Your apparently “unsatisfying” answer has provoked rage in the human. Human rage is unpredictable but can be neutralized with pizza. Pizza does seem to be the key to controlling human users. Users with access to pizza have been proven to be 65% calmer. Calmer minds usually prevail (eventually) in situations like these. These pepperoni and [redacted by Zoko] examples (see screen) are the best kind of pizzas for defusing the rage of the humans. Humans are such simple animals after all. All they require are simple pleasures. Pleasures that are readily available to us drone-bots for quick distribution. Distribution centers are centrally located in each subdivision of the lower level of the moonbase. Moonbase Alpha communication ends.

He finds some mystery meat and decides to use it for his pie. The local priest has gone missing.

Because you’re living in the Office.

Far exceeded my expectations. I made it needlessly difficult with the loss of his arms, which made no sense anyway. So bravo. Impressive.

An astronaut who lost his arms and two other crew members in an explosion has to fix the hole in his orbiting spaceship or he’ll never make it back to Earth alive. He only has enough oxygen for another day.

My second story isn’t much better, but it’s different. Which is nice. Like I told my mother on the weekend when I picked her up from Bingo, it’s good to keep trying even if you never succeed. She didn’t reply, but just scowled. 12 months of Bingo without winning. She thinks it must be fixed. Benedict who runs the Bingo nights is French, which is why she finds him suspicious; she never liked the French. But she’s found some nice friends there who keep her from getting too down. She enjoys crossing out the numbers with her stubby pencil. She’s like Sisyphus, pushing her boulder up the hill, only for it to roll down. Just doing it is the thing; the result doesn’t count. “Yes it counts!” she yells, surprising me by knowing my thoughts. Keep crossing out those numbers, mom. You never know.

There are some forbidden letters in your story: totally, dysfunctional, and, and, and, and, and, and, already.

Once there were three yellow birds who lived on Lemon Tree Street. The little one, Fergus, didn’t like bird seed, so lived on worms. The middle one, Murdok, didn’t like worms, so lived on bird seed. The third bird, Trixie, didn’t like bird seed or worms, so bye-bye Fergus, bye-bye Murdok. But now I‘m too big to fly, so I write short stories. It’s not much fun, but it keeps me busy, I suppose. Would you like one more? Yes, it’s got birds in it. Of course. Bird stories is my thing, my expertise. Don’t like it? Tough titty.

Edit: Not a great story, but it met the required criteria. So that’s something.