My friend Liponious asks Grok: “write a short story about a back yard kosher bbq with Luke Ford, [regulars on my livestream chats] Liponius, Elliott Blatt, Bob Altburgher and Glibb Medly. Incorporate a mexican pinata filled with hallucinogenic drugs. Incorporate unemployed hooters girls who must prostitute themselves for money.”
Grok:
It was a warm Saturday afternoon in Luke Ford’s backyard, where the smell of sizzling kosher brisket wafted through the air. Luke, ever the host, manned the grill with a yarmulke perched jauntily on his head, flipping racks of ribs while debating Talmudic law with Liponius, who leaned against a folding table, sipping a LaCroix. Elliott Blatt lounged in a lawn chair, strumming a guitar and murmuring about the existential dread of modernity, while Bob Altburgher paced nearby, muttering about the decline of print media. Glibb Medly, the wildcard of the group, stood by a makeshift stage, rigging up a piñata shaped like a sombrero-wearing cactus—a garish thing he’d picked up south of the border, stuffed to the brim with hallucinogenic peyote buttons.
“Gentlemen,” Glibb announced, twirling a stick like a carnival barker, “this here’s the main event. One whack, and we’ll all be seeing the divine—or at least some funky colors.” Luke raised an eyebrow but didn’t protest; kosher didn’t extend to party favors, apparently.
The backyard was already buzzing with odd energy when the uninvited guests arrived: a trio of unemployed Hooters girls—Brittany, Kayla, and Tiff—decked out in faded orange shorts and tank tops, their wings clipped by a recent franchise closure. They’d heard about Luke’s BBQ through the grapevine and showed up with a desperate pitch. “Times are tough,” Brittany said, twirling a lock of bleached hair. “We’re, uh, offering services. Cash only.” Liponius nearly choked on his seltzer, and Elliott’s strumming faltered mid-chord.
Bob, ever the pragmatist, waved them off. “Ladies, this is a respectable kosher affair. Take your hustle to the front yard.” But Glibb, grinning like a Cheshire cat, tossed them a twenty. “Stick around for the piñata. Might loosen things up.”
The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the patchy grass as the group gathered around Glibb’s cactus. Luke, reluctantly abandoning his grill, took the first swing—missed by a mile, blaming his bifocals. Liponius went next, cracking the edge and sending a few peyote buttons tumbling out. The Hooters girls scrambled for them, less out of curiosity and more for something to sell later. Elliott, inspired, whacked it hard, and the piñata burst open, spilling its psychedelic guts across the lawn.
Chaos erupted. Bob, mistaking the buttons for candy, popped one in his mouth before anyone could stop him. Within minutes, he was sprawled on the grass, giggling about “the infinite typeface of God.” Glibb, an old hand at this, chewed two and started narrating the flight patterns of imaginary birds. Luke, steadfastly sober, tried to herd everyone back to the brisket, but the girls—now high as kites—were dancing barefoot, offering “spiritual lap dances” to no one in particular.
By nightfall, the backyard was a fever dream: Elliott strummed a psychedelic rendition of “Hava Nagila,” Liponius debated theology with a fence post, and the Hooters girls made a small fortune selling peyote to neighbors who’d wandered over. Luke surveyed the mess, sighed, and muttered, “Next time, we stick to kugel.” Somewhere in the haze, Glibb raised a triumphant fist, declaring the BBQ a mitzvah of madness.
