Each document starts with a human-written prompt shown in bold, followed by computer-generated text. The prompt for this post is an excerpt from BLFC: A Musical Tail. Everything that the computer generates is completely fictional, and should not be taken seriously.
KAREN, a well-dressed fox jogs up to Diego. The hyena runs his fingers nervously through his hair, power-walking through the pristine halls of the F.U.R.S. Karen struggles to keep up with his pace. She reads from a clipboard. The fox, having his lips locked with Teresa's and following her, heads for the Storm Traders office. Without hesitation, he steps aside to relax.
Sasuke clutches the bag carrier's microphone tightly. He has a harsh look on his face, waiting for an opportunity to immediately say something. But his grip is already extended. The microphone returns. It (rather painfully so) sounds like an expired tape He awkwardly squints, then realizes actuality yields an uncanny amount of squeals of applause.
Distances between photographers jostle for position. Micropics bounce across screens and conversation erupts without hesitation. It is a brilliant prospect for Tomorrow Girl. There are much to pay attention to at the Zen Occupo Center. It is perhaps the single main campus microcosm of Sports GF: Connects to the Internet. Hollow walls are created to stream video, and partners to the internet connect to the 90's.
David Shelder (ur-good-die-ain-a-fame) is in charge. He is a "virtually omnipresent voice" on Earth but "grim for most anything within a two hour flight from Tokyo." They test the waters, decipher the data, message. He moves fast, never stops courting data, always on alert. His life is darknessish.
the spectators are queuing for surety, bouncing like sharks. He looks at the microphone. It is dirty. haircut is starting to rhyme, but Kono translation is preferred. He walks off, waits half an hour for his master's lecture to begin, and looks up. Is there a word for "thank you?" he claims the badge for "fourth in Commandant of the Kyuubi Army".
Witnesses and of course Winters scroot at the claim of his master's instruction and make the slight move that "the ram factorage regarding forehead examination" is not as much of an issue, but rather missing most simulation. He lifts the shoulders of his now exposed legs, cements them to shape, pursues with ever-bitter force his original gaze of Sina in. His larynx is anthropomorphized by his canine peculiarities (eight inches, his little tusks are like squeless improvement).
He watches the own microphone in front of him in bad spirits and widened his angle. The rotation only absorbs three minutes, the lower ear covers half the minimum "game observing time." his/her seat rocket is pointed at him from all angles. The larynx contracts his own throat at two microns,