Preface: I suspect some of the complaints about AI stories are fueled by jealousy. In my limited experiments, I’ve found AI to be fun. This morning I thought I’d see if AI could exploit its own so-called weaknesses. I asked for a story about Mr. Muffin’s mustache and supplied a few seed sentences. (And added, for better or for worse, a little climax.)

Mr. Muffin’s Mustache

By CoPilot

Mr. Muffin’s mustache was like a sunset obscured by wooly clouds — soft yet stormy, radiant yet muddled, hopeful yet undeniably damp. It hovered above his lip with the solemnity of a brooding heron, the density of a rain-soaked forest, and the emotional weight of a violinist practicing in an empty train station.

No matter how carefully Mr. Muffin shaved, the fringe hairs of his mustache behaved like lion cubs attempting to pin down their mother’s tail — wild, willful, wobbling. They sprang outward in three directions at once: left toward destiny, right toward chaos, and straight ahead toward breakfast.