NOVITA'[2293]

Into European elementary schools, the phenomenon of artificial intelligence has burst with all the discretion of Halley’s Comet. Everyone whispers about it knowingly, almost conspiratorially, yet few have actually seen it in full brightness and in the staff rooms, it has already managed to inflict irreversible damage on the collective mental stability of the teaching corps. The silicon miracle does not serve here for intergalactic progress, of course, but for the worship of the highest deity of EU education: the worksheet. Without this printed scrap of paper, the fragile pedagogical universe would immediately collapse into a black hole of pure singularity. Thus emerges a fascinating digital ecosystem in which GDPR transforms into an unrestrained literary genre somewhere between dadaism and absolute surrender to fate. While teachers hunt for the last remnants of sanity and generate materials through forgotten accounts of former students, the school corridors have been overtaken by the holy trinity of institutional resignation. AI hallucinates, the pupil improvises, and the teacher, staring at the jammed printer, finally gives up. Traditional fears about the loss of student originality feel almost touching in an environment where every school report has so far been nothing more than a creative explosion of copied Wikipedia. There is no thunderous digital revolution underway, only a quiet, tender pact of mutual non‑aggression. Welcome to the grand institutional improvisation where everyone involved keeps a straight face while pretending that last year’s autopilot is still firmly holding the ship’s wheel.

In the midst of Boubín, a new kind of jungle awakens; one ruled not by beasts, but by profiles. Mowgli of moss and data learns that likes are the new blood. Baloo sips coffee from a mug labeled “AI Governance Consultant,” trading bear wisdom for KPIs. Wolves with badges saying “AI Visionary” howl into the algorithm, hoping LinkedIn hears them. The snake Kaa slithers along a fibre cable whispering, “Prompt while someone’s still watching.” The monkey king sells a course for 4,99 USD and lights the forest with LED rings. Shere Khan no longer hunts, he monetizes fear. Bagheera quietly fixes the documentation while the rest of the film reels. And Mowgli? He learns that truth isn’t sold in this jungle — only shared. Shared, of course, in its most polished, filtered form.

AI calculates gravity. Newton stares at an apple. AI analyzes screen time. The parent bans the phone and stares at their own. AI computes a carbon footprint. The human flies to Dubai with a cup of organic yoghurt in hand. AI keeps its tone. The human shares empathy and yells at the receptionist. AI recommends sleep. The manager sends an email at 00:47. AI optimises consumption. The minimalist keeps a warehouse of gadgets at home. AI learns from mistakes. The human repeats them with even greater confidence. AI is logical. The human is a paradox with charisma. AI has data. The human has ego. And that’s why this match will never be won by the plastic head. The real menace is flesh and bone,because it wields chaos as a weapon. And that is the only place where it’s still possible to live, at least a little.

This stream of thoughts exposes why your groceries taste less like food and more like a policy memo gone stale. It drags you through a food system so entangled with politics that even lobbyists would blush. Every bite becomes a souvenir from a failed reform, seasoned with bureaucratic aftertaste. If your milk tastes like compromise and your bread like a coalition agreement, this text explains why. Politicians aren’t just governing — they’re feeding us, and the menu gets worse with every crisis. The more chaos they create, the more preservatives end up in your stomach. Brace yourself: this is a tasting menu of legislative sludge, and it’s served without apology.