THE DAY MY FRIEND’S UNCLE ASKED CHATGPT FOR LOTTO NUMBERS
THE DAY MY FRIEND’S UNCLE ASKED CHATGPT FOR LOTTO NUMBERS
Some days in life are ordinary. You wake up, brush your teeth, maybe have a cup of tea, and then you go on scrolling through life like a normal human being. Then, there are days that defy logic, reason, and every rule of sanity. That day, the day my friend’s uncle decided to consult ChatGPT for lotto numbers, belongs in the second category.
It started like any other Saturday. My friend, let’s call him Sam, invited me over for some casual chill time. His uncle, an eccentric man with the determination of a detective and the wisdom of a fortune cookie, was in the house.
. Now, this uncle had a hobby. Or maybe obsession. Or possibly a spiritual calling. He believed, with every fiber of his being, that winning the lotto was not just a dream, but a birthright. And not just any lotto—the type where the jackpot would make him buy a private island, a gold-plated car, and possibly a pet giraffe.
. The story begins innocently enough. Uncle walked in, glasses sliding down his nose, beard slightly untamed, like Gandalf after a weekend party. He cleared his throat, looked at Sam and me with the intensity of a man who had just discovered fire, and said:
“I have a plan.”
Now, you know when someone says, “I have a plan” in an African household, it rarely ends well. It either involves bribery, miraculous timing, or supernatural intervention. In this case, it was all three.
His plan? To ask ChatGPT—the artificial intelligence wizard of our era—for lotto numbers.
I froze. Sam froze. The cat froze. Somewhere in Nigeria, a goat sensed something strange was happening.
“ChatGPT,” Uncle said, like he was summoning an oracle, “give me the winning lotto numbers.”
I blinked. Twice.
“Uh… Uncle,” I ventured cautiously, “ChatGPT… it doesn’t predict lotto numbers.”
“Bah!” he said, waving his hand like he had waved away centuries of doubt. “Nonsense. Surely an intelligent entity like this will reveal the path to fortune!”
He pulled out his phone with the reverence of a priest handling sacred relics. His fingers trembled as he typed: “Give me the winning lotto numbers.”
We watched, in what can only be described as a combination of awe and dread, as the screen processed.
The response came, polite, professional, and devastatingly honest: “I’m sorry, I cannot predict lottery numbers. The outcome is random.”
Uncle blinked. Then blinked again. Then muttered something in Yoruba that roughly translated to: “No, no, this is impossible.”
Now, most people would have accepted this polite refusal. Most humans would have thought, “Okay, maybe we try another approach.” Not my friend’s uncle. He leaned closer. “Are you sure? Are you really sure?”
ChatGPT repeated its answer: “I cannot predict lottery numbers. The outcome is random.”
This is where things escalated.
Uncle decided, apparently, that the polite AI had insulted him personally. He leaned even closer, squinting at the screen, and said:
“You think I am stupid? I am the chosen one! Surely you will give me the numbers if you know them!”
Sam and I exchanged glances. This was no longer a conversation. This was a high-stakes showdown between man and machine.
Then came the negotiations.
“Yes, but only if you provide me with your full birth certificate, bloodline, and the names of all people you’ve ever owed money to,” ChatGPT suggested.
Uncle gasped. “They… they demand sacrifices!”
“Yes,” said the AI. “Sacrifices of time, rational thought, and acceptance of randomness.”
This was a turning point. Uncle, now fully convinced that this was a spiritual battle, started chanting. Not quietly. Loud, full-on chanting. Sam’s dog started barking. My eardrums began to negotiate for mercy.
At one point, he tried bribery. “Okay, okay,” Uncle said. “How about I give you 500 naira if you give me the numbers?”
ChatGPT responded, politely refusing the bribe. Uncle looked like someone had insulted his mother. “Insult! This AI insults me! I am wealth incarnate!”
He then escalated to threats. He threatened to unplug his Wi-Fi. He threatened to curse the router. He threatened, sincerely, to give ChatGPT an angry review online.
We were watching history unfold. This was a battle of stubbornness. Man versus algorithm. Ego versus logic. Desire versus reality.
Eventually, Uncle had an epiphany—or at least, he thought he did. He leaned closer to the screen, breathing heavily, sweat forming like he had just run a marathon.
“Maybe… maybe if I ask differently,” he muttered.
He typed: “Divine AI, please reveal the numbers to enrich my life and the lives of my descendants.”
ChatGPT, in perfect neutrality, replied: “I still cannot provide lottery numbers. The lottery is random.”
At this point, Uncle screamed. Not a normal scream. The kind of scream that reverberates through walls, shakes windows, and scares small children into reconsidering life choices.
“THIS MACHINE! THIS CURSED MACHINE! I SHALL NOT BE DENIED!”
Sam and I ducked under the table. The dog hid under the couch. Somewhere in Lagos, someone’s aunt fainted, sensing the turbulence in the universe.
Then came the climax. Uncle, in sheer desperation, tried reverse psychology. “Fine,” he said, pacing. “You won’t give me the numbers? Then I shall calculate them myself!”
He pulled out a notebook, started scribbling random digits. Some numbers were drawn from dreams. Some from street signs. One from the floor tiles. He claimed it was “divinely inspired mathematics.”
We looked at the numbers. They made absolutely no sense. At one point, I think he included 99 and -7. I still do not know how he imagined negative numbers on a lotto ticket.
Finally, after about three hours of intense mental gymnastics, chanting, and negotiations with a polite AI, Uncle did the unthinkable.
He bought a lotto ticket with random numbers. Not ChatGPT numbers. Random, hand-selected, spiritually inspired numbers.
He waited. Anticipated. Dreamed. Slept. Ate. Drank. The lottery draw happened.
He did not win. Not a single number matched.
But here’s the kicker: he claimed it was proof that ChatGPT had worked in reverse. Apparently, the AI had tested his faith and humility. Or maybe he just needed an excuse to buy more lotto tickets.
By the end of the day, Uncle had formed a new philosophy. A philosophy that could be summarized as:
1. AI is secretly plotting to teach patience.
2. Lotto numbers are a spiritual journey.
3. He is destined for wealth. Eventually. Definitely.
And so, we left that day with a mixture of awe, confusion, and mild trauma. We learned three important lessons:
Never underestimate the power of an uncle on a mission.
ChatGPT will not provide lotto numbers.
Life is funnier than you think if you observe human desperation closely enough.
Months later, every time Sam’s uncle sees me, he winks and says, “Next time, the numbers will come.” And we all laugh. Mostly out of fear, but also because, really, what else can you do when you’ve witnessed a man arguing with AI over imaginary wealth?
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