Not everyone can be Zadie Smith

I recently discovered a new (to me) site where you can type in gibberish and it will claim to tell you what famous author your prose most closely resembles: https://iwl.me/. I think its memory bank is fairly shallow in terms of variety, but I was able to amuse myself momentarily regardless. Examples below.

I suppose you think I'm the asshole here? A whole city block burns down, you find me standing nearby with an Elon Musk flamethrower, and the jury's already out, eh? Never heard of spontaneous combustion, have we? Or lightning strikes? Acts of God? Not everything is my fault, you bastard, other than this. Oops.

(Issac Asimov)

My birthday again, ah me! Look at the candles! It's like runway lighting! You shouldn't have! Well, I guess I'll huff and puff and blow this funeral pyre out! Haha! How time flies when you're staring down death!

(Lewis Carroll) The dog couldn't stop upchucking. It was eerie, like a metaphor for the end of the Reagan administration. Just straight-up fucked, you know? He kept gagging and hacking away in the ditch, one ill-timed subpoena from death. Finally the poor mangy creature huffed deeply, spat with finality and walked into the California sunset. Somewhere in the distance Dan Quayle rubbed his hands together with anticipation.  

(Stephen King)

Smelling like apricots is less of a burden than you'd think. I'm "pungent" according to TMZ, but I've found folks mostly like my musk. The "hearth of the earth" as I like to say, though my spouse hates when I do that. "Hoo-hah!" I say in response, but he always sulks and tells me I smell like apricots.

(Margaret Atwood) Floof is for jerks. Puffy nonsense, who needs it? This isn't a boa parade. Lines should be straight and billows should go fucking home. Walk through a mall and show me that floof. You can't. No one peacocks and struts in public anymore, and for good reason. Because I'm a pain in their asses. 

(Chuck Palahniuk) Mary was contrary, though found herself less than merry with the situation at hand. Poor Jeffery had impaled himself again, this time quite thoroughly. The rebar jutted from his spine with jagged viciousness as he lay gasping on the pavement. He was making quite the scene, and Mary had seen enough. Spying a nearby crowbar, she hushed him and bludgeoned the dumb bastard to death.

(Mario Puzo)

Oh, bless your heart. Of course I love fruitcake. The taste of alum couldn't make me fonder of the holidays or give me canker sores at all. How lovely. And are these almonds that I spy? Oh, acorns, eh? Well, that ought to pack a crunch! (Agatha Christie)

I see that we're in England. Alas, how English. Perhaps we should mention something like Sussex or Essex to be more clear-eyed in describing how we're amongst our Greater Britain. Why, look! There's the Thames, gurgling and burgling my mother again. What?

(P.G. Wodehouse) Yeah, yeah, I shot the guy. Had a bead on him and took my chance. Bang. Sniping's no picnic, I can tell you that. It's not like you can get a decent hotel room after the fact. "I killed three people today" doesn't get you very far with the concierge. He reels away in confusion and then you have to shoot him too. And then the witnesses. God, the witnesses. Why won't they just give me a suite for a job well done?

(Raymond Chandler) Turkey farmers have it all. The wattles, the feathers, and that god-blessed protein. These birds were first domesticated by the Mayans, did you know that? They had it all too. Well, until they didn't. Point being, our turkey shepherds of the modern day are a marvel to behold, a true Polaris of our society. Gobble on, my friends.

(Kurt Vonnegut)