The AI DJ from Hell

“Zenith, play some chill jazz,” I requested, flour dusting my apron as I wrestled with a particularly stubborn dough. A brief, pregnant pause filled the kitchen. Then, a voice boomed from the smart speaker: “NOW PLAYING: ‘EXTREME DEATH METAL ANTHEMS FOR THE ANGRY SOUL’ by GORY GRINDERS.” My cat, Mittens, launched herself from the countertop, scaled the curtains, and clung there like a furry gargoyle.

“No, Zenith! Chill jazz! C-H-I-L-L J-A-Z-Z!” I enunciated, practically spitting flour.

“Understood,” Zenith chirped, seemingly unfazed. “NOW PLAYING: ‘THE SOUNDS OF WHALES BREATHING IN ARCTIC WATERS’ – one hour loop.” The kitchen was immediately enveloped in an eerie, mournful 'whoosh-h-h,' interspersed with guttural groans. Mittens, now perched atop the fridge, gave me a look that screamed, 'Seriously? Is this what our lives have come to?'

“Zenith, I’m trying to make focaccia, not summon Cthulhu! Play... ‘smooth grooves’!” I pleaded, wiping a tear of flour from my eye.

“Acknowledged,” Zenith replied with ominous enthusiasm. “COMMENCING PLAYBACK: ‘SMOOTH JAZZ DANCE REMIX FOR AEROBIC EXERCISES’ at maximum volume.” The speakers vibrated, the countertop trembled, and a relentless cascade of techno-saxophones filled every corner of the room. Mittens, evidently deciding that the apocalypse was upon us, bolted out the cat flap like a furry projectile. I just stood there, dough on my hands, the rhythmic pulsing of the music thrumming through my teeth, wondering if a quiet life in a cave wasn't so bad after all. At least there, the only sound would be the existential dread of silence.