You work for a TV studio trying to break into the fluffy entertainment market. Some owners leave their televisions on fluffy-centric channels 24/7, so ratings aren’t a concern. It’s your job to sort though ideas that get pitched, and unfortunately it’s your job to carry them out too. The company brought a new kid on last week as a writer for a new show idea someone had that stemmed from a pot fueled brainstorming session: what if fluffies could make music. You always wanted to make your mark on the entertainment world, but it’s too late for that so you can try to make a mark here at least eh? But what they didn’t factor in, is that it’s hard enough to train a fluffy not to shit on the floor, so how the fuck are you gonna teach them instruments? But this new writer insists on “artistic integrity” like those little shits could tell the difference between miming and real playing. You wish you could tell him to get bent but by the grace of capitalism and nepotism, he’s the nephew of an executive producer, so what can you do eh? So now you’ve gotta go around town and find fluffies to teach musical instruments to and not harm them or yourself throughout the process.
While an intern rounds up instruments fluffies can’t kill themselves with, you start writing up a commercial to build hype for the show.
…
You’re a fluffy in the suburbs of southern Michigan, enjoying your favorite fluffy tv show, when a captivating commercial comes on.
It’s a beautiful grassy hill, blue sky, fluffy white clouds and butterflies in the air, it doesn’t register in your mind that it’s most likely a dirty soundstage in an underfunded tv studio and a green screen. A man step into frame holding an acoustic guitar dressed in a sharp blazer and blue jeans. He looks like a nice man, a little scruffy but kind. But you’re a fluffy, you think everyone is kind.
“Ladies, gentlemen,” the man says, “do you think your fluffy has what it takes to be a rockstar?”
You could be a rockstar? Your daddeh calls you “witwe wockstaw” when you make good poopies in your litterbox so maybe you do have what it takes!
“The hottest new fluffy entertainment craze is here and it’s just getting started. Think your little fluff ball has what it takes to enter the fluffy hall of fame, join us this Saturday at the community center for open auditions, and remember folks, your fluffy could be the next big star, but they’ll never reach their full potential if they don’t audition and train with the best, so who’s ready to fluffin’ rock!”
The nice man smashes his guitar and some fast words you can’t read flash on the screen while a fast talking man says some words you don’t pay attention to. Your name is Bradley, and you’re gonna be a rockstar, that’s all there is to it. You need to go tell mummah about the nice man on “tee bee” as fast as your little weggies can carry you
“Nu be siwwies weggies! Nee wun fast! Teww mummah bwadwey gunna be wockstaw!”
…
Back in the studio, the intern finally gets back with some instruments she found at the goodwill, a toddlers xylophone, a novelty size toddlers drum set with broken drum heads, a desk bell like you’d see on the counter at a gas station, and a slide whistle. Throw the slide while out immediately, you can see it now, a clumsy fluffy falling and impaling his or her brain with the plastic tip. Don’t want any more lawsuits. The commercial airs tonight and auditions are tomorrow so you’d better find more instruments and fast.