"Switched At Dinner: A Mix-Up Machine Comedy"
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“Honey, do you know where my—what in the actual HELL!”
I froze, staring at my buddy, Jake, who was currently occupying my wife, Liz’s, body, striking an odd combination of horror and glee as he ogled himself in the mirror.
“Hey, bro,” he said, his original voice still fumbling out of Liz’s typically elegant throat.
“Jake, what did you do?” I asked, panic seizing me.
“I found this weird contraption in your study.” He pointed at the brain-switching machine, now humming ominously. “It looked like something out of a sci-fi movie! I tripped and fell, hit a bunch of buttons, and now…” He gestured to himself — or rather, Liz's body.
“Oh no. Oh, no, no, no,” I muttered, rifling through my increasingly empty mental manual for emergency protocols.
Jake didn't seem too perturbed. He kept staring into Liz’s décolleté, marveling at his—or her—current assets. “Jackpot, right?” he burst out, bouncing a bit on the balls of his feet, causing a captivating jiggle effect that had me averting my eyes in sheer awkwardness.
Liz, or Jake-in-Liz, was showing more interest in those breasts than she had when they were hers.
“Listen, can you—God, this is weird—can you stop doing that?” I begged, my voice shaky. “Liz, I mean, Jake—ugh!”
“Relax, it’s just me!” Jake assured, winking exaggeratedly.
“Um, well, we need to fix this before dinner. We have reservations in an hour!” I said, pacing anxiously.
“No can do, buddy,” Jake said, now trying out Liz's lipstick for some reason. “I read the notes by your machine. You need 24 hours before you can switch back—it’s like a cooldown period in a video game.”
Before I could respond, the door swung open and in marched my wife, in Jake's body, looking immensely annoyed but impeccably groomed.
“We need to teach your friend decorum,” Liz hissed, voice gruff but eyes fiery. “I can’t believe I have to go to dinner in my own body, but not my own body!” She paused, realizing how that sounded. “You know what I mean!”
“Alright, I’ll help,” Jake said eagerly, looking disturbingly natural in his—or rather, her—new state. “First, time to pick out a killer dress.”
“Jake, stop enjoying this so much!” Liz snapped, dragging him toward the closet and tossing a glamorous gown at him.
Minutes later, we were ready to leave, with Jake awkwardly clutching my wife’s purse and Liz scowling in my direction as if I had personally birthed this peculiar mess.
At the restaurant, we were shown to our table by a waiter who practically tripped over his own feet, staring slack-jawed at the poised lady—Jake—who sounded like a man who’d just swallowed a frog and then been told he had to give a TED talk.
Our menus were handed out, and I noted the growing discomfort around us.
“Hi there, sweetie!” Jake hollered at the waitress. “What’re you packing in that blouse? Impressive!”
The poor girl turned crimson, simultaneously affronted and confused. Liz's—or Jake's—bountiful chest heaved with every guffaw that Jake let out.
I buried my face behind the menu, whispering to Liz, “Do something!”
Liz, in Jake’s body, looked directly at Jake through my eyes and said in the most deadpan voice possible, “Shut up. Now.”
Touché, Liz. Touché.
Dinner proceeded awkwardly. At one point, Jake let out a hearty belch that echoed through the restaurant. Patrons turned in shock, their expressions a mixture of horror and morbid curiosity.
“Sorry, 'scuse me!” Jake said, unperturbed. He then leaned over to me and whispered, “Gotta admit, these boobs are amazing.”
By the time dessert rolled around, my face was a permanent shade of red. Jake, however, seemed to be having the time of his life.
As we got up to leave, Jake gave a mock curtsy, his ample chest threatening to spill out. “Have a good night y’all!” he chirped to the restaurant, which by now had reduced its gaze to stunned silence.
Heading back to the car, I couldn’t help but shake my head. “Next time, I’m locking up the lab.”
“Next time?” Liz and Jake said in unison, both with entirely different inflections.
“Point taken,” I muttered, helping Liz into the car and wondering if we’d ever have a normal dinner again.
As for the brain machine, maybe it needs a bit more tweaking—or just a good hiding place.
This story was generated by user zach3 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: write a story with dialogue where things can get really awkward when you invent a brain switching machine. I thought I had kept it pretty well hidden, but unfortunately my buddy found it. He accidentally bumped into it causing a brain swap between him and my wife who was wearing her flowery nightie at the time which showed off her large and generous cleavage. He was freaking out at first but I think he enjoys it now, He keeps looking down his dress to get a view of his new giant chest with its incredible cleavage. He has even bounces on the balls of his feet a few times to feel his new boobs bounce. Now we have to head out for dinner he grabs my wife's purse and My wife forces him to put on a nice dress and we head for our dinner reservations. Everyone at the restaurant looks shocked when this prim and proper looking lady sounds like a middle aged man, he comments on the waitresses rack even though his own rack might be a cup size or two bigger and he even belches loudly after eating his steak.
Response: “Honey, do you know where my—what in the actual HELL!” I froze, staring at my buddy, Jake, who was currently occupying my wife, Liz’s, body, striking an odd combination of horror and glee as he ogled himself in the mirror. “Hey, bro,” he said, his original voice still fumbling out of Liz’s typically elegant throat. “Jake, what did you do?” I asked, panic seizing me. “I found this weird contraption in your study.” He pointed at the brain-switching machine, now humming ominously. “It looked like something out of a sci-fi movie! I tripped and fell, hit a bunch of buttons, and now…” He gestured to himself — or rather, Liz's body. “Oh no. Oh, no, no, no,” I muttered, rifling through my increasingly empty mental manual for emergency protocols. Jake didn't seem too perturbed. He kept staring into Liz’s décolleté, marveling at his—or her—current assets. “Jackpot, right?” he burst out, bouncing a bit on the balls of his feet, causing a captivating jiggle effect that had me averting my eyes in sheer awkwardness. Liz, or Jake-in-Liz, was showing more interest in those breasts than she had when they were hers. “Listen, can you—God, this is weird—can you stop doing that?” I begged, my voice shaky. “Liz, I mean, Jake—ugh!” “Relax, it’s just me!” Jake assured, winking exaggeratedly. “Um, well, we need to fix this before dinner. We have reservations in an hour!” I said, pacing anxiously. “No can do, buddy,” Jake said, now trying out Liz's lipstick for some reason. “I read the notes by your machine. You need 24 hours before you can switch back—it’s like a cooldown period in a video game.” Before I could respond, the door swung open and in marched my wife, in Jake's body, looking immensely annoyed but impeccably groomed. “We need to teach your friend decorum,” Liz hissed, voice gruff but eyes fiery. “I can’t believe I have to go to dinner in my own body, but not my own body!” She paused, realizing how that sounded. “You know what I mean!” “Alright, I’ll help,” Jake said eagerly, looking disturbingly natural in his—or rather, her—new state. “First, time to pick out a killer dress.” “Jake, stop enjoying this so much!” Liz snapped, dragging him toward the closet and tossing a glamorous gown at him. Minutes later, we were ready to leave, with Jake awkwardly clutching my wife’s purse and Liz scowling in my direction as if I had personally birthed this peculiar mess. At the restaurant, we were shown to our table by a waiter who practically tripped over his own feet, staring slack-jawed at the poised lady—Jake—who sounded like a man who’d just swallowed a frog and then been told he had to give a TED talk. Our menus were handed out, and I noted the growing discomfort around us. “Hi there, sweetie!” Jake hollered at the waitress. “What’re you packing in that blouse? Impressive!” The poor girl turned crimson, simultaneously affronted and confused. Liz's—or Jake's—bountiful chest heaved with every guffaw that Jake let out. I buried my face behind the menu, whispering to Liz, “Do something!” Liz, in Jake’s body, looked directly at Jake through my eyes and said in the most deadpan voice possible, “Shut up. Now.” Touché, Liz. Touché. Dinner proceeded awkwardly. At one point, Jake let out a hearty belch that echoed through the restaurant. Patrons turned in shock, their expressions a mixture of horror and morbid curiosity. “Sorry, 'scuse me!” Jake said, unperturbed. He then leaned over to me and whispered, “Gotta admit, these boobs are amazing.” By the time dessert rolled around, my face was a permanent shade of red. Jake, however, seemed to be having the time of his life. As we got up to leave, Jake gave a mock curtsy, his ample chest threatening to spill out. “Have a good night y’all!” he chirped to the restaurant, which by now had reduced its gaze to stunned silence. Heading back to the car, I couldn’t help but shake my head. “Next time, I’m locking up the lab.” “Next time?” Liz and Jake said in unison, both with entirely different inflections. “Point taken,” I muttered, helping Liz into the car and wondering if we’d ever have a normal dinner again. As for the brain machine, maybe it needs a bit more tweaking—or just a good hiding place.
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