Twisted Cheese, an A2K a gawd-awful writers forum

oh, shucks, Dys and Joe Nation, you both make me from your praise, I replied, knowing how much I had admired these two good people from that computer site, you know of it, I'm sure, it's called A2K (asses to kiss) I had joined but only 2-1/2 months ago when just then I happened upon a real writer, Edgar Blythe, who apparently writes well even when writing poorly, if you know what I mean, but, I worried, probably no one really does know what I mean, because they never seem to; at least, they don't act as if they do; then, the walls began to close in and I realized how hot it was becoming, the air thick with smoke which I assumed was from the nearby dump but actually turned out to be from the explosion due to the bombing of Diablo Canyon: curses, I cried out (which turned out to be my last word), my, what a legacy but didn't we worn them about nucular power anyway, and now it's too late, too late, too late and the world disintegrates like ... aaaggghhh ...

Kudos to Sweetcomplication and Joe Nation. The whole enchilada should be one incredibly convoluted sentences. I'll get back with one or two, but have to confess I didn't create any one of them.

She really wasn't my type, a hard-looking but untalented reporter for the local cat-box liner, but the first second that third-rate representative of the fourth estate cracked oopen a new fifth of old Scotch, my sixth sense said seventh heaven was as close as an eighth note from Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, so nervous as a tenth grader drowning in eleventh-hour cramming for a physics exam, I swept her into my longing arms, and, humming the "The Twelfth of Never," I got lucky on Friday the thirteenth.

Blatantly stolen from Wm. W. "Buddy" Ocheltree - 1993 winner of the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest.

Oh, that's good! Way too good to be bad. Well, too bad to be good. You know.

Good morning, Soz, but remember that in this thread it's good to be bad :wink: !

Climbing up out of the mini-truck, the hand-sewn "JIM" on the front of his working uniform t-shirt, she held on to the extended mirror for balance as she wrapped her leg around his like jello encased around fresh pineapple; the ripples of her handles exuded from under the cut-off Broncos jersey and the flip-flop on her other foot squirmed in the hot tar of another Phoenix july afternoon "hows about a cold gator?" she whispered in his ear.

Edward Van Houten, heir to the vast Johnny Cat fortune, checked his watch as he waited for the butler to open the door at Charles and Edwina Ruffle's, the fabulously wealthy snack chip couple, penthouse. The nostrils of this aqualine nose flared with impatience; he was already terribly late to the social event of the season and he knew that his wife, Constance Wilfe-Van Houten, of the Vermont Wilfe Pin Cushion Wilfe's, was sure to extract her revenge for his timing later that night when they returned home. Daindridge finally opened the door and Edward, who had considered scolding him for his obvious lack of competence, instead brushed past him with a snarl and hurried across the marble foyer towards the salon and, having reset his features into an amiable and apologetic smile, swept into the room. Edward recoiled in horror at the sight that greeted him; he would have expected such behavior from his mistress, Felicia Barrows, who he kept in a perfectly appointed apartment just three floors below this penthouse, but from his wife Constance, he never would have imagined such a scene as she lay on the floor, her elegant frock twisted around her legs as the surrounding crowd chanted "Beer Bong! Beer Bong! Beer Bong!" Edward shut his eyes, took a deep breath, swallowed, wiped his suddenly clammy plams on his slacks and raced over to join the chanting, sure that his absence hadn't been missed.

boomerang: boing!

ROFLMAO