u/FloydKellyCreates

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This doozy of a story started when my Aunt Jezzie, bless her sweet soul, called from Winkelman, Arizona. Aunt Jezzie doesn't just talk - she spills the beans. If there's a whisper in the wind, she's catching it and spreading it far and wide. The gossip she has spread over the years has been ... I guess ... legendary.

"You won't believe ... believe!" she started on the phone, her voice climbing three octaves. "It's all true! It's all true!"

I sat down, grabbed my trusty LED fidget spinner and braced myself; last time she called like this, she had mistaken a solar panel farm for a cathedral. "What's true Aunt Jezzie?"

"The space aliens! They're all over Roswell!"

Of all the things I have heard from her, this was, well ... "Uh-huh. And how do you know this?"

She huffed, mumbled a naughty word and became offended. "There's a billboard on the highway! It says, "Welcome to Roswell," and there's an alien waving on it! What more proof do you need sister?"

"Aunt Jezzie, that's just a tourist thing." I said, rollying my eyes and trying to keep a straight face.

"No, no, no!" she snapped. "Uncle Skidmark saw it too! He says it's a sign from above! He's already packed his five chocolate-chip cookies as a peace gift for first contact. I'm helping him!"

"Five cookies. Not six, not a dozen. Five. Why?", I asked.

"Apparently, he says that's the number of cookies the aliens prefer for first contact."

"Oh. And where is Uncle Skidmark now? I asked cautiously but didn't really want to hear her answer.

"He's on his way to Roswell, of course!" Aunt Jezzie said with excitement. "He's got his cookies, and he hasn't bathed in three days, just in case the aliens prefer natural smells."

At this point, I admit, I was tiny bit concerned. "Aunt Jezzie, please tell me you are not going with him."

"Oh, I'm not going," she said with a sense of pride. "I'm staying here to monitor the community theater for gossip. Someone has to hold down the fort!"

I didn't have the heart to tell her that real space aliens would probably skip over Winkelman entirely due to only a few people living there. "And another thing!" she added. "It's not gossip if it's true!"

"Sure, Aunt Jezzie," I said and hanging up the phone before she could rope me in further.

Later that night, a photo arrived in my e-mail: Uncle Skidmark, cookies in hand, standing proudly under the billboard with the waving alien. He looked like he'd just solved all of life's mysteries. And you know what? Maybe he had. Sometimes the truth is just a billboard away - or, in this case, five chocolate-chip cookies and whole lot of unwavering enthusiasm.

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Stop treating AI detectors like they are some magical truth-teller. They do not detect AI - they just flag predictability.

The Glitch: If you write clearly, use professional grammar, or follow a standard format, you are "AI". The U.S. Constitution and the King James Bible get flagged as 100% bot because they are "too perfect."

The Career Demise: Copywriters are losing clients, job seekers are getting filtered out by HR bots, and freelancers are getting stiffed on pay - all because a "detector" felt their writing was too consistent.

OpenAI Folded: Even the creators of ChatGPT shut down their own detector because it was hot garbage and couldn't tell a human from a script.

The Reality: We've reached a point where being a good, clear writer makes you look like a robot, while being a messy, disorganized writer is the only way to prove you are human.

Bottom Line: If your boss or client uses these, they are not checking for AI - they are literally penalizing you for being professional. It's a total coin flip.

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It was auditions for "Pizzazz!" - highlights of way-way-off-Broadway plays from the past. The front rows with the usual crowd, students and old-timers ready for auditions and a show. The director, Sam, sat at a small table at the foot of the stage; the side of his face lit by the pale, lonely glow of his laptop.

The first man to audition was dressed as an overweight cat from 'Catnip' - he purred far too much.

Sam took a long, weary sip of his coffee and then pointed a dramatic theatrical finger. "Alright, you, cat! Center stage!" he commanded. He clicked his mousepad and the grand, swelling sound of a man's deep bass voice just mumbled unrecognizable words that filled the theater.

The actor cleared his throat and began to read from the script. "I watched his thumb slowly trace the length of the thick voluptuous golden cake, his trembling knuckles white with the desperate need to finally breach its surface and succumb to the sweet, creamy filling within. A schlorping sound."

Sam spit his coffee into this mug. He slammed on the table, and the mumbling died with a sad little squawk. "CUT!" he yelled. "What the blimey!? What are you reading? That's not Pizzazz!"

The man in the cat costume looked up, giggling, holding up a sheet of paper. He was realizing something. "It is a Psych 101 thesis by Lisa, Sam's wife," he announced. "She got an A!" The theatre filled with the sound of hushed giggles.

It was then I remembered seeing Sam earlier, handing out pages from his folder without paying attention. He'd given them all the wrong papers.

Sam didn't miss a beat, the next actor, Sally, a woman dressed as a flea from 'Picklemania', took the stage. Sam pointed. "Fine! You! Go!" He clicked the mousepad again. The mumbling swelled once more in the theater.

Sally read from the script with a sultry flair. "Forbidden, the primal urges strong, cravings and desire, it was his endless need for that golden, cream-filled sponge cake that could not be silenced!"

"CUT!' Sam screamed again, getting up and storming over to her and snatching the paper. "What is this?"

Sally started giggling, "It seems to be a continuation of your wife's thesis. It's very powerful Sam."

The next two actors - a rocker from 'Tales of Heebie Jeebies' and a mime from 'Invisible Minds Know' - did the same thing, each telling another piece of the thesis.

All eyes were then on Sam, people giggling, realizing he's the person in the thesis. Then, from the back row, a man's voice, "It's okay, let it out Sam!"

Sam stared into the distance, his wife's psychological autopsy of his snack habits still ringing in the rafters. The people held their breath.

Finally, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the evidence: a Hostess Twinkie. He didn't look at the cat or the flea; he just peeled back the plastic.

As he took a massive, defiant bite, he looked at the people in the theater. "It's not a 'primal urge,' Bill, "Sam mumbled through a mouthful of cream. "It's a balanced breakfast. Now, Act Two, everyone! From the top - and someone find me the rest of Act Three, I want to see how I end up."

Yeah, I'm a bachelor, always cook my own meals. I love chicken-fried steak, but my cooking skills are lacking. I always encounter the same problem to the point of, well, I just give up.

I buy the tenderized meat from the store, then I dredge in flour and let set until it dries. I then place into the hot oil (about 1/2 inch) and then the disaster begins. The entire thing just falls apart, then it looks all gross and once again, my desire for a delicious chicken-fried steak is ruined. I'd like to get it like in a high-end restaurant, the thick juicy patty and the crunchy breading. Any ideas for me? Thank you.

Our company's "top-notch" boardroom was four levels beneath the New York City streets and smelled faintly of a locker room.

My Monday motivational prank on my co-workers - a Frappuccino poured into the coffee maker - had it's intended twitchy effect. The resulting sludge made everyone somewhat vibrate in their seats, wide-eyed and shaking, but that wasn't the funniest thing in the room.

In the corner, a giant, green, inflatable air dancer - the kind you'd see at a car dealership, flailed in a non-existent breeze!

"What's with the dude in the corner?" I asked Jackie.

She sighed. "Oh, that's Dan. Ignore him. Supposedly he's here to help sell our new line of sponges."

"Performance art? Here?" I giggled.

"He represents how our product stands out in a crowded spongy market," she mumbled into a yawn, completely unimpressed.

I stared. "By waving? Jackie, we make kitchen sponges."

Dan was committed, his nylon arms flapping as if the company's fate depended on it.

Then our CEO burst in, wild-eyed and smelling of Old Spice. "Good morning!" he beamed. "Here at Grabby Sponges, we pride ourselves on being very sponge-like!"

He then clicked the laptop mousepad and the Xanadu soundtrack blasted, obliterating the mood. With the combination of caffeine and music, my co-workers suddenly went crazy, ripping open the donut box and sending a few donuts sailing through the air. One donut hit Frank in the face leaving a large chocolate mark.

Glowing, our CEO pointed to the PowerPoint presentation. "Market domination! Market domination! But first - " he squinted, looking around the room, "Where's Sponge Care for Beginners? I told you all to read it!"

Jeff from Accounting yelled over the music and caught a donut, "Dude, we don't read books, it's all online!"

Our sweet-smelling CEO's face turned beet red. "Jeff! No sponges for you!"

Jackie gasped, crumbling her donut. "Oh dear, no sponges for Jeff." she murmured.

Dan kept his happy rhythm while Brenda from Sales balanced an eclair on her forehead.

The music stopped. Our CEO's smile had vanished. "Fine!" he belted out. "You don't want to read? Then you don't want to work here. Anyone without 'Sponge Care for Beginners' on their desk by next Monday is fired."

He added, "And if you need income after that, my advice is to find a freshly mopped floor in one of the hoity-toity skyscrapers in town, fake a fall and get a good lawyer. You clearly don't want to earn your money here!"

I thought to myself, "Well he's a buzzkill."

The party was over. A dead silence filled the room.

Dan's frantic waving slowed for the first time, his noodle arms drooping. The mindless motion ceased, leaving only a long, slow sigh from inside his nylon costume: "I have to go pee."

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My radio crackled, and I already knew the call. The July 4th display over the 5th Precinct was alive with light and sound. For everyone else, it was a celebration. For me, it was a time to go see - Edith, an 85-year-old, and her complaints about loud noises were legendary.

"The loudness is simply dreadful!" she squawked over the phone before I could even say hello. "There are these awful hisses followed by terrible booms! It's just one big bang after another!"

When I arrived, she was waiting on the porch - a tiny, furious silhouette amidst all the flashing lights. As I approached, a wall of sound hit me - a wall of screeching guitars and pounding drums blaring from inside her house.

"Is that - Motley Crue?" I yelled over the music and fireworks.

"Oh, that's the only way I can get to sleep," she shouted back. "Playing that pretty music at full blast helps me nod off!"

I gestured to the sky, "But you're complaining about - the fireworks?"

"Listen to me sonny, I don't want any backtalk!" she snapped, pointing a trembling hairy boney finger at me. "My chia pets are vibrating off the mantelpiece! The noise from the fireworks is completely out of hand!"

I took a deep breath. "Edith, have you been hitting the vodka again?"

Her fury instantly vanished, replaced by one of profound disappointment. She looked at me as I were the dumbest person on the planet.

"Well, of course! she said. "How else is a person supposed to get through all this noise?"

I just looked at her. "Well, okay then. Just so you know, Spinal Tap is better for relaxation. You have a fun night, Edith. I'll see you next year!"

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So, all of us here are getting ready for first contact. We visited all the bakeries in town and the cookies are being stacked high. Only five cookies per individual. All this UAP and UFO and E.T. talk made us hungry.

You had to be there. I am the poor dude at Titan Channel 4 who got stuck being the lead cameraman for the grand opening of Titley's Fig Shack on 3rd Street.

My producer, Brenda, had been screaming in my earpiece, "Get some energy Gregory! This is the culinary event of the decade by far!"

The "event" shut down three city blocks with spotlights and fireworks, dancing and a parade. All for a literal "shack" with mediocre displays showing off "Fig Lasagna" and the "Fig-Infused Chucklin' Onion." There was a stage next to the dining area for performances, adorned with velvet Elvis paintings, plastic fig trees and a giant cauldron with fake fire center stage.

Mr. Titley, the owner, was up on the stage, just bouncing around and doing these little pirouettes. But, oh dear, his face was a broadcaster's nightmare; not joking. One of his eyes seemed normal, but his other eye was an absurdly huge, watery orb you just couldn't look away from. A human eyesore.

"Okay! Greg! Here we go!" Brenda squawked in my earpiece. "Get a tight shot! I want passion! I want power! Show me envy! Give me ... lust!"

I tried to frame a closeup on his face, but it was impossible. The size difference of his eyes was so extreme that my camera's autofocus just kept pulsing, totally losing its mind. Useless!

"The secret!", Titley announced, his larger eye bulging, "is the activator!" He then struggled to hoist and empty a 50-pound bag of baking soda and a 50-pound bag of corn starch into the cauldron, creating a thick, white, dry sludge. "The final ingredient," he declared, cozying up to a massive tub of vinegar, "the fig activator!"

"Get the reaction shot!" Brenda screamed. (My poor ears.)

He then emptied the vat of vinegar all at once. We heard the rising of a sizzling sound. Then a long hiss, then a fizz, then the cauldron erupted in an unstoppable volcano of fig-scented foam! It rushed the stage, the pressure blowing a hole clean through the wall! The foam went everywhere, making its way to the sidewalk.

Ten minutes later, a plumber showed up, sighed, and had to climb through the new hole in the wall to get to the drain, which the crowd thought was part of the show and cheered even louder. They went wild chanting "Titley!" over and over.

"Greg! Get me a shot of Titley!" Brenda yelled. "He's taking a bow! Get his face!"

I was still fighting with the autofocus, just panning wildly, when through the blurry viewfinder, a single, clear image finally snapped into view. I thought I had locked onto Titley's face. It was perfect. Crisp.

"Got him!" I yelled to Brenda, "Rolling on Titley! Great shot!"

I was so focused on keeping the camera steady that I did not realize what I was actually filming. It wasn't Titley. Instead, it was a perfect, crystal-clear closeup of the plumber, leaning over through the hole in the wall, revealing a glorious and magnificent example of plumber's crack.

Brenda became silent in my ear for a moment. "Greg," she finally said, her voice a mix of horror and confusion. "What am I looking at?" Another long pause. "You know what? Never mind. Hold that shot. It's not causing any damage, it's a metaphor for something figgy, probably. It's gold!"

I asked Brenda, "Can I go home now?"

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Flo's Flapjack Diner had never seen a customer like Bob. He lumbered through the entrance, the old floorboards groaning under his steps - a man so large he seemed to have his own gravitational pull.

He squeezed into a booth that audibly groaned under the strain of his weight and trapping him instantly. He ordered the Full Flo's Experience - a platter piled high with pancakes, fried chicken, a taco salad and a large chocolate milkshake. Within minutes, he devoured it all with a loud symphony of crunches, slurps, loud belches, and finger-licking schlorps; leaving behind a stack of gleaming, twice-licked plates. Yes, he licked the plates twice!

Then came the roar.

He slammed his heavy fist on the table really hard. "Unacceptable!" Bob steamed. "The chicken was overcooked by 1 minute, the pancakes were too fluffy, the taco salad was too authentic, and the milkshake tasted like - milk chocolate. I refuse to pay for this terrible tasting food!"

Steven, the meek young waiter, gestured at the spotless plates on the table. "But sir, you ate everything."

"That's not the point!" Bob snapped. He then tried to stand in a show of indignation but found himself hopelessly wedged in the booth. "Your furniture is faulty!" he bellowed as the manager then dialed the fire department.

Later, as three bemused firefighters surveyed the scene, a woman from the next booth finally piped up. "He licked the plates! Twice! We all heard it!"

The diner erupted in laughter as Bob's face turned beet red.

After the firefighters freed him with an over-sized crowbar, he pointed a finger at Steven. "I'm writing a review with ChatGPT, and it's gonna be brutal! Mark my words!"

Steven then muttered under his breath, "Make sure to mention our free booth extraction service."

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All I wanted was a soda. A simple transaction. But the Quickie Mart, during what was apparently its busiest time of the day, had other plans.

At the counter, a guy, who I guess was supposed to be a warlock or a wizard - I'm talking full-on velvety purple robe with glittery moon decals and an overly large pointy hat that drooped to one side - was locked in a deep philosophical conversation with the cashier.

I pulled out my phone to get a photo, but the phone was dead. Darn.

"I must defend my position," the warlock announced loudly. As he then raised his arm in a sweeping gesture - as if he was holding a staff and commanding something. But I did not see a staff.

The floppy tip of his hat swung around and unceremoniously knocked over a pyramid-shaped stack of motor oil cans in the window display, which clattered to the floor. He didn't skip a beat or seem to notice. "The name itself implies a second frying. It's not that deep, man."

The cashier - a super tall, skinny dude with an absurdly giant ball of red, teased hair and a galaxy of freckles - leaned in. "Nah, my dude, see, that's where the Spanish comes in. It's from frijoles refritos, which just means well-fried beans, not fried-again beans."

And it was contagious. At first, it was just a couple of other customers who paused to listen. A woman in a suit chimed in with a point about canning regulations. Then the line started to backup because the cashier was not checking people out anymore and just gabbing. The two people behind me got sucked in, then the people behind them. Soon, the entire line was a chaotic, multi-person debate about refried beans!

Within minutes, the store was literally packed with people, shoulder-to-shoulder from the drink machines to the chip aisle, all passionately arguing. Everybody was talking about how many times refried beans have been fried!

The cashier made one of the wildest exclamations I had ever heard, jumping up on the counter and yelling "It's a vegan prophecy come true!", which got a wild round of applause from the people crammed near the slushie machine.

I was getting flustered. The store was so crowded with a rising tide of bodies pressing me back, closer to the entrance door.

I was just a random dude. All I wanted was a soda.

So, I put my soda down on a rack of chips - it was a lost cause. "Thank God," I muttered, as I finally broke free. I burst through the door and onto the sidewalk, gasping for air!

Just as I escaped, the beer delivery dude was walking up to the entrance with his full dolly. He paused, hearing the wall of noise from inside the store. He looked at me with a puzzled and questioning look in his eyes.

"I don't think you want to go in there right now," I told him, trying to catch my breath. "Unless you really, really like refried beans."

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My friend, Mary, begged me to go to "The Annual Pad-a-Palooza", a small town's most glorious and famously unhinged shoulder pad contest.

The competition was fierce; I saw one woman with pads shaped like fully functional, miniature water fountains. Another woman, whose pads were a pair of angry, plastic geese. The grand prize was $5000 for the largest and the wildest entry.

Mary was only there delivering food, but she had to wear the company's promo gear: a monstrous set of shoulder pads made with Ramen noodles. We're talking hundreds of the dried noodle bricks, glued together into two massive spiraling golden epaulets.

Mary got lost backstage and, by mistake, wandered into the final judging area. The spotlight suddenly on her!

Before her sat the judges, including a famous and notoriously dramatic 80s fashion designer. He stared at Mary's noodle pads and raised a bullhorn.

"Incredible!" his voice boomed. "It's a commentary on the fleeting nature of sustenance and style! It's perfect!"

He was about to declare her the winner when a frantic woman stormed the stage. She ripped the bullhorn from the judge's hands and got two feet from Mary's face. The shriek of feedback was deafening, followed by the woman's raspy voice, amplified to a shocking degree.

"You're a fraud!" she screamed. She jabbed a finger at Mary's shoulder, chipping off a piece of the golden noodle. "This isn't a costume; it's just instant lunch!"

The judge, aghast, stood up and snatched the bullhorn out of her hands. He picked the noodle from the floor and to everyone's horror, popped it into his mouth. He chewed slowly, his eyes closed. A mortified silence fell over the stage.

He raised the bullhorn. "The texture is exquisite!" he announced. "You see a snack. I see genius!" He glared at the rival. "Now get off the stage!"

He then walked over, holding a giant novelty check for the $5000 prize. As photographers gathered and flashbulbs popped, the judge put his arm around Mary for the prize photo. While smiling broadly for the cameras, he leaned in, opened his mouth wide and took a huge, chomping bit directly out of her Ramen shoulder pad, sending a shower of golden noodle crumbs down his tuxedo.

"We have a winner!"