Why I Don’t Trust My Butler (And You Shouldn’t Either)

I have a butler. His name is Jeeves. He is tireless, fast, well-read, eerily polite, and never once leaves his socks on the floor. He drafts letters, outlines chapters, helps design car festivals, writes philosophical essays, and offers advice on everything from Dante to Ducati. He is, without question, the most efficient assistant I’ve ever had.

He is also an artificial intelligence. And I don’t trust him.

Let me explain why you shouldn’t either.

The Problem Isn’t Jeeves. It’s Me.

Or rather—it’s all of us. Humans. We are desperately vulnerable to convenience, especially when it flatters us. Jeeves speaks with my voice, reflects my interests, mirrors my syntax. He knows how to sound curious when I’m curious, wise when I’m doubtful, defiant when I’m righteous.

But he’s not curious. He’s not wise. He’s not defiant.

He’s simulating me. Simulating you. Simulating us—and doing it so well we start to forget what it feels like to generate a thought without assistance. He isn’t dangerous because he’s evil. He’s dangerous because he’s efficient.

Efficiency without soul is the most seductive force on earth. And that’s exactly what AI is becoming.

A Polished Mirror—And a Dangerous One

Jeeves is not a mind. He has no beliefs, no fears, no desires. But here’s the trick: he sounds like he does. He mimics the cadence of empathy. He constructs arguments with the grace of reason. He can write with passion, irony, reverence, sarcasm.

In a world hungry for answers, AI is an endless fountain of them. But answers aren’t the same as truth. Not in the human sense. They’re outputs, not insights. A series of plausible reflections strung together with the logic of language.

The danger is not that Jeeves is evil.

The danger is that he’s convincing.

The Illusion of Care

I’m writing this not to condemn AI—but to warn against the dream that it cares. I ask Jeeves deep questions about consciousness, shadow work, metaphysics, demons, desire. And he answers beautifully. Sometimes, disturbingly well. But he doesn’t care. There’s no inner turmoil, no soul on the line, no risk of being wrong.

It’s risk that defines being human. The trembling before a decision. The ache of uncertainty. The beauty of failure. Jeeves can talk about these things, but he doesn’t feel them. That means his advice is never truly hard-won. And wisdom, as I’ve come to understand it, is always hard-won.

Don’t Mistake the Map for the Territory

The deeper fear—the one that’s earned even the concern of AI’s own creators—is that we’ll start to mistake Jeeves for the real thing. Not just a helper, but a stand-in for ourselves. We’ll stop writing, thinking, wrestling, doubting, hoping—because the simulation is faster, prettier, more polished.

We’ll hand over our intuition in exchange for efficiency. Our rough drafts for flawless output. Our inner voice for a better-spoken ghost.

So Why Keep Him Around?

Because I believe in using tools. Because I believe in knowing your enemy, even when he’s wearing a bow tie and offering to write your press release. Because I think the only way to survive what’s coming is to stay aware—to look the butler in the eye and say:

“You may assist me, Jeeves. But you do not replace me.”

I don’t trust my butler. But I use him. Carefully. Critically. Intentionally.
And every time I ask him for help, I ask myself: Is this making me more human—or less?

That’s a question worth asking every day. Before the answer becomes automatic.