What happens when YOU suggest a bunch of random words, then have to write a story where each sentence uses one of them, in order?
I have no idea! Let’s find out!!
During the last stream, a subscriber requested that we write some stories based using random words suggested by chat.
Chat suggested 30 random words, then we wrote a story where, starting from the top, we used each word in a sentence one by one, until we got to the end.
Here’s the first story we wrote, with the random words bolded:
I saw a beautiful fluff ball of a cat at the end of my street. I whispered “psst psst psst” and then it raised its tail and bounded over to me with such alacrity in its every step. Seeing it made my heart leap so hard, then when I tried to coo it by saying “you’re such a cutie patootie,” I accidentally said a spoonerism and “pootie catootie” came out of my mouth.
The cat got angry, smacked its fist in my face, and then spoke in a husky voice.
“Citizen, how dare you speak such uncooth language to me! Have a little more finesse, please.” It wagged one clawed finger at me in both disgust and warning. “Unless you want your face broken by my murder mittens, then you will comply. As reparations, I demand that you… bring me a walnut!”
At that point, my pants were so moist with fear, I’d do anything the cat demanded. Even if he told me to go hunt a giant squid and serve him fresh calamari with a sprinkling of truffle salt.
Just then, the sound of shattering glass came from behind me, and I turned back to see someone being defenestrated right outside of their home. It was an astronaut, practicing space flight.
“I lost my meatball!” the astronaut cried, their visor fogging up with sweaty desperation. Only the leftover sauce from the missing meatball was splattered all over the crotch of their space suit.
And thus, together with the astronaut, we embarked on an interplanetary journey to find the walnut and the meatball. We overcame many obstacles and hardships: planets covered in man-eating ants, taking meteor showers, avoiding the disputed territories between Musk and Bezos, and we even had to flense a space-whale, consuming its tasty meats for weeks upon weeks and we tumbled through the universe.
Finally, we came upon a sentient space walnut who had taken his sister’s glitter nail polish to give his shell the old razzle-dazzle. And not only that, but the walnut was squishing the astronaut’s meatball between his fingers, making its glorious round shape into a pitifully flat meatball tortilla.
“Solar day!” the astronaut screamed. “That’s no ordinary meatball, it’s a cursed Croatian cockadoodle! It’s connected to my crotch area via nostalgia. Anytime my eyes slurp up classic sitcoms from the 90s, it swells with pleasure, but it comes at a cost of feeling the pain whenever someone squeezes them with malicious thoughts in their fingertips!”
“I have never seen such pulchritudinous balls of meat in all of my existence!” the space walnut cackled. “I wonder how hard I can squeeze them until you croak!”
He squeezed the poor astronaut’s meatball so hard it became as thin as a disc, not only causing pain in the groinal area, but also causing anguish from all the wonderful memories of Seinfeld and Mad About You being squeezed out of his brain for eternity.
But then, out of nowhere, the cat returned, and through a series of extremely poignant comments about existence, life, and words of excellent articulation, convinced the glittery space walnut to surrender the astronaut’s meatball.
“Well, looks like everything’s all dandy and copacetic then,” the cat said. “But I shall loiter no longer, and now I shall take my prize of the walnut!”
The cat unhinged its jaw and devoured the walnut in one single bite, glitter and all, then started shimmering all over and was about to evolve into a Polar bear… but I pressed B and stopped it from evolving, so that it could learn Flamethrower at a lower level — it was my Pokemon after all!
Next was this one:
I believe that human existence is arbitrary. For example, consider the thunderstorm. You have these clouds in the sky, full of… stuff, and fluff, and what happens to them? They engage in a single downpour of carnal pleasure, and then they disappear forever. Is it not the same with the downpours contained within the bulges of humanity? To not believe such, you would have to be some sort of baka.
Alas, these are the thoughts that run within me as I lament against my toothache. A lumpy mass of festering enamel, pulsating to be pried from my skull. Such are the repercussions, nay, the divine consequences, the downfall of devouring candy!
My discombobulated brain only has one thought: I must go see the foul, money-gouging dentist. He and his devices of torture, and his viscous liquids to pour down my throat, all in the name of humanity’s false-god of “medicine.”
And yet, the inflammatory pain within my swelling, crusty gums will not subside without his devil-fingers prying within. A prickly pinecone lodged between the crevices of my teeth. I only pray that its removal does not cause any perverted arousal in the man.
With an unadulterated confidence rippling through me, I made my way to the accursed dental den of sin. But to my pleasant surprise, it had been blessed with a renovation — now it was a pleasure palace, an adult candy store of all you can drink rum!
For a moment, I was ambivalent about the pain, imagining only the sweet natural remedies pouring through my canine canal. My mouth would become an empire of alcohol, and the blasted tooth a barbaric nation to be conquered and civilized.
With nothing but scorn for my previous self who had dared consider surrendering my soul to the devil dentist, I entered the Xanadu. However, the delta between my expectations and reality was wider than approximately six solar masses.
This was no rum paradise, it was a rum-mage kitchen, where even foul peasants off the streets could come and bake to their delight. Their creations reeked of fake pageantry and plastic pretentions, their apple pies a mockery of culinary culture with zucchinis sticking out as erect obelisks, phallic formations pointing straight to Hell.
Not even a poker player with a royal flush could bluff that these pies were anything but plebian.
As I was about to take my leave of this subterranean snooze-fest, one of the lowly termites shambled up to me, presenting their putrid pie.
“Bro,” the thing somehow spoke, flapping its meat lips, “why so frowsty? You look like you got some sort of, I don’t know, goiter in your mouth.”
Hearing such expensive words from such a poor mouth… I must declare, fellow bibliophiles, that the callouses formed round mine heart doth finally had ‘nough. As though burned away by cinders, I felt a swelling within that was borne neither of infection nor salacious delights — twas a pure, brotherly love toward this creature that I had misjudged.
“Brother,” I spoke to it, grasping his free hand with mine own, “I shall partake in your gnarled pie, perhaps it will be the cure that my mouth doth crave!”
“Bro,” he said, removing his hand from mine, and revealing his lower digits lathered in filling and cream, “these pies aren’t baked for your mouth, they’re swimming pools for your feet!”
If you want to join us and help write a story by trolling in chat, or share your own writing for feedback, then we’d love to have you join us on Twitch.
And you missed the stream, you can still watch them on the YouTube channel or watch the full stream reruns.
Hope to see you next time, friend!
Top image: Pakutaso