"The Unexpected Curves of Sportsmanship"
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When we were kids, Jimmy and I always dreamed about securing sports scholarships to the best colleges. Jimmy, a six-foot-four linebacker with the physique of a god, was unimaginably talented. Basketball, football, hockey – you name it, he could dominate it. He had scouts practically foaming at the mouth. But then something weird happened – really weird.
One fateful evening, Jimmy came over to help fix our breaker box, and an unexpected electric surge pulsed through the house like a cosmic joke gone awry. Before we could cry "Houston, we have a problem," Jimmy looked in the mirror and saw my redheaded, buxom mom, staring back at him.
"Hey, buddy," he grunted, trying to adjust his new – and might I add - ample bosom, "you've got to be kidding me. This is some freaky Friday bizwiz!"
"It wasn't my intention, Jim," I replied, trying to stifle my laughter. I know, I'm rotten.
"Do you have ANY idea how hard it is to maneuver with these melons?" he puffed, poking at his chest. “I need freakin' scaffolding for these babies.”
“Well… it's just your chest that's bigger now. None of your skills are gone, right?” I offered.
"Skills? You try running down a field with a pair of juiced-up lawn ornaments attached to your front!" Jimmy barked, planting his fists on his new, curvier hips. “Let’s hit the court. I'm takin’ you down all the same.”
Fast forward to our first showdown on the basketball court. At first, I thought I'd have the advantage. I zoomed in, planning my winning shot. Instead, Jimmy dashed past me, those new hips of his knocking me off stride.
"Watch the new hardware, pal!" he roared, using those hips like a percussive weapon. He spun, braid whipping through the air like he was wielding a flaming lasso.
"Wham! You like that? This is what it's like bringing Sutherlands’s mom to the court!"
"JIMMY!" I hollered, my cheeks crimson.
Almost as if mocking gravity, he jumped for a dunk, the echoing THWACK resonating as if punctuating the absurdity of it all. I was outclassed, cut, and felt the burn of his new curves blocking, bouncing, and just practically punking me. It didn’t take long to realize he was still Jimmy. Altered physique or not, the man – woman? – was a natural-born athlete.
"You're being too literal with your moves, kid," he said, giving me a patronizing grin that looked really strange on Mom's face. "Think rounder!"
In street hockey, our fights were epic. Jimmy darted around us, using his braided hair like a hockey whip, though he retained that booming linebacker voice.
"Stay nutmeg, bro! Think these hips are just for batting husbands away at cocktail parties? Naw, they're for swarmin’ defenses!" he growled, “AND MOMMA WEARS CLEATS NOW!"
The flag football game was perhaps the pinnacle of confusion and hilarity. He plowed through the defense, one hefty boob barely contained in its sports bra crashing into me like a beanbag chair with momentum.
"Look alive!" he warned, yanking off my flag with laughably little effort, "Gotcha, dude!"
In the moments between games, we talked strategies, future scholarships became less and less the focus.
"How do you feel, Jimmy?” I asked.
“Like an amazon warrior in Joann Fabrics, but I'm still the same athlete. The rest?” He waved at the general busty region. “Detail, man. Detail! You rewire the strategy, not the engine. Know what I'm sayin'?”
His lineman heart spoke volumes, but the sight was hard to erase. Still, he'd embraced his predicament with a resilience and good humor intended clearly for just such freaky situations. He even joked about starting a new sport.
"Maybe I should join roller derby, call myself 'Rippa Red' or somethin'."
"Well," I said, slinging an arm around my now-mom-looking friend, "whatever you do, I’ll back you."
Football, basketball, or navigating a curious crisis of a doubled D kind, Jimmy, now unexpectedly Sutherland's mom, truly echoed the lesson sports taught us all: perfect form, whether graceful or googly-eyed, absolutely owns the game.
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: My best friend Is a great athlete, and he was prepared to get a scholarship for any sport he wanted to play. But then something weird happened, he came over to fix our breaker box and an electric surge happened and swapped him into my redheaded busty mom's body. Now he won't get those scholarships, but he is still having fun. He struggled with sports now due to his new heavy chest. But has still beaten me multiple times at basketball, he even kills it when we play flag football and street hockey. He uses his new wide hips to bounce us away from him and uses his braided hair as a whip to get us away from him. It's actually pretty impressive. Though he is embarrassed about the fact he has to wear multiple sports bras to keep him from bouncing too much, but you do what you have to do when you're sporting a new pair of DD cups. Write my friends dialogue like a big strong linebacker. Write the story with tons of dialogue.
Response: When we were kids, Jimmy and I always dreamed about securing sports scholarships to the best colleges. Jimmy, a six-foot-four linebacker with the physique of a god, was unimaginably talented. Basketball, football, hockey – you name it, he could dominate it. He had scouts practically foaming at the mouth. But then something weird happened – really weird. One fateful evening, Jimmy came over to help fix our breaker box, and an unexpected electric surge pulsed through the house like a cosmic joke gone awry. Before we could cry "Houston, we have a problem," Jimmy looked in the mirror and saw my redheaded, buxom mom, staring back at him. "Hey, buddy," he grunted, trying to adjust his new – and might I add - ample bosom, "you've got to be kidding me. This is some freaky Friday bizwiz!" "It wasn't my intention, Jim," I replied, trying to stifle my laughter. I know, I'm rotten. "Do you have ANY idea how hard it is to maneuver with these melons?" he puffed, poking at his chest. “I need freakin' scaffolding for these babies.” “Well… it's just your chest that's bigger now. None of your skills are gone, right?” I offered. "Skills? You try running down a field with a pair of juiced-up lawn ornaments attached to your front!" Jimmy barked, planting his fists on his new, curvier hips. “Let’s hit the court. I'm takin’ you down all the same.” Fast forward to our first showdown on the basketball court. At first, I thought I'd have the advantage. I zoomed in, planning my winning shot. Instead, Jimmy dashed past me, those new hips of his knocking me off stride. "Watch the new hardware, pal!" he roared, using those hips like a percussive weapon. He spun, braid whipping through the air like he was wielding a flaming lasso. "Wham! You like that? This is what it's like bringing Sutherlands’s mom to the court!" "JIMMY!" I hollered, my cheeks crimson. Almost as if mocking gravity, he jumped for a dunk, the echoing THWACK resonating as if punctuating the absurdity of it all. I was outclassed, cut, and felt the burn of his new curves blocking, bouncing, and just practically punking me. It didn’t take long to realize he was still Jimmy. Altered physique or not, the man – woman? – was a natural-born athlete. "You're being too literal with your moves, kid," he said, giving me a patronizing grin that looked really strange on Mom's face. "Think rounder!" In street hockey, our fights were epic. Jimmy darted around us, using his braided hair like a hockey whip, though he retained that booming linebacker voice. "Stay nutmeg, bro! Think these hips are just for batting husbands away at cocktail parties? Naw, they're for swarmin’ defenses!" he growled, “AND MOMMA WEARS CLEATS NOW!" The flag football game was perhaps the pinnacle of confusion and hilarity. He plowed through the defense, one hefty boob barely contained in its sports bra crashing into me like a beanbag chair with momentum. "Look alive!" he warned, yanking off my flag with laughably little effort, "Gotcha, dude!" In the moments between games, we talked strategies, future scholarships became less and less the focus. "How do you feel, Jimmy?” I asked. “Like an amazon warrior in Joann Fabrics, but I'm still the same athlete. The rest?” He waved at the general busty region. “Detail, man. Detail! You rewire the strategy, not the engine. Know what I'm sayin'?” His lineman heart spoke volumes, but the sight was hard to erase. Still, he'd embraced his predicament with a resilience and good humor intended clearly for just such freaky situations. He even joked about starting a new sport. "Maybe I should join roller derby, call myself 'Rippa Red' or somethin'." "Well," I said, slinging an arm around my now-mom-looking friend, "whatever you do, I’ll back you." Football, basketball, or navigating a curious crisis of a doubled D kind, Jimmy, now unexpectedly Sutherland's mom, truly echoed the lesson sports taught us all: perfect form, whether graceful or googly-eyed, absolutely owns the game.
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