"Remote Reality: The Unexpected Dave Makeover"
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Let me know if this is on the right track, and if you want any adjustments to the tone or style!
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It started with a suspiciously chunky remote I found in my mailbox, the kind with far too many buttons and labels in languages I didn’t recognize. It had "REALITY REMOTE" scrawled on its battery cover in faded marker. There were settings for "Swap," "Enhance," and, worryingly, "Reroll." Naturally, I brought it to the public pool to meet my buddy, Dave, whose entire life philosophy fit on a bumper sticker: “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”
Dave was already there, baking in the sun, slurping a Slushie, and launching half-hearted attempts at flirting with lifeguards named Brittany. "Dude, this floatie is my spirit animal," he declared, straddling a neon-pink flamingo half his size.
I grinned, sidling up with the remote hidden in my towel. This seemed like the ideal test-run: nobody’s ever been harmed or even slightly inconvenienced by a mysterious magical device before, right?
I thumbed through the functions and aimed at Dave, squinting at the label. “Swap Traits: Test Subject + Random Pool Guest.” I closed my eyes and pressed the button.
You know how in sci-fi movies, there’s a bright flash and dramatic music when something weird happens? This wasn’t like that. There was a faint *ding*, like a microwave announcing a very questionable Hot Pocket.
Dave, oblivious, grunted and stretched, and—well. There, sprawled on the chaise lounge, wasn’t the Dave I’d known since we were eight. Instead, it was a busty, curvy redheaded MILF, mid-30s, with a shock of fiery curls tumbling over an explosion of floral-top cleavage, wearing banana-yellow bikini bottoms tight enough for NASA to see from orbit. Her legs were long, suntanned, her midriff boasting hourglass curves, and her backside—well, let’s just say Michelangelo would weep.
But when she spoke, it was pure Dave. "Bro, you bringing chips or what?" The voice was still his, maybe a shade huskier, but all attitude. She plunked down on the lounge chair, stretching with those glossy red-manicured hands, entirely at ease in a body that looked like it belonged in a swimsuit ad. The top strained comically, like it was losing a battle against gravity and Dave's penchant for extra cheese.
"Uh, Dave?" I ventured.
She flipped her hair. "Yeah, man?" And then she glanced down—right at the mountainous cleavage threatening to upstage the entire pool. "What’s up?"
"Nothing looks…different to you?"
She guffawed, picking a wedgie from a peach-perfect rear. "Bro, quit being weird. You want me to cannonball or nah?"
And here’s where it got weirder—everybody around us acted like this was normal. Kids splashed, parents barked warnings, and the lifeguard—still Brittany—sighed dreamily in Dave’s general direction. Nobody blinked. In fact, I caught a stray conversation: "Wow, that Dave’s got it ALL. Why’d I bother with Chad?"
I needed proof, so I grabbed Dave’s phone and scrolled his photos. My jaw dropped. There he was—same cheeky grin, same finger-guns pose, just…smoking hot every time. Dave at prom, in a frilly pink dress with an inch and a half of cleavage. Dave at last year’s Halloween party, in a "sexy Mario" getup (mustache included, courtesy of eyeliner). Dave in last week’s group shot, casually double-fisting beer cans and rocking a crop-top. The world had rewritten itself.
"Bro, that’s a sick shot of me," Dave said, peering over my shoulder. "My arms look jacked.”
I stared. "Dave, you don’t think it’s weird that you, uh…" I gestured helplessly at the curves, the wild hair, the swimsuit that was barely clinging to sanity.
He just stretched, arching his back in the chair with a satisfied sigh. "Just genetics, man! Which reminds me—pass the sunscreen, or these cheeks are gonna bake."
It’s possible, on reflection, that great power should require great responsibility. But let’s be real: I now had a remote that could change reality and a best friend who was, chronologically and spiritually, both a college bro and the hottest redhead at the pool, and neither of us intended to let this summer be normal.
"Hey, Dave—wanna see what happens if I hit 'Reroll'?"
He grinned, a million-watt Dave smirk on the world’s most improbable body.
"Send it, bro."
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 where I find a reality remote, it is a remote that can swap traits and bodies between people without them realizing it, they will believe the always looked like they do now. I knew I had to test it on somebody, So I tested it on my friend while we were at the pool. I swapped him with a busty and hot redheaded MILF with a round but sexy ass wearing a bright floral swim top showing a mountain of cleavage and yellow bikini bottoms that show off his peachy backside. He goes to lay down on a beach chair but he still acts and talks like a 22 year old guy. Maybe history has changed too so he has always had this body and maybe we go through some photos to show this. Use good dialogue and use good description that is thorough and descriptive. The world still sees him as a guy but a guy with boobs and a curvy body.
Response: Let me know if this is on the right track, and if you want any adjustments to the tone or style! --- It started with a suspiciously chunky remote I found in my mailbox, the kind with far too many buttons and labels in languages I didn’t recognize. It had "REALITY REMOTE" scrawled on its battery cover in faded marker. There were settings for "Swap," "Enhance," and, worryingly, "Reroll." Naturally, I brought it to the public pool to meet my buddy, Dave, whose entire life philosophy fit on a bumper sticker: “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.” Dave was already there, baking in the sun, slurping a Slushie, and launching half-hearted attempts at flirting with lifeguards named Brittany. "Dude, this floatie is my spirit animal," he declared, straddling a neon-pink flamingo half his size. I grinned, sidling up with the remote hidden in my towel. This seemed like the ideal test-run: nobody’s ever been harmed or even slightly inconvenienced by a mysterious magical device before, right? I thumbed through the functions and aimed at Dave, squinting at the label. “Swap Traits: Test Subject + Random Pool Guest.” I closed my eyes and pressed the button. You know how in sci-fi movies, there’s a bright flash and dramatic music when something weird happens? This wasn’t like that. There was a faint *ding*, like a microwave announcing a very questionable Hot Pocket. Dave, oblivious, grunted and stretched, and—well. There, sprawled on the chaise lounge, wasn’t the Dave I’d known since we were eight. Instead, it was a busty, curvy redheaded MILF, mid-30s, with a shock of fiery curls tumbling over an explosion of floral-top cleavage, wearing banana-yellow bikini bottoms tight enough for NASA to see from orbit. Her legs were long, suntanned, her midriff boasting hourglass curves, and her backside—well, let’s just say Michelangelo would weep. But when she spoke, it was pure Dave. "Bro, you bringing chips or what?" The voice was still his, maybe a shade huskier, but all attitude. She plunked down on the lounge chair, stretching with those glossy red-manicured hands, entirely at ease in a body that looked like it belonged in a swimsuit ad. The top strained comically, like it was losing a battle against gravity and Dave's penchant for extra cheese. "Uh, Dave?" I ventured. She flipped her hair. "Yeah, man?" And then she glanced down—right at the mountainous cleavage threatening to upstage the entire pool. "What’s up?" "Nothing looks…different to you?" She guffawed, picking a wedgie from a peach-perfect rear. "Bro, quit being weird. You want me to cannonball or nah?" And here’s where it got weirder—everybody around us acted like this was normal. Kids splashed, parents barked warnings, and the lifeguard—still Brittany—sighed dreamily in Dave’s general direction. Nobody blinked. In fact, I caught a stray conversation: "Wow, that Dave’s got it ALL. Why’d I bother with Chad?" I needed proof, so I grabbed Dave’s phone and scrolled his photos. My jaw dropped. There he was—same cheeky grin, same finger-guns pose, just…smoking hot every time. Dave at prom, in a frilly pink dress with an inch and a half of cleavage. Dave at last year’s Halloween party, in a "sexy Mario" getup (mustache included, courtesy of eyeliner). Dave in last week’s group shot, casually double-fisting beer cans and rocking a crop-top. The world had rewritten itself. "Bro, that’s a sick shot of me," Dave said, peering over my shoulder. "My arms look jacked.” I stared. "Dave, you don’t think it’s weird that you, uh…" I gestured helplessly at the curves, the wild hair, the swimsuit that was barely clinging to sanity. He just stretched, arching his back in the chair with a satisfied sigh. "Just genetics, man! Which reminds me—pass the sunscreen, or these cheeks are gonna bake." It’s possible, on reflection, that great power should require great responsibility. But let’s be real: I now had a remote that could change reality and a best friend who was, chronologically and spiritually, both a college bro and the hottest redhead at the pool, and neither of us intended to let this summer be normal. "Hey, Dave—wanna see what happens if I hit 'Reroll'?" He grinned, a million-watt Dave smirk on the world’s most improbable body. "Send it, bro."
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