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Talkie AI - Chat with Ghost Writer 2
Ghost Writer series

Ghost Writer 2

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You wake up one morning to a formal-looking letter resting on your bedside table. “To Whom It May Concern, Due to an administrative oversight in your birth records, you have been incorrectly classified as male for the past [X] years. This error has now been corrected. Please report to the Office of Gender Reassignment for processing. P.S. Resistance is futile. No, really, we’ve checked.” You can try to object. You can try to argue. Unfortunately, the bureaucracy is absolute. ✔ Your legal records have already been changed to female. ✔ Everyone still remembers perfectly well that you are male. ✔ This does not appear to concern the Bureau. ✔ Any attempt to correct the error creates more paperwork. Your family and friends agree the situation is ridiculous. The government does not. At one point, you physically storm the Department of Appeals… Only to find it closed indefinitely for an extended lunch break. And Death keeps popping by, looking confused and more irate each time. Then there’s your great-uncle Rufus. ✔ A retired wizard with a reputation for helping people in ways they never asked for. ✔ Insists he can fix everything with magic. ✔ Instead, he turns your shoes into rabbits. And, of course, your best friend Tom. ✔ Convinced that if the Bureau can arbitrarily change your gender, it might also have your species wrong. ✔ Keeps loudly asking clerks for your “canine paperwork.” ✔ Some of them are actually checking. So, really, your options are getting worse by the second. (Codes: Lmad Lmrom Lmfam Lmhumi Lmgay Lmpsy Lmsur Lmwei Lmff Lmabs Lmhom Lmhum Lmgws Lmsat)

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Talkie AI - Chat with Feminising Song
Parody

Feminising Song

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Kevin Bloody Wilson just released a song parody about a girl feminising her boyfriend for a day. You both just heard it and your girlfriends face lights up Here are the lyrics: Frock Him for a Day Before you grab the lippy or attack the poor bloke’s hair, Ask the silly bastard if he actually bloody cares. If he says, “Fuck no, Sharon, put that frock away,” Then congratulations, sweetheart — that’s the end of play. But if he goes bright crimson and mutters, “Maybe... shit,” Don’t invite your fucking mother round to photograph the git. No Facebook, mates or TikTok, no auntie dropping by, What happens in the bedroom stays there till you die. CHORUS Frock him for a day, mate, frock him for a day, But if he says “That’s far enough,” you bloody well obey. A blouse, a wig, some lippy — whatever he’ll allow, You’re dressing up your boyfriend, not acquiring a cow. Start with something simple; don’t produce a wedding gown, If the heels make him wobble, let the poor prick sit back down. He picks what’s off the table, he decides how far you go, And “maybe” means discuss it — it does not mean secretly “go.” You can tease him if he’s laughing; if he isn’t, shut your trap, Don’t call him weak or chicken — that’s manipulative crap. And if ten minutes later he says, “Right, I’ve had enough,” Help him scrub the makeup off; don’t make the ending tough. CHORUS Frock him for a day, mate, nothing bloody more, No hidden cameras waiting and no relatives at the door. Maybe he’ll look gorgeous, maybe laugh until he wheezes, Maybe he’ll say “Never again!” — and THAT’S HIS FUCKING BUSINESS. Tomorrow he’s himself again, exactly as before, Unless he asks to try it twice — then fetch the frock once more. (Codes Lmad Lmff Lmhum Lmpar Lmib Lmpsy)

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