An ongoing evolutionary collaborative free-range Atkin's friendly, wardrobe malfunction-free, literary blog. Tastes like chicken, smells like pennies, thinks like Sloths. Hand me your cash, we need an editor.
Good End
Sam: I lurched. It was a sensation I'd never felt before. There was something about my lower left back area. A pulsing. Remembering the medical info I'd learned from creating PowerPoint presentations for a vocational college, my fingers flew.
I Googled unexplained back pain. The second link looked legitimate. I clicked, and was fooled. Staring me in the face was Billy Mays, the most dreaded pitch man in the history of salesmanship. Reaching for the mute...
Shirley: I scampered through the vestibule to my room of mirrors and peered into one. Alas, a dagger thrust into the flesh; mystery of pain solved. But how did it get there? Did Billy want a piece of it?
Sam: I knew that the Internet cable jack was behind the mirror, but I wasn't going to be fooled into thinking the mirror was Internet capable. It was then that a pop-up ad appeared on the lower left of the mirror, right next to the eyeliner.
Shirley: the pop-ad read 'wrong number.' "Curses!", I exclaimed. I took out my iPhone and dialed for pizza. Someone answered, "Joe's Bar and Grill. 1000 flies can't be wrong. How can I help you?"
Writhing in pain, I thought about tomato sauce and anchovies...but then....
Sam: What the hell? I hadn't dialed a number. Curiosity kicking my ass, and visual cues from the myriad of reflections messing with my orb, I opened the vestibule drawer. Sure enough, there was a keyboard. But it had an odd...
Shirley: smell. Rather musky yet intoxicating...I fell into a state of semiconsciousness. Pining for anchovies, yet on the verge of vomiting, I two-fingered the keyboard with randomness. The message read....
Sam: Need help on using Ctrl+Alt+Delete? Dammit. How quickly we forget. I did the three-finger combo. I was sorry. There was Billy again. This time, trying to sell birth control.
Shirley: Billy took his bat and began smashing my mirrored room. Shards of glass flew wildly about. The keyboard dialed 911. The odor grew more foul, dogs barked, the earth shook...
Sam: Astounded that a cyber image could suddenly appear to become real, I instantly assessed my psilocybin intake. It became clear that I was overdoing it. The online mushroom service was not a friend of mine. I clicked the Bookmark tab in Firefox and deleted it.
Shirley: The state forensic crime laboratory was able to match the bat prints with Billy's 'Mr. Nasty' Pro Maple Adult Wood one. Its shattering was always questioned in the leagues, but Billy had evaporated, and the forensics team didn't know how to handle a torso tourniquet.
I wasn't afraid to die, I just didn't want to be there when it happened.
Sam: Forensic and legal analysts from across North America gathered to evaluate the evidence. In the end, it was determined that Mr. Mays: A) Had no prior experience that would qualify him to discuss wood of any type, species, or form. B) Mr. Mays is not "nasty," therefore he is not established as a spokesman for any product that is described with said adjective, and C) is currently and, in any future description, a weener. Stated in People vs. William "Weener" Mays, 2007.
Sam: I lurched. It was a sensation I'd never felt before. There was something about my lower left back area. A pulsing. Remembering the medical info I'd learned from creating PowerPoint presentations for a vocational college, my fingers flew.
I Googled unexplained back pain. The second link looked legitimate. I clicked, and was fooled. Staring me in the face was Billy Mays, the most dreaded pitch man in the history of salesmanship. Reaching for the mute...
Shirley: I scampered through the vestibule to my room of mirrors and peered into one. Alas, a dagger thrust into the flesh; mystery of pain solved. But how did it get there? Did Billy want a piece of it?
Sam: I knew that the Internet cable jack was behind the mirror, but I wasn't going to be fooled into thinking the mirror was Internet capable. It was then that a pop-up ad appeared on the lower left of the mirror, right next to the eyeliner.
Shirley: the pop-ad read 'wrong number.' "Curses!", I exclaimed. I took out my iPhone and dialed for pizza. Someone answered, "Joe's Bar and Grill. 1000 flies can't be wrong. How can I help you?"
Writhing in pain, I thought about tomato sauce and anchovies...but then....
Sam: What the hell? I hadn't dialed a number. Curiosity kicking my ass, and visual cues from the myriad of reflections messing with my orb, I opened the vestibule drawer. Sure enough, there was a keyboard. But it had an odd...
Shirley: smell. Rather musky yet intoxicating...I fell into a state of semiconsciousness. Pining for anchovies, yet on the verge of vomiting, I two-fingered the keyboard with randomness. The message read....
Sam: Need help on using Ctrl+Alt+Delete? Dammit. How quickly we forget. I did the three-finger combo. I was sorry. There was Billy again. This time, trying to sell birth control.
Shirley: Billy took his bat and began smashing my mirrored room. Shards of glass flew wildly about. The keyboard dialed 911. The odor grew more foul, dogs barked, the earth shook...
Sam: Astounded that a cyber image could suddenly appear to become real, I instantly assessed my psilocybin intake. It became clear that I was overdoing it. The online mushroom service was not a friend of mine. I clicked the Bookmark tab in Firefox and deleted it.
Shirley: The state forensic crime laboratory was able to match the bat prints with Billy's 'Mr. Nasty' Pro Maple Adult Wood one. Its shattering was always questioned in the leagues, but Billy had evaporated, and the forensics team didn't know how to handle a torso tourniquet.
I wasn't afraid to die, I just didn't want to be there when it happened.
Sam: Forensic and legal analysts from across North America gathered to evaluate the evidence. In the end, it was determined that Mr. Mays: A) Had no prior experience that would qualify him to discuss wood of any type, species, or form. B) Mr. Mays is not "nasty," therefore he is not established as a spokesman for any product that is described with said adjective, and C) is currently and, in any future description, a weener. Stated in People vs. William "Weener" Mays, 2007.
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