With a Little Help from My Friends

Via Sully (natch) we see this "fun writing program" in Google, wherein you input your own writing and then Shakespeare, Dickens, Nietzsche, Dostoevsky, Poe and Dickinson all have a go at editing it for you.

Here's the opening of my book that  will never see the light of day because it, I, and the world all fucking suck  is doing quite nicely out there in the book world, thank you very much:

The boy was six weeks old.  He weighed about nine pounds and was lying on his back in his infant recliner on top of the counter island in the middle of the kitchen, floating four feet above the floor as if atop a Viking ship.  Looking down I caught his eye, and searched for a sign of recognition.

Nothing.

And here's what it looks like after the old masters had a whack at it:

The young buck was six weeks old. He weighed about nine pounds and was lying on his back in his infant recliner on top of the counter island in the middle of the kitchen, floating four feet above the surf-tormented shore as if atop a Viking ship. Looking plummeted down I caught his eye, and searched for a sign of recognition. ... A good writer possesses not only his own spirit but also the spirit of his friends. 

Poe made the changes in blue. Nietzsche for some reason felt the need to give me some writing advice, in red. And the others couldn't even be bothered. Hmm.