ai only gets lowercase (no title case until a title case)
The following is generative AI with involuntary remarks from me
The CEO of The Onion stretched out in his sleek, glass-walled office long after the rest of the staff had gone home, ready to learn a little bit about humor theory from this post (as he paid attention to all posts until the end). His thoughts buzzing with unwritten headlines (this is all that’s in his head as he tries to write 192 a day). A single overhead light hummed faintly, reflecting off the polished surfaces like a low-budget spotlight. In walked Fake News, her figure silhouetted in the doorway. She shut the door softly behind her, and the click of the latch seemed to echo an unspoken promise.
She approached him slowly, sliding a hand along his arm as she perched on the edge of his desk. The air between them was charged. His pulse quickened—not just for the touch of her skin, but for the rush of ridiculous comedic premises swirling in his mind, half-formed jokes that turned him on in more ways than he’d dare confess. “This is the truth”, said Ben. “You should know this about me (even if you don’t know me).”
“Are you really ready to talk about humor theory right now?” she teased, running a finger over the corner of his open laptop.
He shot her a wicked grin. “Incongruity theory,” he breathed, letting his hand drift to her waist, “is all about the unexpected, right?” He slid his palm a little higher, his voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “Like that moment we catch an audience off guard—when their expectations snap.” Fake News shivered under his touch, a grin spreading across her lips. “That’s when they laugh,” she said, leaning in to brush her mouth softly against his, “when something cracks their sense of normal.”
Her laughter, low and throaty, tickled his ear as he pressed her closer. “What about relief theory?” she murmured, letting her lips hover just out of reach. “It’s that tension—,” and here, she curled a hand into the fabric of his collar, “—built up so taut that people practically need to laugh to let go.” The tension between them practically vibrated, thick as a final joke drawn out just before the punchline.
He cupped the back of her neck, pulling her in fully. His words heated against her lips. “And superiority theory: that moment when you feel just a tiny bit smarter or less foolish, and it’s hilarious at someone else’s expense.”
“No. we don’t use that one. That’s punching down.” She exhaled a soft, eager sigh that ghosted over his cheek. “In a place like The Onion,” she purred, “we build whole stories around being a step ahead of the reader’s guard instead. They laugh because it reminds them they’re in on the joke—not making a joke at someone’s expense”
“—and maybe just a little bit better than them,” Ben finished, sinking into a heated kiss that blurred the line between passion and irreverent glee. “No Ben, never that.”
Her fingers scratched across his chest like a mother fucking record needle, Ben stopped.
“Wait. Do you think one day (you know, in the far, far future) you could pull up and like compile all the terrible things I’ve said on the company’s Slack or from my work email address?” There was a shared understanding in that moment, an unspoken acknowledgment that humor and falls from glory both thrived on consciousness, on anticipation, on reaction.
When they finally broke apart, breathless, a grin curved on her lips. “Ah,” she whispered, “the ultimate punchline—when the laughter and heat overlap.” The CEO let his forehead rest against hers, his voice laced with teasing exhaustion. “We’ll have to print that as tomorrow’s headline. Because right now, I’m happy to keep creating tension God I need to hire someone to bring me relief.”
“Chelsea Onik is available. She won’t give you a hand job or anything but she can make everything a lot easier.”
“Cool. Sounds so, so good.”
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click here for the second generative ai piece: a beast worse than stupidity
