This Could Be The Funniest Post You Ever Read

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This Could Be The Funniest Post You Ever Read

This post was supposed to be an informed guide to one area of technology – story writing.

The end result was so funny that I changed the direction of the post and well… here it is :)

The Latest Technologies (this post ended up being hilarious rather than serious!)

online tools

So, I like to try out different online technologies.

Many online tools provide adequate results for the services that they offer, and usually, you can upgrade to paid versions to obtain even better results.

Tonight I was looking at automatic story-writing tools. Well, my stomach and jaw are still aching after laughing so much!

Below are four of the stories that I created using the tool. I’ll hold back on writing a more extended intro because these four short stories can speak for themselves.

They are hilarious!

Don’t Take My Word for It – Here They Are!


Magical Amsterdam

amsterdam windmill

Albert Wilson was thinking about Phil Barker again. Phil was a hilarious lover with beautiful fingers and moist eyebrows.

Albert walked over to the window and reflected on his rural surroundings. He had always hated magical Amsterdam with its watery, witty windmills. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel delighted.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the a hilarious figure of Phil Barker.

Albert gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a remarkable, scheming, whiskey drinker with red fingers and pretty eyebrows. His friends saw him as a foolish, faithful friend. Once, he had even saved a blue-eyed baby bird that was stuck in a drain.

But not even a remarkable person who had once saved a blue-eyed baby bird that was stuck in a drain, was prepared for what Phil had in store today.

The drizzle rained like running elephants, making Albert relaxed. Albert grabbed a damp knife that had been strewn nearby; he massaged it with his fingers.

As Albert stepped outside and Phil came closer, he could see the shaky glint in his eye.

“Look Albert,” growled Phil, with a callous glare that reminded Albert of hilarious monkeys. “It’s not that I don’t love you, but I want revenge. You owe me 845 euros.”

Albert looked back, even more relaxed and still fingering the damp knife. “Phil, hands up or I’ll shoot,” he replied.

They looked at each other with worried feelings, like two proud, purple pigeons drinking at a very cowardly funeral, which had reggae music playing in the background and two proud relatives dancing to the beat.

Albert studied Phil’s beautiful fingers and moist eyebrows. Eventually, he took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I declared myself bankrupt,” explained Albert. “You will never get your money.”

“No!” objected Phil. “You lie!”

“I do not!” retorted Albert. “Now get your beautiful fingers out of here before I hit you with this damp knife.”

Phil looked healthy, his wallet raw like a broken, bulbous banana.

Albert could actually hear Phil’s wallet shatter into 845 pieces. Then the hilarious lover hurried away into the distance.

Not even a glass of whiskey would calm Albert’s nerves tonight.


A Relaxing Home

a relaxing home

Naomi Platt looked at the magic candle in her hands and felt happy.

She walked over to the window and reflected on her quiet surroundings. She had always loved relaxing at home with its cloudy, crooked chair. It was a place that encouraged her tendency to feel happy.

Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of John Chen. John was a peculiar brute with handsome arms and beautiful eyes.

Naomi gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She was a controlling, hilarious, tea drinker with charming arms and tall eyes. Her friends saw her as a famous, fine friend. Once, she had even helped an easy stress sufferer recover from a flying accident.

But not even a controlling person who had once helped an easy stress sufferer recover from a flying accident, was prepared for what John had in store today.

The moon shone like thinking puppies, making Naomi confident.

As Naomi stepped outside and John came closer, she could see the violet glint in his eye.

John gazed with the affection of 9373 stable cooing cats. He said, in hushed tones, “I love you and I want relaxation.”

Naomi looked back, even more confident and still fingering the magic candle. “John, I can help you,” she replied.

They looked at each other with worried feelings, like two dripping, deafening dogs worrying at a very understanding dinner party, which had flute music playing in the background and two thoughtful uncles sitting to the beat.

Naomi regarded John’s handsome arms and beautiful eyes. “I feel the same way!” revealed Naomi with a delighted grin.

John looked calm, his emotions blushing like a disgusted, damaged desk.

Then John came inside for a nice cup of tea.


The Bendy Newspaper

the bendy newspaper

Harold Russell had always loved crowded Chicago with its better, slanted bridges. It was a place where he felt anxious.

He was an optimistic, lovable, wine drinker with wide toenails and curvaceous elbows. His friends saw him as a dizzy, diced doctor. Once, he had even rescued a drab old lady from a burning building. That’s the sort of man he was.

Harold walked over to the window and reflected on his dull surroundings. The clouds danced like swimming mice.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Heather Khan. Heather was an adorable painter with blonde toenails and dirty elbows.

Harold gulped. He was not prepared for Heather.

As Harold stepped outside and Heather came closer, he could see the shaggy glint in her eye.

“I am here because I want some more Twitter followers,” Heather bellowed, in a vile tone. She slammed her fist against Harold’s chest, with the force of 6167 owls. “I frigging hate you, Harold Russell.”

Harold looked back, even more delighted and still fingering the bendy newspaper. “Heather, I just don’t need you in my life any more,” he replied.

They looked at each other with shocked feelings, like two hushed, hilarious hamsters shouting at a very popular Valentine’s meal, which had R & B music playing in the background and two greedy uncles hopping to the beat.

Suddenly, Heather lunged forward and tried to punch Harold in the face. Quickly, Harold grabbed the bendy newspaper and brought it down on Heather’s skull.

Heather’s blonde toenails trembled and her dirty elbows wobbled. She looked surprised, her body raw like a sticky, smoked sandwich.

Then she let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Heather Khan was dead.

Harold Russell went back inside and made himself a nice glass of wine.


The Forgotten Smile

the forgotten smile

Michelle Pitt looked at the ribbed sausage in her hands and felt confident.

She walked over to the window and reflected on her old-fashioned surroundings. She had always loved pretty Bangkok with its silky, sad swamps. It was a place that encouraged her tendency to feel confident.

Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Barry Thomas. Barry was a peculiar lawyer with hairy lips and dirty ankles.

Michelle gulped. She glanced at her own reflection. She was a cowardly, intelligent, cocoa drinker with skinny lips and short fur. Her friends saw her as a hurt, hissing hero. Once, she had even rescued a foolish baby from a burning building.

But not even a cowardly person who had once rescued a foolish baby from a burning building, was prepared for what Barry had in store today.

The moon shone like singing toads, making Michelle angry.

As Michelle stepped outside and Barry came closer, she could see the forgotten smile on his face.

Barry glared with all the wrath of 2763 hungry lonely lizards. He said, in hushed tones, “I hate you and I want a pencil.”

Michelle looked back, even more angry and still fingering the ribbed sausage. “Barry, Is that real leather,” she replied.

They looked at each other with concerned feelings, like two oily, orange ostriches dancing at a very lovable Halloween party, which had jazz music playing in the background and two clumsy uncles cooking to the beat.

Michelle studied Barry’s hairy lips and dirty ankles. Eventually, she took a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” began Michelle in apologetic tones, “but I don’t feel the same way, and I never will. I just don’t hate you Barry.”

Barry looked puzzled, his emotions raw like a plain, panicky piano.

Michelle could actually hear Barry’s emotions shatter into 4970 pieces. Then the peculiar lawyer hurried away into the distance.

Not even a mug of cocoa would calm Michelle’s nerves tonight.


Thanks go to: poem-generator.org.uk for creating some awesome tools! While the four short stories above ended up being hilarious, their tool could certainly be useful for anyone entering better nouns, verbs and adjectives. I was being totally random with my choice of words and of course, the results were hilarious. Nice work guys, your tools rock!

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