Switched, Stretched, and Surprised: The Extravaganza of the Clone Remote
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The Saga of the Clone Remote: A Tale of Unintentional Multiplicity
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I blinked several times, attempting to adjust to this bizarre reality. My living room, which usually hosted scenes of mild bickering and bouts of Netflix, was an epicenter of insanity. My wife – or rather, countless versions of her – was everywhere.
"Honey, I think we need to talk about your cloning remote," she said, or at least one of her did, giving me a look that indicated our code-red situation.
"Yeah, uh, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I bought it," I stammered, gazing at the iridescent, sci-fi looking remote in my hand.
She rolled her eyes; I always loved it when she did that. "You think?" she retorted, her tone dripping with sarcasm.
"But maybe it won't be too bad?" I attempted, weakly. "I mean, you’re everywhere – which I guess means I’m the luckiest man on earth?"
Her clone picked up the remote and tried pressing a few buttons. Nothing changed. "It’s not working, genius," she said, throwing her hands up. "Look outside, it’s still wife-apalooza."
Peering out the window, I saw our neighbors – all of whom had taken on my wife’s form, engaging in various mundane activities. Mr. Thompson was washing his car, his broad-shouldered wife-form wearing ill-fitting jeans. Mrs. Carter was gardening, her once slender figure now boasting the same wide hips and curves my wife was famous for.
"So, uh, what do we do now?" I asked, setting down the remote on the coffee table carefully as if the mere touch might turn the earth into a clone-of-my-wife Planet of the Apes scenario.
"We need to fix this," she said, pacing back and forth in our crowded living room, dodging around a clone who was remarkably interested in making a sandwich.
"Right. Right. Any ideas?" I ventured, while trying to shake the feeling that I was in a B-grade science fiction film.
"First!" she said, addressing the many clones like a general mustering her troops. "Everybody listen up. We need to stop whatever you’re doing and try to figure out how to reverse this."
"But what if we just... enjoyed it for a little while?" I suggested. "Let's see how the world adapts."
She sighed, "Alright, but if you get tired of seeing multiple versions of me everywhere," she gestured dramatically around the room, "I don’t want to hear any complaining."
Off I went, out the door, and down the street. The world was resplendent with copies of my wife doing activities I’d never imagined she’d be doing.
"Yo, Mark!" called a voice from my right. I turned to see my buddy Dave – or at least his voice coming out of my wife’s body, which was currently decked out in his usual grunge-band t-shirt and khaki shorts.
"Dave?" I chortled incredulously. "Is that you?"
"Yeah, it’s me. Nice work, dude," he said, giving me a thumbs-up with a perfectly manicured hand. "You always said your wife was a 10.”
"Uh, thanks, I guess?" I replied uncertainly.
"You’re the man of the hour," Dave continued. "The ladies down at the bar were talkin' about gettin’ ya a round of drinks!"
"Well, let's uh, go see what’s going on at the bar," I suggested. After all, what was the harm in a little exploration?
As we headed toward O'Malley's Pub, we passed a pick-up game of basketball. The players were running, jumping, and shooting hoops – all of them identical clones of my wife, with the exact same vibrant red hair tying up in high bouncy ponytails.
As Dave and I entered the bar, lively with a plethora of my wife’s clones, a rendition of her favorite rap song blared from the worn-out speakers. My wife’s clones manned the DJ table, took drink orders, and laughed heartily.
"Hey Mark!" the bartender clone called. "Your regular?"
"Yeah sure, clone-wife," I responded, rubbing my temples. This was a lot to process.
"So, what happens now?" Dave mused, sipping his beer. One wife-clone wandered by, offering chicken wings.
"I guess... we figure out what breaks first when you saturate the world with perfection,” I answered before taking a long, thoughtful sip.
"Oh, fine," Dave smirked. "As long as you don’t mind me calling you the Clonemeister."
---
So, as I navigated this wacky world where my wife was the ubiquitous entity, we shared laughs and sought solutions. Through all the madness, one thing was crystal clear - Marriage is definitely a test, and I had better find a solution before I end up in the doghouse, or worse - a world where I wouldn’t be able to tell which of the thousands of clones is the original Mrs. Smith.
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: I had a new clone remote that could alter reality and clone people. I decided to use it on my wife with her vibrant red hair and her large massive boobs mixed with her wide sexy hips and large sexy ass. I pressed the clone button and somehow managed to make everyone on planet earth a clone of my wife. I flipped through TV channels seeing a basketball game all the players had my wife's busty body but they all still had the same names. I flipped over and found a rap music video with my wife rapping about her big boobs and clones of her twerking and shaking in the camera. I flipped on an alpha male podcast and heard my wife talking. It was all so crazy. I should explore more of this strange world with everyone looking like my hot wife. Write the story with lots of dialogue.
Response: The Saga of the Clone Remote: A Tale of Unintentional Multiplicity --- I blinked several times, attempting to adjust to this bizarre reality. My living room, which usually hosted scenes of mild bickering and bouts of Netflix, was an epicenter of insanity. My wife – or rather, countless versions of her – was everywhere. "Honey, I think we need to talk about your cloning remote," she said, or at least one of her did, giving me a look that indicated our code-red situation. "Yeah, uh, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I bought it," I stammered, gazing at the iridescent, sci-fi looking remote in my hand. She rolled her eyes; I always loved it when she did that. "You think?" she retorted, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "But maybe it won't be too bad?" I attempted, weakly. "I mean, you’re everywhere – which I guess means I’m the luckiest man on earth?" Her clone picked up the remote and tried pressing a few buttons. Nothing changed. "It’s not working, genius," she said, throwing her hands up. "Look outside, it’s still wife-apalooza." Peering out the window, I saw our neighbors – all of whom had taken on my wife’s form, engaging in various mundane activities. Mr. Thompson was washing his car, his broad-shouldered wife-form wearing ill-fitting jeans. Mrs. Carter was gardening, her once slender figure now boasting the same wide hips and curves my wife was famous for. "So, uh, what do we do now?" I asked, setting down the remote on the coffee table carefully as if the mere touch might turn the earth into a clone-of-my-wife Planet of the Apes scenario. "We need to fix this," she said, pacing back and forth in our crowded living room, dodging around a clone who was remarkably interested in making a sandwich. "Right. Right. Any ideas?" I ventured, while trying to shake the feeling that I was in a B-grade science fiction film. "First!" she said, addressing the many clones like a general mustering her troops. "Everybody listen up. We need to stop whatever you’re doing and try to figure out how to reverse this." "But what if we just... enjoyed it for a little while?" I suggested. "Let's see how the world adapts." She sighed, "Alright, but if you get tired of seeing multiple versions of me everywhere," she gestured dramatically around the room, "I don’t want to hear any complaining." Off I went, out the door, and down the street. The world was resplendent with copies of my wife doing activities I’d never imagined she’d be doing. "Yo, Mark!" called a voice from my right. I turned to see my buddy Dave – or at least his voice coming out of my wife’s body, which was currently decked out in his usual grunge-band t-shirt and khaki shorts. "Dave?" I chortled incredulously. "Is that you?" "Yeah, it’s me. Nice work, dude," he said, giving me a thumbs-up with a perfectly manicured hand. "You always said your wife was a 10.” "Uh, thanks, I guess?" I replied uncertainly. "You’re the man of the hour," Dave continued. "The ladies down at the bar were talkin' about gettin’ ya a round of drinks!" "Well, let's uh, go see what’s going on at the bar," I suggested. After all, what was the harm in a little exploration? As we headed toward O'Malley's Pub, we passed a pick-up game of basketball. The players were running, jumping, and shooting hoops – all of them identical clones of my wife, with the exact same vibrant red hair tying up in high bouncy ponytails. As Dave and I entered the bar, lively with a plethora of my wife’s clones, a rendition of her favorite rap song blared from the worn-out speakers. My wife’s clones manned the DJ table, took drink orders, and laughed heartily. "Hey Mark!" the bartender clone called. "Your regular?" "Yeah sure, clone-wife," I responded, rubbing my temples. This was a lot to process. "So, what happens now?" Dave mused, sipping his beer. One wife-clone wandered by, offering chicken wings. "I guess... we figure out what breaks first when you saturate the world with perfection,” I answered before taking a long, thoughtful sip. "Oh, fine," Dave smirked. "As long as you don’t mind me calling you the Clonemeister." --- So, as I navigated this wacky world where my wife was the ubiquitous entity, we shared laughs and sought solutions. Through all the madness, one thing was crystal clear - Marriage is definitely a test, and I had better find a solution before I end up in the doghouse, or worse - a world where I wouldn’t be able to tell which of the thousands of clones is the original Mrs. Smith.
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