Just in the nick of time, I managed to find an assortment of instruments designed for toddlers, which in a pinch will work for fluffies, and I’m pretty sure they won’t find a way to kill, maim, or otherwise dismember themselves with them. Auditions start in an hour and I’m helping the camera crew set up. The plan is simple, we’re set up in the local community center, using a conference room as the “studio” and the main hall to keep fluffies and their owners in the queue to audition.
Simple three camera setup, one pointed to the desk where I’ll sit, condenser mic on a stand on the desk for aesthetics, a lav mic clipped discreetly to my tie for functionality, a camera pointed at the makeshift stage where fluffies will “perform” America’s got talent style, one camera for closeups of the fluffy performing, and boom operators for room sound because putting lav mics on fluffies is a recipe for disaster. I can picture it now “nu want cwippy in pwetty fwuff” or something like that. Or even worse, trying to eat the cable to the wireless pack, because to them, anything resembling a noodle is spaghetti. Keep them out of the server room at all costs. Fucks sake.
I sit at the desk and straighten my pens and my notepad, preparing for the horrendous noises I’m about to endure. I figure we can use this footage for a few weeks worth of television so we can buy time to try to teach fluffies, animals that can drown in a puddle, to play instruments and sing. It’s gonna be a long day. A long month more like.
…
You’re a fluffy named Brandon, and you’re gonna be a rockstar. You ran as fast as your weggies could take you from your safe room to tell your mummah all about it, and now you’re here. So close to achieving a dream you didn’t know you had, possibly because up until yesterday you didn’t. You bounce up and down in mummahs lap as you wait outside the “aw-dish-un woom,” whatever that means, practically vibrating with excitement. When the nice lady calls your name, you almost make bad poopies on the floor you’re so excited! What these silly humans don’t know, you were a dancie bebbeh! You danced so good for your fluffy mummah, and you danced even better for your new human mummah when she came to adopt you. Mummah and daddeh were so happy when you made good dancies for them! Surely the nice man from the tee bee will be too. You run into the audition room as fast as you can, so fast your weggies can’t get a grip on the smooth tiles and fall flat on your belly, which isn’t much of a fall.
“Dummeh weggies, bwandon nu can be wockstaw if weggies nu du gud wun and dancies!” You yell, as if it’s their fault you’re about as graceful as a hungover hippo on ice.
When your silly weggies finally stop being so dummeh, you run into the audition room. The nice lady that called your name lifts you up and puts you on the stage.
“Wee! Bwandon wub uppies! Fank 'ou nice wady!” You giggle and coo until she walks away, and there he is, the nice man from the tee bee commercial that said YOU can be a rockstar.
“Siwwy tee bee mistah, daddeh awwedy sai bwandon widdow wockstaw,” you mumble, and it’s true, your daddeh always says you’re his little rockstar when you make good poopies in your litter box. “Hewwo nice mistah!” You shout, unable to control your volume because you’re just so excited!
“Name?” The nice man asks
“Am Bwandon! Bwandon gunna be wockstaw!” You shout back.
“Alright Brandon, there are some instruments on the stage in front of you, go ahead and take a minute, find one you like, try and play a little song for me, ok?” The nice man asks.
“Buh bwandon nu pway instwumen, bwandon dancie fwuffie!” Silly hooman, he should know that, you think. The nice man rubs his forehead.
“Alright, show me what you got.” He says.
This is it, this is your time to shine, you’re gonna be a rockstar! Just like Daddeh always says! Except… you haven’t danced since you were a babbeh. But that’s ok, it should be easy right? It was easy to do when you were little, why wouldn’t it be easy now? But… now that you’re a big fluffy you’re substantially heavier than a babbeh. In fact, mummah and daddeh love you so much they give you sketties for dinner every night! You’re such a happy fluffy, always so full of the best nummies, but the sketties made you chubby. But mummah says you’re adorable and she likes chubby fluffies!
Unfortunately for you, your weggies don’t like chubby fluffies.
…
First audition of the day, what can go wrong, right? I sit behind the desk while the intern brings the fluffy in. Now, I’ve seen some fat fluffies in my time but this one takes the cake. I guessed at first that it was a mare, about half way through pregnancy. “Name?”
“Am Bwandon! Bwandon gunna be wockstaw!” He shouts in a shrill and horribly loud voice. Kid’s got pipes, I’ll give him that.
Not pregnant, not a mare at all. Just a really fat fluffy. I tell him to play an instrument but he argues, saying he’s a dancie fluffy. I want to stop him but the thought of that fat little guy dancing is just too god damned funny to pass up. He rears up on his back legs and wobbles a bit as he starts trying to sing.
“Mummah wub bebbeh, bebbeh wu-” I hear a loud crack as he stands on one leg trying to rock from one to the other. I look over at the intern, she seems to share my concern. Looks his fat ass was simply too much for his skeletal structure to handle.
“SKREEEEEEEEEEEEE-” fuck is he loud, great set of lungs, would’ve been great had he been able to carry a tune, “-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE… WEGGIE! Wai nu can move!”
Ouch…
That’s gonna be a hefty bill at the vet… Good thing his owners signed that waver. Brandon’s been reduced to a sobbing pile, begging for huggies and begging for his mother, who of course the intern runs to find. She scoops him up and storms off, threatening to sue me for all I’m worth, but it’s not my company, and she signed a waiver. That won’t make it to court. I feel bad, of course, but I mean come on, you’ve gotta admit. It was maybe just a tiny bit funny. I tell the intern to clean the stage and cross off his name on the list.
One down. Far too many more to go.