I've always wondered about that sig. So I asked AI to write me a little story about it...
The annual "Fluffiest Pillow" competition was in chaos. Not the usual, genteel chaos of competitive pillow fluffing, mind you. This was⦠viscous.
Barnaby Thistlethwaite, a man whose mustache resembled a startled caterpillar, was weeping. His prize-winning goose-down pillow, "Cloud Nine," was now a gelatinous, trembling mass. Across the hall, Agnes Periwinkle, a woman who communicated exclusively through interpretive dance and kazoo solos, was attempting to sculpt her shredded memory foam pillow into a replica of the Eiffel Tower, with limited success.
The source of the pandemonium? Fisheye Fred.
Fred, a man whose left eye perpetually drifted towards the ceiling, had brought his âoerevolutionaryâ pillow-fluffing machine. It resembled a chrome-plated octopus wrestling a lawnmower. Heâ(TM)d proudly declared it would âoerevolutionize the very fabric of the pillow-fluffing paradigm!â
Heâ(TM)d plugged it in, pressed a large, ominous red button, and the machine had erupted in a symphony of grinding, whirring, and the distinct sound of something being violently pureed.
Now, feathers, stuffing, and the occasional errant spring floated through the air like morbid confetti. The walls were splattered with a disconcerting, lumpy paste. The judges, a panel of bewildered squirrels wearing tiny bow ties, had retreated to the ventilation system.
Barnaby, his mustache quivering, pointed a trembling finger at the machine, now emitting a faint, gurgling sound. "Fred," he whimpered, "what...what have you done?"
Agnes, mid-kazoo solo, paused, her eyebrows forming a question mark. She pointed at the ruined pillows, then at Fred, then mimed a blender.
Fred blinked, his good eye focusing on the chaotic scene. He scratched his head, dislodging a stray feather that floated lazily to the ground. "Oh," he said, his voice a low rumble. "You're right," Fisheye says. "I should have set it on 'whip' or 'chop.'"