I Got Twenty One Words...

[Ambient Sheep]

do *that*.  They're supposed to be an allegory in a Philip K. Dick novel."

"Really?", replied Twatting Knackers, "then why is

[Jemble Fred]

it that every time I enter a narrative, um story grinds to a halt, leaving everyone disappointed?"

Nobody knew the answer.



THE END.

possibly. if not, well, apologies.

[Jemble Fred]

This might be a bad idea, but d'you think we should start a GD thread called 'Look what we did at school today, Mummy!', where the cream of Mong efforts can be shared, seeing as the vast majority of 'whores never set foot in this forum? I'd imagine a lot of people would like to read this entire story, before telling us how shit we are. Just a thought.

[Cerys]

THE END.

Noooooooo!

<sinks to floor with head in hands as camera pans upwards, á la the end of Se7en>

[Vermschneid Mehearties]

This might be a bad idea, but d'you think we should start a GD thread called 'Look what we did at school today, Mummy!', where the cream of Mong efforts can be shared, seeing as the vast majority of 'whores never set foot in this forum? I'd imagine a lot of people would like to read this entire story, before telling us how shit we are. Just a thought.

Good idea. A sort of daily mong summary....

[Jemble Fred]

I'm sure we can write a sequel, but I felt that this story was just perfect as it was.

[Ambient Sheep]

do *that*.  They're supposed to be an allegory in a Philip K. Dick novel."

"Really?", replied Twatting Knackers, "then why is

it that every time I enter a narrative, um story grinds to a halt, leaving everyone disappointed?"

Nobody knew the answer.

THE END.

Actually, that's quite a Dickian ending.  Nice one.  :-)

I too got frustrated beyond belief that whenever I started to push the narrative back in a certain direction (generally AY & PLC chasing the blue glow), it got wildly diverted off somewhere else.  In the end I gave up, as you can see.

Perhaps next time we should try to enforce some sort of rule that posters will at least *try* to keep the same general flow going, at least for a while.

[Jemble Fred]

The only way we can know if it worked is if aopneone cuts it all together and posts it in GD. I'd do it, like, but I'm supposed to be working right now. And I'm a lazy fuck.

[Cerys]

Sheepy, you heard the man!

[Ambient Sheep]

Sheepy, you heard the man!

I'm doing it RIGHT now - if you don't beat me to it!  :-)

[Cerys]

Now, would I do a thing like that...?

[Ambient Sheep]

And it's not coming out on a light-blue background.

[Ambient Sheep]

One morning, Almost Yearly was washing his car.

"That's funny," he thought to himself, "I've never noticed that strange blue glare."

As he looked closer, he realised that the blue glare was moving west at quite a speed. He called for his faithful partner in crime, Partridge's Love Child, and they leapt into the Yearlymobile, zipping up their now buttery overalls as they went.

"Rub it in me piss clock frig off," squealed a randy tramp from the roadside, as they sped along through the fruit and vegetable aisle, grasping randomly at legumes and leaving a trail of bruised melons in their wake. It was always [like this] when PLC was allowed to drive, he always had trouble steering and changing gear at the same time.

However, this time it would prove to be a tragic turn of events. The trolley was already well out of control as they neared [the] frozen food, as a nearsighted, grey haired grandmother of seventy-eight bent over to inspect the frozen peas.

The trolley screamed, "Get out of my way you vile old woman," but it was too late and the trolley crashed right into the supermarket mascot, 'Willy the wonder-whale', who promptly exploded drenching the aisle and its customers in fatty blubber. At that moment TraceyQ arrived to see if she could be of any help.

"Look at this mess!", she exclaimed, "can I offer you some good will? The name's Tracey, I've come with a box of tissues." In the ensuing panic she was grabbed by ...who? I could not remember. The policeman who was taking my statement looked up from his scribblings and stared at me.

"Don't I know you from somewhere?"

The last time we'd met I'd been deep inside his wife at a swingers meet; lovely lass she was, spoke 6 languages and could whistle like a navvy - shame about that bit of unpleasantness involving the toothpick incident. Nobody believed I was trying to expel the toothpick whilst simultaneously taking her from behind. What's done is done.

"I need you cool - are you cool?". Somewhere in the distance, Harvey Keitel was finishing my sentence. TraceyQ started to panic. She'd had a dislike of Harvey Keitel since she was four, when he['d] reversed his car over her trike, the brute. Happily she'd exacted revenge by pissing down his chimney the following Christmas Eve, something which Keitel was rather startled to discover, since at the time he was looking up there to try and see Santa.  Up the chimmney that is, not Tracey.

This rivalry escalated into a brutal annual fight, with the methods employed becoming increasingly underhand. Last year Tracey took a large canvas, bought some paint brushes and attempted to make some Art out this sorry situation. Her good intentions turned sour when when it transpired one of the brushes was in fact Keitel's close friend Calista Flockheart. Furious with her mistake, Keitel called up the Society for the Protection of Anorexics, who promptly arrived, assessed the situation, and rapidly decided that they must give TraceyQ sanctuary: embedded in the beard shared by every member of [the] SPA.  Q began to wonder, what happened to PLC and Yearly?

It turned out that our heroes had brushed off the whale blubber, escaped from police custody, and resumed their pursuit of a marriage license. They had tried everywhere in England, but now they had hit gold in Germany. As they strode into Berlin they knew something was not right. An awful smell was present and upon turning round they were annoyed to see Rats, wearing a lab coat and mixing several noxious chemicals in test tubes.

"At last," he said, "my Bobby Davro spaff has developed a taste not unlike PG Tips. Here, Yearly, wrap yer tastebuds round this!"

But as he passed it out his anus, he let out a yelp. Dekionplexis was standing by the door, spurting irrelevance while sucking on a large frozen peregrine falcon head which he had managed to detach from its owner only several days before, during a rampage at around seven o'clock.

"Don't mind me." he said, "I'm just performance art."

"I don't care what you are." Yearly replied, "I'm getting married in the morning, ding dong, the bells are going to chime..."

At that precise moment, Rats screamed as he touched himself. His loins hadn't felt so alive ever since seeing his sisters organless barbie doll as a young child - [this] reminded him [of] that very day.

"So what are we waiting for?" he chimed, beautifully.

"The bastard vicar of course, you fucking twat", said Yearly, as he gently caressed the hair at the nape of Partridge's neck. "If this vicar doesn't turn up then absolutely everything's been ruined by one gosh-darned fool, and we may as well go home, put our clothes on, and have a nice mug of Ovaltine while we watch The Bill."

PLC suddenly remembered that Tracey was involved in the story somewhere and he set about reading the script in an attempt to find out where she could have got to. But the writer had opted for the most obvious trick in the book, and Tracey came crashing through the window shouting "Wait Yearly, don't do this, you know I love you!"

At this, Partridge went a funny colour, pouted, and said, "But what about our marriage? - don't you get the feeling we're being controlled by a load of different people?" ["replied PLC" replaced by that dash]

"Whatever do you mean?", cried Yearly, "anyone would think you were Pinball, you and your paranoid conspiracy theories. Next thing you will have us whisked off to Iraq, to play soldiers and build sandcastles and [start] pissing on them. And look, here we must end this conversation. I don't love you anymore. Goodbye forever." and so saying he flew away, leaving behind a large pile of something unspeakable, which reeked gungily of toenail clippings and blubber that was clearly past its sell-by date.

PLC, gagging, then vomited copiously on the diabolically patterned mosaic floor. Suddenly the floor started to implode and a Turak-han fresh from Sunnydale emerged with an unfeasably large bouquet of fresh flowers, which smelled absolutely delightful. The thing from the telly offered the flowers no respite.

Suspecting the plot of dragging, producers introduced Schiller and other Verbwhores in a hope to rekindle interest in their own arseholes, as that is what they'd be reduced to perusing for their entertainment needs, if such evil prevailed.  Then the blue light reappeared, and zipped into PLC's left ear, faster than a speeding ticket.  Yearly followed.

Inside PLC's mind was a world of flouncey satchels, all interlinked by fizzing pathways like Tron or something. In each satchel he could see 'Pie Face' out of the Dennis The Menace comic strip from popular children's comic "The Beano". He was scribbling equations using a glaring blue crayon held in his left hand. Almost Yearly tried his best to distract him by shuffling toward TraceyQ, lifting up her top and shouting 'oi Pie-Face, get a load of this'. But Pie-Face remained unmoved while PLC fainted.  If only Yearly knew that Pie-Face had lost his sex drive in a Turkish prison.

To get Pie-Face they needed bigger ratings. So TraceyQ was replaced with Jennifer Aniston, PLC with Kelsey Grammer, and Rats was completely CGI['d] and voiced by David Dickinson who declared, "Well that's a relief, the continual dragging of Tracey back into this was bordering on sinister." but then "...your wheels are made of...".  Over the horizon, a combine harvester was approaching.

"Les Dennis to the rescue!", exclaimed Rats.  Of course, one whiff of Les Dennis and Jennifer Aniston was off, humping the scouse loser's leg like a pitbull bitch and so, their mission accomplished, PLC and Almost Yearly wearily climbed back in the Yearlymobile and returned to the whore-cave where their Dad was waiting with a skillet full of hot prawns. AY, the only whore not to be re-cast, phoned the first number he could think of.

"Hello, Professor Phineas J. Hooberburger's Enchanted Hot Air Balloon Emporium", a voice replied.

"We know what you're trying to do," said AY, "We know everything. Monkeys without limbs can't climb trees."

Before he could explain why the fucking humpty he had said that, the voice continued, "This month we have special promotions on maroon balloons, dark maroon balloons, light maroon balloons and, just for today, orange juice." Suddenly the line cut dead.

PLC wept: "Those monkeys have no limbs? They'll never get exploited by PG Tips now. I'd offer them my own limbs if it wasn't for a bunch of monkeys."  He hated monkeys - exploiting's too good for them.  Besides, he'd had his limbs removed years ago in China. They were taken by a hippo and were auctioned off to strange looking men, who intended to use them forsooth.

Even more suddenly than the last thing that happened that was sudden, AY heard a scratching at the garage door.  "Oh no!" thought AY. "Don't tell me it's happening again!" He shuddered in remembrance of those cold, clammy fingers grabbing his cold clams, and resolved inwardly never to spend New Year in Bangkok again.

Looking around the garage, his eyes fell upon stony ground, whereas PLC's eyes fell upon good Christian ground, and grew into giant eyes which exploded just as the limbless spider remained exactly where it was.  In rode Tracey on Sherpa Tensing's back crying "holler holler holler, where's me blinging biscuit?"  Suddenly, nothing happened. Then, it happened again.

"Ooh, deja vu pas," squawked Tensing like a leathery faced seagull. "Your biscuits are pathetic," it said, and then exploded unexpectedly. No-one knew why; apart from Tracey, who smugly pocketed the packet of Alka-Seltzer...and this time he was angry, he stood up, eyes blazing with torment and rage, fists clenched, through the red mist...waiting...

Were they alive, weren't they alive? It was all rather moot really since like all romantic comedies the result was obvious to everyone except the floppy-haired type-cast Englishman. Quite who that was no-one could say, but it sure as hell wasn't AY.  That's because he had just this minute shaved his whole body in protest of something and was now holding a vibrating seismograph, the squiggly lines becoming squigglier with every passing second.

Something big was approaching, approaching fast, and rapidly enbiggening - it couldn't stop wobbling like some electric-powered needle jelly, until Tensing released the vibrating earthquake monitor, and it smashed onto the translucent footbridge which he was jumping over so he could meet TraceyQ who was waiting for him on the other side.

"Right, so you're TraceyQ then? Hah, that is a surprise, I've heard you talk of yourself often and always imagined you had bigger fish to fry."

As she stood there with a sardine in the smallest skillet known to man, she had to admit that Cramlington was not quite what she had expected. Just bison, an old woman with a market stall, and Rats.  Rats! What had become of him since his part had been taken over by a computer graphics company? David Dickinson's haunting ode to an 18th century china teapot left TraceyQ in tears, the melody alone enough to make a grown man quiver with rage. Then Tracey died from swords, and her ghost died from evil ghosts, so she can no longer appear. Anyway, Tracy reappeared, uttering these portentous words: "I am Lazarus, risen from the dead. Look upon my pulseless body and despair. However, I can only appear during the full moon."  Then - for some unknown reason - the mysterious blue glare whizzed past singing Agadoo.

"Quick," said PLC camply, "after it, for there's bound to be a great party where it's headed!"   "Fuck that", growled Yearly, "...my balls have just dropped. Look." PLC glanced downwards and saw, to his amazement, something that could only be described as Ground Zero. A huge gaping chasm of nothingness, but with a rather small teste at the bottom of it, pulsating to the beat of the faraway party. Yearly gathered up his missing teste, and leapt with PLC into their car, ready to pedal like pushers.

"Stick the CD player on," said PLC, "let's listen to Crazy Hairy Penis Chin, while we pedal away."

"But we've got a brand new car!", said AY. "It looks like a Jaguar. It's got leather seats. It's got a space for a diamond on the front. It even has a blue-glow tracking system - let me turn it on now..."

Historians have been debating for years exactly what happened next. Some say a freak electrical fault fused the two together. Others thought it was a cynical attempt to freshen up the story. Action was needed, but unfortunately action came in the form of Yearly and Partridge's supercar shooting off rocket-like in the direction of the party. The fused-together pair screamed as little girls do when it became clear that the party was attended for the most part by monkeys.  Blue glare-y monkeys.

"Shit, what do we do now?" they chorused to each other. "Here we are, fused at the hips, surrounded by monkeys, we'll have to do the Charleston all the way to the bar, so we're inconspicuous. We must try to blend in."

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty, twenty-one" - being fused together meant they shared control of one leg each; making them look kind of a siamese Jake The Peg without the extra leg.  They lurched towards the bar like a couple of stitched hunchbacks in a bag, blending expertly as only stitched hunchbacks can. In fact they blended far too well, producing a kind of off-puce candy-floss effect. It was quite revolting.  However, the monkeys seemed suitably impressed and as they reached the bar the barmonkey handed the Almost-Partridge a large idea.

"Why didn't the posters on the previous page make all their posts 21 words long? Apart from the whole delicious irony of Weekender's 20 word post, what are we going to do now?"

"Well," the bartendermonkey replied, "I'd suggest a gigantic pie. Always keeps my pecker up."

"Yes, we noticed," said the AYPLC construct in unison with itself. "But shouldn't we..."

"There he is!", cried a pack of giant radioactive robot ants.

"Ooo 'eck" exclaimed Rats, scarpering, with the ants in hot pursuit.  The ants, the limbless monkeys, the David Dickinson voice, it was all getting too much for poor Rats. He dismounted from the spire of Cramlington cathedral and proceeded in a westerly direction towards the nearest takeaway, where he purchased a kebab and sat down at his computer keyboard to post twenty one words to a continuing story on his favourite website, Verbwhores.  The Verbwhores watched their screens with bated breath for the next piece of absurd venom to spew from Rats's brain-pan to only be disappointed when he ripped off his mask to reveal Mundays' fucking face!

"Mwahaha," he bellowed, "I am not funny - I've just been pretending!"

Passers-by gawped in astonishment. "We feel cheated," one said, "we all bought Deidre's Photo Casebook Annual 2004 – and there's no answer to that!"

So, as the sun went down i'the East, then up a bit, then back down, Chris Morris said "Hurrah, my new Brass Eye special on 'spazzes' is complete at last," rewinding the tape to pause on a single frame which contained only a view of Richard Blackwood's left testicle.

"That's odd," Morris remarked, "I don't remember swallowing that weird tablet that made everything look and sound like it was off of 'jam' and that Tracey girl and her sordid collection of miniature cognacs."

After her obsession with corks, this had really gone one step too far.  So she decided that as this was all nothing more than an elaborate Morris hoax, she'd pester Neil to put it on the site.  After a moment's consideration, she changed her mind and took up croquet instead. After all, knocking balls was such a healthy young injun, even if he never used capital letters for his name, much to the annoyance of big chief Twatting Knackers.  Thinking about her decision, she stepped out of the capsule and walked down the street, which unfortunately had a stench like long dead tench in a trench.

"Hey Twatting Knackers, is this yours?"

"Um big heap stink? No." Its face looked remarkably pallid considering what it was doing. Tracey gaped at it in bewilderment.

"Um," she said, eloquently. "I'm sure dead tenches shouldn't do *that*. They're supposed to be an allegory in a Philip K. Dick novel."

"Really?", replied Twatting Knackers, "then why is it that every time I enter a narrative, um story grinds to a halt, leaving everyone disappointed?"

Nobody knew the answer.


THE END.

[Cerys]

Brilliance.  Sheer brilliance.  The Booker prize surely awaits.

[Ambient Sheep]

It loses the plot a bit in the middle (no pun intended), but aside from that, I do think it's rather better than anybody could have expected.  There's only two or three complete fuck-ups (people changing roles, sex, or indeed species).

Or maybe I've just got too close to the work.  ;-)

If we do another one, I was wondering whether we should up the word-count to, say, 25 words?  I always found that 21 was just *slightly* too limiting.  Maybe that's why it turned out reasonably well; but on the other maybe that's why it seems to jump around so much.  Mind you, to counteract the latter tendency you'd have to up it to about 50 words, and that's rather tedious to count unless everyone's using a word-processor, which we weren't, I would imagine.

[Ambient Sheep]

For anyone else who, like me until now, missed it, the GD bit of the idea has been implemented here.

[Crazy Penis]

I must admit, I got lost around the middle somewhere.

Maybe the next one could even be between 21-25 words, to allow a bit of flexibility. I found myself having to rethink at times to get the words to fit right.
Next time I want to be totally random :)

[Jemble Fred]

It loses the plot a bit in the middle (no pun intended), but aside from that, I do think it's rather better than anybody could have expected.  There's only two or three complete fuck-ups (people changing roles, sex, or indeed species).

Or maybe I've just got too close to the work.  ;-)

If we do another one, I was wondering whether we should up the word-count to, say, 25 words?  I always found that 21 was just *slightly* too limiting.  Maybe that's why it turned out reasonably well; but on the other maybe that's why it seems to jump around so much.  Mind you, to counteract the latter tendency you'd have to up it to about 50 words, and that's rather tedious to count unless everyone's using a word-processor, which we weren't, I would imagine.

I was thinking of a whole paragraph, and a longer story all in all, with proper chapters and everything. It would be easier, and the finished product would be funnier – the best bit about the 21 words thing was seeing how the next person would twist a line, and you don't really get that in the finished version.

[Vermschneid Mehearties]

Cheers for paragraphing it. That's a brilliant short story if there ever was one.

I say do another, but keep the story tighter and allow for seperate chapters.

[Almost Yearly]

Or maybe I've just got too close to the work.  ;-)

That made me laugh like nothing on here for a while. Funny how something just catches you right.