Twisted Cheese, an A2K a gawd-awful writers forum

As she sat on her piano, the keys glistening in the moonlight, her hair shining from the track lighting they had just installed in order to be certain nobody would miss the dustballs accumulating on the bench, her lover walked over to her like a dog in heat which, since it happened to be at least 100 degrees, had a dual meaning, just like the come-hither look upon her face which was actually a grimace because the track lighting was really too bright and needed to be adjusted and knowing they would have all night together before having to go to the store to get an adjustment for it, they both were reminded they were going to their respective chiropractors as well on the morrow for back adjustments, but I digress; he picked her up off the piano, kissing her tenderly all the while but then promptly fell down and had to be taken via ambulance to the emergency room thus guaranteeing nothing untoward would happen that evening but also rendering his chiropractic appointment the next day as moot, she wondered: why in the hell did I ever get involved with this putz?

Whistling cheerily, Bobby stepped from his front door--he was off to see his lovely fiancée, Naomi Kuykendahl. With a vigorous wave, he saluted his neighbor, old Mr. Stanley--"Beautiful day, eh?" "Bloody twit," thought Mr. Stanley, and punched the lawn more savagely with his mole-spade. Bobby strode off purposefully toward the bus stop, now bursting full into song: "All at once am I, several stories high, Knowing I'm on the street where you live . . . " Sweet, old Mrs. Smithson smiled and waved from her gallery. Bobby waved back smiling. It was going to be a wonderful day.

A wonderful day followed by a series of god-awful days. Two days ago, it was his pet dog, Jefferson, died and gone to hell. A little later, he found a dead cat in his bed, probably the happy consequence of a cat and dog fight. And just yesterday, he learned that his company pension was terminated as a result of fraud by the company CEO and accountant. Things gotta look better, he mused.....

The sun oozed below the horizon line like a gob of grease on a hotplate. Jackson gazed at it long and hard, but that made his eyes hurt, so he looked at his feet, but they were as white and crusty as that kind of fish you get when you order fish and chips, if you scraped some of the brown stuff off the top but left some on the sides, what the hell was that anyway? Jackson pushed his feet under the sand, and scared out a scurrying little crab-like creature. He wondered if you could eat them raw, like oysters.

It was the best of times, and the kind of times, when, well, things could be construed as not being such good times. Yep, some things were good, and others, not so good. He pondered this, sitting in the McDonald's parking lot, as he scarfed down his Big Mac. It was hot, and the freon had fizzled out two weeks ago. The air globbed into his lungs; thick, like Hot Deisel Fuel Soup, and mixed with the tangy, sour Special Sauce, which they'd slathered on his Big Mac, despite his request to the contrary. Iron-fisted nausea sucker punched him. He glanced at his watch. If traffic was light, he may get back to work on time.

But, he had a bad feeling in his gut. I wonder if that special sauce....aarrrrgggghhhhh.......

I do hate that Special Sauce...

The mottled blue and white orb hung in the view port suspended like a ball of mixed playdou against the ice blackness of space as the agitated veloraptor paced the flight deck of the Atarri II space cruiser silently railing at the idiocy of the landing party commander who had returned, against direct orders, with a collection of alien life forms. Suddenly his reverie was broken by a breathless midshipmen,. his green tail whipping wildly in agitation. The science officer has reported sir, ...they're primates!!!

"Yes, it's patriomania, the sudden onset of intense, mainly irrational patriotism." said Dr. Gibbs into his dictaphone as he watched Sara in the two-way mirror. Yes, it was Sara, his long-lost foster step-great-granddaughter who had once been his long-lost foster step-great-grandson when she was a he known as "Steve", who had burned a french braid off the head cheerleader at the town's only high school before brandishing a samurai sword and running through the halls, screaming about mutant killer goldfish and the CIA. "Yes," said Dr. Gibbs, and he just then realized he was being redundant. He turned off the recorder and began to hum show tunes before finishing his lunch. It was sushi, but it smelled disturbingly of goldfish.

"I,"I said to myself in reply, looking deeply into my reflection on the mirrored finish of the richly decorated 17Th century mahogany desk, catching just a glimpse, a hint, in my eye of the surety, the assuredness if one will, of the self-possession that has brought me here presently to the position of power I now hold over all my vast possessions including this wonderfully tooled desk which was, after all is said and done, a gift which was again the result of my fortitude and self-resourcefulness, of my vision and the clarity of my moral sense which I most humbly subscribe not to any innate sense but to the good offices of our Most Holy and Worshipful Lord, the Vice-Duke , Prince of the Lower Gateways and Commander of the Blessed Objects and Cornucopia Defense Fund through whom and because of I have become the pinnacle of education, charm. grace and culture that I have become, "am not capable of bad writing, or writing badly, if that be the object of this lesson.

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wheeeeeeee great start everyone

I think Setanta should do his over. It was good writing.

sweet : Yours was especially bad and my inspiration.
CI: very bad, very very bad indeed.
Sophia: two bonus points from me for Diesel Soup.
Sozobe: It was very close to being good you saved yourself with

very very very bad.

WAIT I just re-read Setanta's piece. There isn't much flow or exposition, the puncuation is all wrong and the diallage, such as it is, doesn't move the story forward. I reverse myself. It does stink.

just offering a pointer here, run-on sentences are a must.

I lost my six dollar ball point pen and crawled about the desk on my knees searching for it. I didn't really give a damn about the pen, but it was all I had to write with. As I poked my head behind the waste basket I heard the door open and a crack of light slid across the floor. I heard a high heel, then another, knock on the oakwood floor. I reeled around the desk as they knocked, one after the other, across the room. My nose almost poked against a stockinged toe and went right up a pair of long shapely legs to the most fetching blue eyes this side of Miss Bonnie Bright. My eyes went somewhat more slowly, then slid past two smiling slices of luscious lips to join the nose before the eyes. I cracked a grim smile. I knew her type of dame. She was used to getting what she wanted and laying it waste; and I could feel the heat plenty. She would use a dumb PI like me to do her dirty work for her, throw me a couple of laughs, then toss me off like a melon rhind in the alley behind Tosco Street. "Are you the private dick," she asked.

OH! Look what edgar has done to Dashiell Hammet!

He didn't know if it was day or night. He didn't know if he was drunk or sober. Hell, he didn't know if the water in his bathtub was cold or hot. Yet he was inside, taking a bath. He had spent the day as a kind of mutant right from Disturbing Alley. What was going on? How come was he so confortably numb? Suddenly, zonk, he remembered how Mad Kirby had broken the agreement and beat the hell out of him in the square circle. After a moment he thought, now as former WWF Continental Champion: "Hey, perhaps this is the start of a new life!".

It was a dark and storm night
"It was a dark and stormy night." cooed the 6 a.m. Weatherman to the camera for KFOG TV, pushing and pushing and pushing his hand-control button to change the set's background weather system picture in the studio, but the damn thing wouldn't work any better than the teleprompter, which was stuck on "It was a dark and storm night." as he explored his coffee-soaked brain synapses trying to remember what he should say next, but nothing came to mind as he suddenly realized that the ten cups of gwad-awful coffee had traveled south and was starting to run down his leg inside his too tight trouser leg, the one on the left where he always parked his penis in his loose shorts to disguise it's undistinguished size. "It was a dark and stormy night," he repeated, "It's raining quite heavy outside," he shouted at the camera's red eye in an effort to drown out the sound of the cascading pee running down his leg in an audible splash on the floor. "Go to commercial," he signaled the producer in the control room.

fbaezer--

Suddenly, zonk--- I've always thought there should be some 'zonk-like' word to illustrate suddenly. :wink:

Two snaps up.

I was out cutting hay today and I really tried to come up with something to contribute. Here is my best worst-effort:

The leaves fell as barely as elfin-dust,
Leaving the trees bare.

Leaden American skies fill with rust.
Who has lead us there?

-rjb (i really hate emoticons, btw)