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January 25th, 2005, 02:14 AM
Humor is serious business

For the purposes of this thread, it's good to be bad. (Or is it bad to be good?)

Lend me you mutant sentences, your misappropriated similes, your creative spelling, and your intergenreational spasms. Set me up with twisted plot flops, characters without purpose, and egocentric attempts at stylish prose. Yes, please, use your trite alliterations, your missing modifiers, your grandiose exposition and your stolen (gasp) puns. In short, use any and other crimes against the language. Bring them on.

In this thread we will attempt to construct the worst written story ever, or, the worst story ever written. So use all the silly mistakes you have ever made, and all the mis-writings you would have loved to have made in your more mischievous moments. Bring me prose that would make a High School Teacher scream.

No need to PM to join. First come, first posted. If you must comment, try to keep it short, and in italics. Attempt to keep the story at least superficially connected in some way.

Make mistakes.

Make BIG mistakes.

Allow me to begin . . .

January 25th, 2005, 02:15 AM
And let loose the dogs of . . . what?

'I'm not a fan,' Tessie thought, 'of Zion's friction.' She whirled from the immaculately sparkling counter of the kitchen and stomped into the living room.

But Jon was, lazily lounging back on his azure recliner with his nose on the ultra high definition 3D television screen and his thumb hovering over the remote control buttons as he snorted devilishly at the lastest rounds of West Bank woes.

She had had enough.

"I have had enough!" she blurted out as she viciously stabbed the tiny black button killing the transmitted picture which once lived in in the now blank blue screen. She knew her rash actions would engender trouble in between them, but as she steeled her eyes to meet his once dreamy blue bi-radial orbs, frankly, she did not care.

It was a dark and stormy fight. Jon yelled at Tessie with the force of a speeding locomotive which was bound to leap tall buildings faster than a speeding bullet.

"It's a burden!"

"That's my plan!"

"How can you think that's super, man?" Tessie screamed up at his face as she slammed her fist down on the table. She was standing up for herself and putting her foot down. "I much prefer Cricket!!!!!"

And she did prefer Cricket, just like her friend Katy did.

When his unchecked tirade gasped it's last breath, her dear Jon stomped out through the door and across the trackless verdant sward, of which Tessie was vehemently proud of, it was a vibrant swatch of engendered life amidst a world of dull, colorless pavement and dry dissonant dust. He trodded toward the dark cold street pausing to go around the stalwart proud oak in the yard's epicenter, the cornerstone of her landscaping skill, a comfortless leaf-covered mute witness to the conflict of their lives.

Jon loaded himself into the car, gunned the engine and shot down the street. He was gone in sixty seconds.

She leaned up against the freshly painted porch for a moment, absentmindedly flipping on and off the porch light with the radical ionized molecular sensor switch. All she had to do was pass her lithe hand over the raised switch to alert the house computer to activate the light. It was part of the new technology. Ten years earlier it was the kind of gadget that could only be found in a cheesy sci fi story.

Tessie slumped back into the tomblike stillness of the echoingly empty house. How had what happened to halt their happiness? She casually walked by his desk, still plastered over with letters and pictures and papers strewn about the hard woodlike surface with no regard to the rules that owners of neat desks follow with impunity. It was his dreaded info dump.

Her thoughts returned her mind to the time slightly less than a week after the first time she and Jon had meet quite by accident. Jon was an idealistic young student in his first year at the big university. She was an idealistic and beautiful young woman, they had meet under ideal circumstances on a golden rainy day.

Not long after they met, he had asked her if she wanted to go on a hike in the mountains with him. After making him wait for a day she told him she would love to go on a hike in the mountains with him. The very next day they had gone for a hike in the mountians, she still remembered how calm and cool it had been in the mountains with him; a bright, clear, beautiful day, and they had turned the corner of the meadow and walked up to a high peak in the mountains. He pointed a hairy arm out into the airy space between two granite walls which enveloped the tumbling riverbed full of water below.

"Look," he said. "A chasm."

January 25th, 2005, 09:55 AM
and it was.
a really big cavernous chasm at that.

It was on that fateful day that Jon and Tessie found the One Ringtone, you know, the one with the annoying cray frog on the invisable motorbike and the sticky-outty belly button.

The chasm was dark, a true midnight black, like the bottom of a bottomless pit. The silence in the chasm was defening - it felt to Tessie like an old church long deseted. A place of repect and power.
Silently the pair crept further into the dark pit that was the chasm.
whispering to the point where even a dog would be hard put hearing her Tessie remarked upon the fealings welling up inside of her.
'I don't like this place Jon, when i agreed to come on this hiking trip with you i wasn't expecting a trip to the underworld, i'm afeared'
'ahh, shut ya yapping woman, i hear somthing' said Jon in a less than polite fashion.

Tessie cocked her head to one side, straining to make out wjhatever it was that Jon had heard.
suddenly, and without prewarning, and completley unexpectedly. a shrill sound went up.

'brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrooooooooooooooooooooooooooo om, bah bah bah bah bah bah bah bah, weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee'

'what in the name of all things holey wqas that' shreaked Tessie
'dunno, but i wanna find out' said Jon, 'lets sneak in a little further to have a loooksee'.

At a ludicrously slow pace, the pair slowly snailed their way further into the chasm, The mountains were now bunching up on both sides and creating a ceiling above.
Jon and Tessie eased further into the cave-like terrain, rounding a bend, they heard the same noice again.....

A light glow, a faint rumbling, like a queen bee trying to takeoff or much like that of a vibrating thing.

'The sound seems to be coming from the direction of that light' added Jon.

Jon rushed off leaving a jelly Tessie on her own.
A few steps from the lightsource, Jon identified the Object.
'Its a Fobile Mone' he said, 'come quick Tessie, A fobile Mone, look'
'yes, i see it, but shall we pick it up? i hear those things can give you brain twoMores'

'Two more brains sounds like a blessing' said Jon 'I'm gonna have it '

he was about to reach it when Tessie noticed that the ground was soft and crumbling. 'Watch out she insisted, that floor doesn't look safe'
'I'll have to jump for it' said JON
'No Jon,' exclaimed Tessie. 'White men can't jump'

January 27th, 2005, 01:04 AM
The teacher sighed as she put her pen down. Then, taking the stopper out of the bottle of red ink, she slowly poured it out over the page.

Jon jumped just as the thin layer crumbled under their booted feet, but not very far. Immediately Jon and Tessie sunk slowly down to their necks knee deep in the thick slippery mud below. It took them hours to pull themselves out.

"It took us hours to pull ourselves out," Tessie said. "I suspect we will find it difficult to climb up out over the mountain and back to the car covered in mud like this. Yuck."

As they walked out of the cave they were covered with muck. They had the feeling they were just about out of luck. Then off in the distance Jon saw the headlights of a truck. It happened to belong to Tessie's friend named Chuck, who, by the way, was something of a hunk. He gave them a ride, and didn't even ask for a buck. He took them to the car as Jon slid around in the truck bed like a hockey puck. They drove home sitting on a blanket they found in the trunk, the one with the big picture of a duck. They were so tired when they got home they didn't give a flip.

That was their first date: the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

January 28th, 2005, 11:31 PM
Suddenly something snapped Tessie out of her maudlin reverie.

"Enough of this nostalgic reminiscing about the good times," she said to herself or to anyone else who might happen, as one occasiponally happens, quite by accident, and without a hint of malice afrethought or intentional sneakiness, to do, to overhear her, such as the man who had snuck in the back door while she was on the front porch watching Jon depart with the speed of a bullet in his Porsche, but about the presence of which she, Tessie, was so far completely unaware because he had snuck so quietly, so stealthily, so surreptitiously, into her home just as he was about to also do into her life and her heart.

She turned. Red with rage and white with fear when she saw him standing there. She was afraid and outraged yet simultaneously intrigued and bemused by the tall stranger. She immediately noticed his vaguely exotic eyes. Probably part Chinese, part Filipino, part Jewish and part Scottish, like that little tart Rachel Stevens, that Jon was always downloading pictures of off of the internet, for no reason whatsoever other than, as he claimed, he liked her music, which Tessie thought improbable, she thought to herself.

"Who are you, how did you get into my home, here, and where are you from originally, by the way, before I call the police?" she demanded.

"My name is Clarion Spruce," he said, "And I've come to relieve you of your burden."

Jon had taken her virginity back in their university, or if you're an American, collage, days.

"Oh, Clarion. What?"

Even as the red and white flag of her fear and outrage dissapated into a pink pastiche of mixed feelings, she could feel her originally Canadian heart melting as it fell into the arms of this mysterous stranger.

"The manuscript."

Feelings. That damned manscript stirred so much feelings in her, just as Clarion did. Would he hurt her, as it had? Would he come between her and her beloved Jon, as it had?

"What, 'Zion's Friction', Jon's incomplete masterwork?"



Why, oh why, are you here? She wanted to know. She could feel herself feeling feelings she hadn't felt in a long time. Already she could feel herself falling. Down, down, down, through a ring of fire, into a well of her desire. A dark well not unlike the dark chasm where she had fallen for Jon.

Jon. She must remain loyal to Jon.

"There's more info in those info dumps than any of you can possibly realize. Governments would kill Jon, and probably do you incidental harm in the process, to get their hands on it."

Governments, she thought, remembering his vaguely exotic, part Chinese, eyes, into which she could feel herself falling.

"Where did you say you were from?"

January 31st, 2005, 12:53 AM
Son, if writing wrong were an art, the world would be droppin' blocks of marble on your front porch.

Clarion didn't answer. It was like he was trying to hide something from her as he turned and started shuffling through the piles of paper on Jon's desk.

Meanwhile, 14.7 kilometers away, and moving a lot faster, Jon found an inauspicious wide place which just happened to come up in front of him which happened to have a great view of the lake, and stopped beside the road, idling his car as his mind went into overdrive. The road had gotten ahead of him. He could not help but think about what he had just left behind, even though the road, was open before him like the mouth of a giant whale, the sky was the limit, the world was his oyster. Jon slammed his fist against the steering wheel, which kind of hurt although he would never admit it. He'd left his work behind, and forgot to bring any clothes, and left his credit card in the top drawer of the dresser. He was going to miss Tessie.

Suddenly she slid sideways into his car as he struggled to keep his brake pushed down.

"You . . . you . . ." He sputtered. "Your . . . you're . . . Rachel . . . umm . . .Stee . . ."

"No I'm not, I just look like her." she finnished for him. "You are Jon, the Zion's Friction writer?"

He nodded, and drooled.

"I'm actually English, but I'm really an alien," she buckled up. "I am a Tjoahstyrh from the twoojhee frujhee compendeuzium. I was sent her to Earth three hundred years ago on a special secret mission. I turn into an elf when the full moon is in it exact azmuth of the sky, unless it's the second full moon of the month, which is a harvest moon, when I turn into a Deer, Jon. You're info dump is about to go critical and you and your female compatriate are in grave danger, but I can help you. You must never tell anyone."

"Let me get this straight," Jon said. "You're a toaster?"

"Do you have the document with you?" he shook his head to indicate that he did not. Being an alien she wouldn't usually understand the gesture. He could only hope she had studied that part of human interaction.

"How much of it can you remember?" She said. "It's very important, for even a fraction of Zion's Friction may facilitate the fight against the faction that wants Zion's Friction fragged."

I wonder if she could say that again, he thought to himself.

January 31st, 2005, 09:30 PM
Jon parked his Porsche at the porch and entered the living room via the doorway after opening the door. The scent of a woman, a whiff of intrigue, and the smell of sex hung in the air like a three-point list intended to add a certain rhythmic quality to an otherwise pointless sentence. The atmosphere was electric. The evidence of Tessie's infidelity lay scattered all around the room, particularly on the sofa where Tessie nakedly sat on Clarion Spruce's lap.


It hit him like a steamroller, the way a jackhammer hits the concrete of a footpath, or if you are an American, sidewalk, that has been hurriedly laid by an incompetent city council in the months prior to a local government election in an attempt to prove that they do provide something useful to the rate-payers, without consultation with the gas company, and which now, as a result of that thoughtless, rushed, endeavour was being torn up, if not rent asunder, like Jon's heart.

Jon spied the tall stranger, whom he knew was probably a spy. "Who are you, and where do you come from?" he demanded uncompromisingly.

"My name is Spruce, Clarion Spruce. And where I'm from is neither here nor there," Clarion explained, deftly turning his hand first one way and then the other, in a gesture calculated to indicate the concepts of "hereness" and "thereness".

Jon had expected to find Tessie alone, hopefully pining and waiting anxiously for his return. Not wanting to hurt her feelings, or his credibility, he had been practising a story to explain his long absence - a story which didn't include an alien who looked just like the picture of Rachel he kept on their bedside table. He had intended to tell her that he had been at a second-hand record shop (store), in fact the last remaining such store (shop) in all of Vermont, searching for old Moody Blues records, in the manner of an aspiring writer, from which he hoped, in the long-standing tradition of science fiction authors, to plagiarize a song title to use as the title of his new novel, but that his quest had been unsuccessful, because, apparently, there was no such title that had not already been taken by some other writer, better known than he, or at least, if there was such a title, it was one found on a record other than those available at the shop he had visited. He had intended to tell her that the shopkeeper, who was old enough to remember the 1960s the first time they occurred, seemed helpful at first but turned surly when he had learned that Jon had no intention of buying anything, but was merely researching.

But that was all irrelevant now, and not worth mentioning.

The presence of Not-Rachel, whose real name was unpronounceable to humans, however, would be difficult to explain, so he had asked her to wait in the car.

Jon was dazzled by the tuxedo-wearing Spruce's deftness, but not so impressed as to be blinded to Tessie's wanton behaviour, or deafened to her guilty pleas of "Jon, this isn't what it looks like," as she quickly donned her dress. Jon was also not distracted by Spruce's slick explanation to the fact that he had a vaguely exotic, if simultaneously slightly familiar, appearance that reminded him of someone he cared for very deeply but couldn't quite place who.

"I'm not impressed by vague concepts of 'hereness' and 'thereness', where did you say you were from?" Jon demanded uncompromisingly.

February 6th, 2005, 01:07 AM
Those who can, write, those who cannot, criticize, those who can't even do that, well, read on . . .

"Furthermore," Jon continued further and more. "Tessie, what were you doing inside your own personal house in such a state of undress in a PG thread when I wasn't around?"

"Um," Tessie started, then finished with, "Clarion's a doctor."

Jon didn't buy that for a minute, or a second, on second thought, no; he was right the first time, Spruce, Clarion Spruce looked more like he should be conducting a minuet than spending a second performing surgery.

"Besides," Spruce said, standing to brush the wrinkles out of his tux. "The bare human body is a beautiful thing."

"Then why . . ?" Jon had to ask.

"Because a tuxedo is a beautiful thing too." Spruce sniffed sticking his nose up. "I'm here for your story. I'll pay you five dollars american."

"What story?" Jon said shortly.

"Don't give it to him," Rachel, but not really Rachel said from the door where she had entered while no one else was looking. Evidently the aliens had no concept of 'stay in the car so I don't get in trouble with my girlfriend.'.
"He's just going to use you like he did to all the others."

"Others?" Tessie said shocked. Then said, "Isn't that . . ?"

"No," Jon said. "She just looks like her. Her name isn't Rachel and she's really a toaster from England."

"I'm a collector," Spruce said holding his lapels. "I'm from far in the future of this planet Earth. I have traveled back in time on quite a few occasions, traveling here and there and bringing back different tidbits for my customers who pay top dollar, pound, euro, whatever they have for the stuff I collect for them at the cheapest possible price. I have come here because one day you will be the most famous author in your generation. I would like a copy of your book, autographed if you would."

February 7th, 2005, 01:04 AM
"Two much talking!" suddenly intoned the Tjoahstyrh without warning. "Are you men of action, or mice of talking?" she demanded uncompromisingly.

Swiftly Spruce pulled his Walther PPK from its holster and fired two rounds at the skirting board beneath the desk on witch sat Jon's computer, typewriter, pen set, quill, and assorted other writing paraphernalia such as an assortment of dictionaries, a thesaurus, a map of West Hampstead, a suburb of North-west London, the significance of which he had always declined to explain to Tessie, and a list of the home addresses of variouscopy editors who had questioned his apostrophecization over the years and where their children went to school.

"You have rats," he explained tranquilly as he replaced the Glock in its holster.

Jon sensed a pun in the air that was probably lost on all but dedicated fans.

"Rats, you've shot my lead," complained Jon holding up the cord that dangled under the desk connecting the computer to the mains voltage. But not any more as it was shot through.

"I shot your rats, now we must shoot through, all the leads we need are in the manuscript," said Spruce swiftly.

"Oh Clarion," Tessie uttered swooningly.

"We must travel to Israel or possibly Egypt to discovr the secret UFO base hidden under the desert sands," announced the lovely Tjoahstyrh, but she was suffering a flash-forward, the others hadn't yet sensed the approaching UFO.

"LET'S GET TO THE AIRPORT." said someone, "There's not a moment to lose."

Just then, there was suddenly a weird ontological riff sort of thing. They were all inside each other's bodies, in a psychic, not a sexual, way. There minds were as one. Jon could feel Tessie's breasts, which he had done before, but from the other side this time. Someone was thinking of killing him/her/them/me/you, in the desert. One of them was, potentially, a killer, but who? And whom was the intended killee? When they got back to their own bodies, they knew what they must do.

"What just happened?" Jon uncompromisingly demanded.

"Evidently, your homelies directly below a UFO flight path, and each time one passes over, it causes strange psychic effects, such as implanting knowledge of the UFO power source directly into your subconcoius mined, Jon," explained Clarion.

"You mean the UFO I describe in 'Zion's Friction' would really work?"

"Yeah..." announced the Tjoahstyrh, but before she could finish with "s" she fell into a moribund state.

"Yeeeesssssss," she mumbled as if in a trance.

February 8th, 2005, 10:49 AM
The Toaster Dreams:

The airport was full. There were also many people and animals wondering around in an aimless daise.
Upon reaching the Customs desk, a large and quite frankly burliegh customs officer was checking the groups luggage and passports.

Tessie had packed her fan into her large box-like holdall (or bag); she had brought with her 3 seperate luggage boxes and 2 carry on bags.

'well a girl's gotta travel light, huh!', she boasted to clarion.

Clarion wasn't listening, he was desperatly and frantically seaching his possestions for his passport, so too was the not-Racheal..

'Fear not', smiled Jon 'for i have a novel idea'
'no, jon, you are already in the process of writing one novel, lets not do another, huh?' said Clarion.
'shut up and listen to me' snaled Jon, who had already had enough of his unwanted companion.
'Tessie, you take your bags, and i'll take the Toaster on as Clarion luggage'