware, mind you, that monster is normally used for crowd control, like after football matches. Totally not like the shower in your bathroom. Hits you like some damned pile of bricks.

    If your free will suggests it might be a nice way to spend prime time cycling against this kind of water wall, you’re more ready for the shrink farm than even me. And competing with a Campetition task author in that segment takes a lot, dearie…

    Merch? Well, the dudes and gals. The fodder for the machine. Those who perform my tasks. In the politely polished words of our liar in chief, otherwise known as The Anchor, with a capital T and A, otherwise he gets you sacked, “our dear participants”.

    For us staffers who keep the machine running, season in, season out, the dudes and gals are merch.

    Merch, as in merchandise, dummy.

    We get fresh merch at the start of the season.

    We bet on how far they go, how long they take to break.

    Oh yes, we do bet, too. Not on the platform, that’s off limits. The old fashioned way, with Jenny from makeup collecting the money and keeping it safe until payday.

    Oh yes, this one lie is truth. Even we Campetition staff, as inside the machine as one can get, even we don’t know the winners in advance. Like everyone else, we can see who might have what it takes, and who only got in to entertain the audience by failing afap. But there’s always more winner potential merch than winning slots. Always.

    Afap? Never heard? As funnily as possible. Highest possible afap factor, of a task-merch combination, with zero risk of the merch getting killed, serious no-no on prime time, that’s what I have to come up with. Remember me the next time you LOL, will you?

  • Teaser Pleaser

    To share or not to share? Waso feels an all too familiar awkwardness welling up. Talking to people, still one of her least favourites activities. This is Sam, she reminds herself. Harmless. Harmless! The most harmless of males she ever met. ‚Certified one thousand percent gay‘, as he puts it.

    No problem talking to Sam. And she really needs to check, what happens with someone who doesn‘t know. Kicking herself into action, Waso goes, just loudly enough to get noticed on the adjoining deck chair: „Sam? Question?“ 

    One of the good things about Sam is his predictability. He immediately looks up from his tablet, and smiles at her. Without complicating the situation by talking. Waso gets the chance to take a deep breath, to fortify her resolve, and utter her question as prepared:

    „Would you mind looking at this? It’s for the virtual dog project. Just a blob right now, but you can kind of engage with it. Wanna try?“

    As Waso had hoped, Sam takes the phone she‘s handing over, without complicating the quest by demanding additional information. He‘s that kind of person, always curious, always ready to engage with something new. Not prone to outbursts of hard to deal with babble.

    Waso can’t see what’s displayed on the screen from this angle, but she doesn’t need to. Sam is looking at a light blue blob on a dark blue background. Not much, certainly not exciting. He‘s still smiling, though, a bit of a default mode with him.

    Waso suddenly becomes aware Sam might not be the perfect test subject. Not grumpy enough. But he’s available, and she can handle him. That‘s far more important than stupid scientific notions of representativity. She’ll have to deal with the bias at some point, but not now.

    Sam emits a slight giggle. His ear-to-ear grin suggests something is happening on that screen, and that it’s funny, definitely not unpleasant. Waso would love to get close enough to see the action, but physical proximity, that’s so no-no. Even with Sam, there are limits.

    Luckily, her test subject is by now so engaged with what he sees on the screen that he starts mumbling softly, providing Waso with some clues:

    “Okaysiedaisy, what’s that now supposed to mean? Smiley face, got it, you want me to smile. I am smiling! What’s that sucking your eyes in like a funnel supposed to mean? You stoned? You want me to get stoned? Ok, ok, ok, I am smiling. I never stopped smiling, see? Boy oh boy, you‘re one jumpy… whatever you are. And here we go eyes to funnel again…“

    Whatever Sam sees makes him giggle between sentences. So far, so good. But Waso is starting to worry about intuitivity. If it takes someone as clever as Sam more than – one and a half minutes, as of now, as per her watch – to figure out the next step, she might have made this too hard.

    At one minute fifty, Sam suddenly gives himself permission to get it. Holding the phone in his left hand, he pokes his right index at one particular spot on the screen, going, with one more giggle: „No way I poke at your eyes, jumpy, not my way. You can go funnel with those as much and as long as you want, no way. But there should be a nose – right here.“

    Whatever happened when he touched the screen makes Sam laugh out loud and pull back quickly, before poking once again at the same spot, and giggling at the effect. Next, he pokes at a different spot, and laughs out loud. And pokes at yet more spots, grinning broadly.

    Waso is pleased with herself. Sam is deeply engaged with his new acquaintance, acting as if it was a lifeform. How he looks and pokes at what he by now consistently calls Jumpy, that‘s exactly how humans engage with animals they‘re trying to befriend. Totally unlike coming to grips with a chat- or ro-bot. Sam is playing with Jumpy, like he would play with a puppy. Mission accomplished. Waso catches herself grinning at the rows of empty deckchairs and the pool with the lone swimmer. Normally, she insists on poker facing the world, but now is an exception.

    „Oh. Over? Done wrong?! Kaputt?“ Sam looks up from the phone and at her, a little distraught under his customary smile. Waso doesn‘t need to check her watch to shake her head and go, in what she means to sound reassuring: „No problem, not kaputt. Timed circuit breaker. Like the child-proof locks, to force them out of games and back to home work, just set to five minutes instead of five hours.“ Considering the implications of Sam‘s slightly dubitative smile, Waso adds: „No idea how else to stop, too. This felt like the least rude option.“

    Sam nods, still holding the phone. Waso considers this a very good sign. Her test subject hopes to get another go, the ultimate reward for any developer.

    Empowered, she for once easily finds the words to explain her feat:

    „It‘s for the virtual dog, first step, proof of concept. Dogs, they‘re very good at reading moods, from facial expressions. Better than people, even people who are good at it, unlike me. And dogs want people to like them, to engage, they’re very companion animals.

    My teaser pleaser blob, it uses basic of-the-shelf facial recognition software, like for checking if online ads work, to identify when you‘re smiling. Teaser pleaser blob‘s target is to make you smile at it and touch it as much as possible, over the course of five minutes.

    Next time you activate it, my teaser pleaser blob will recognize you, and hopefully get even better at making you smile and play with it. On the first encounter, it uses tools from a predefined set, like making a smiley face at you, to get you going. Next time, it will start with something that worked on you, personally, and hopefully improve on its first performance.“

    Waso doesn’t remember ever having talked that much in one go. She‘s practically in lecture mode. Life really can make one do weird stuff. And it gets even weirder over the next hour, with Sam going all business person to get a patent registered for her. Waso doesn‘t mind. Weird is her second name. She only insists on Jumpy as title of the patent. Sam is better at naming.

    Like Waso and Sam?They’re in 1KYears.