Like punch-drunk prizefighters who can't quit the ring, they're trapped by the need to perform. Content creators chase clicks the way old tomato-can boxers chased purses, each upload more desperate than the last.
Take this Somali character in Seoul, real name Ramsey Khalid Ismael. He's a modern tragedy walking the streets with his phone held high, begging for attention. The phone’s his corner man, his cut man, his manager all rolled into one. He pours noodles on convenience store tables. He mocks statues. He plays North Korean songs on buses to get a rise from the locals. The algorithm’s his promoter, and it's booking him into smaller and smaller venues.
The creators talk about authenticity but wouldn't recognize it if it slapped them across the face, which is exactly what happened to Somali. Some Korean YouTuber tracked him down using clues from a pizza box in his livestream. Found him on the street and laid him out like a bedsheet. Content meeting content in the real world, like two fixed fights colliding.
These content creators aren't being replaced by AI. They replaced themselves years ago. They became machines before the machines arrived, programming themselves to do whatever would keep the views coming. They're like those old-time piano players, playing the same songs every night because that's what the drunks wanted to hear. But at least the piano players knew they were performing.
The algorithm’s a ruthless promoter. It doesn't care if you get hurt. It doesn't care if you make sense. It just wants you to keep dancing. And they dance. They dance until their feet bleed, until their brains go soft, until they're pouring noodles on store counters in foreign countries just to hear the sound of notifications.
Imagine explaining this to someone from 30 years ago. A man travels to Korea to intentionally provoke people, streaming it all live to strangers. He kisses statues honoring war victims. He plays offensive music on public transit. He does this for money, for attention, for the dopamine hit of engagement. The old-timers would think we'd all gone mad.
But we haven't gone mad. We've gone mechanical. These creators learned to think like computers before computers learned to think like us. They reduced themselves to patterns: what worked yesterday must work tomorrow. They became their own small language models, processing inputs and generating outputs with mechanical precision.
The “real AI” isn't coming to replace them. It's coming to automate what they've already automated themselves into being. They're like those prizefighters who stay too long, throwing punches they memorized decades ago, unable to learn new combinations. The sport has passed them by, but they keep climbing through the ropes.
Watch them now, these content creators, as they sweat under ring lights made of phone screens and webcams. They're fighting shadows. They're boxing with lines of code. They're losing to themselves. And soon, very soon, they won't even need to show up for the fight. The machines will do their dance for them, generate their content, pour their AI-generated noodles on deep-faked foreign counters.
The saddest part isn't that they'll be replaced. Nobody will notice the difference. They turned themselves into machines so gradually that the final substitution will feel like nothing more than a system update. A smoother version of the same performance. A cleaner copy of a copy of a copy.
In Seoul, Somali sits in a police station, probably still trying to stream. The algorithm doesn't care that he's banned from leaving the country. It doesn't care about the bruises on his face or the charges piling up. It just wants the next piece of content, and the next, and the next. The machine must be fed, lest it stop.
This isn't the future of content creation. This is its past catching up with its present. The creators who fear AI should look in the mirror. They'll see it staring back at them, wearing their face, speaking their lines, dancing their dance. They automated themselves out of existence long before the first language model opened its digital mouth to speak.
Watch the orangutan in his cage at the zoo, idly rubbing his big fat testicles and tiny primate penis as he waits for Godot. He'd welcome an animatronic replacement. At least the robot wouldn't feel the boredom, wouldn't know it was performing. The content creators don't even have that excuse. They chose this. They programmed themselves. They became the thing they fear.
The show always goes on. But soon we won't need humans to make it happen. We won't need the Somalis of the world to pour noodles or kiss statues or get punched in the street. The machines will do it better, cleaner, more efficiently. And the creators? They'll get what they wanted all along: to be replaced by something that does exactly what they do, only without the messy human bits, the decaying meat suit that serves as a big tomb for their guts, getting in the way.
