taken from the thing i wrote for seebas challenge, I'm always ready!

An eight year-old Apalacian girl in a yellow sundress with white dots and a green flower applique, fair skin, though flaking, came close to suffering a heat stroke from the intensity of the midday sun. She held on for a few more moments, intent on beating her last hulahoop record of two hundred sixty seven and a half. She's been spending alot more of her time outdoors every since her father bought the blowup starwars kiddie-pool for his latest business venture. Around three, usually she'd slip into her swiming suit and hop into the tub of what seemed to be high quality fossil fuel when her dad wasn't around.

One day, after hearing her fathers bronco approach the garage, she quickly jumped out of the pool, the grease sticking to her now sunburned skin. She hobbled, with a floaty around her waist, across the yard and jumped into the bushes near the far fence. The jump was wreckless but her fall was broken by a pile of excoriated and quartered smurf corpses.

The child didn't have the mind to surmise that this was apparently the source of the high grade engine oil in the tub. Her shrill ejaculation exausted what little energy the lethargic girl had left, and she quickly collapsed at the site of smurfettes cold, distant, though ever haunting eyes, piercing through her lies (just threw that in to sound cool).

the father found out and quickly gutted the child, apparently they are filled with fossil fuels too.

WHODA THUNK IT!

oh yeah and hoola hoop. (tommorows adventure will be about the worlds saddest girl!)

Son, heres a story I never told nobody. Its about how we got all these fancy things we got here. My father was a beatin’ man. He was also a high powered stock broker who was never with the same woman two nights in a row, save for your grandmother with whom he was with for about three and then decided to marry. The first two nights hadn’t really counted, however, due to extenuating circumstances he never really described to me, but the third night was the most important. He experienced the holy trinity, as he described it, and underwent the full force of the universes ceaseless synchronicity. You see, all at one point in time, while was making your grandmother late one Thursday night, he sealed a 6 million dollar deal with Japanese steel in an awkward though amazingly lucrative phone call. But at the precise moment the final Arigato was said, he climaxed, and then finally solved the mystery answer to the brain teaser that was on last Thursday office memo. Now when three things of such magnitude all happen at the same moment, (save for a fourth mishap involving a broken condom) a man is just not the same. Now as I mentioned, he was never with a woman more than two nights in a row. After his third go round with my mother, he decided she was the gal to marry. 7 hours later he was found dead in the gutter with a bullet in the back of his throat, seen thrown from a Yakuza limo in broad day light. All of his money involved in the steel deal was sucked from his account and never found again. But anyways. Back to the money. Our money. You and me. Sonny. Sonny boy. Sonny baby

Money!

Now, you might not believe me, what with all the loose ends, like, how I said that he told me this story even though he died months before I was even born, but you gotta believe me, really. Ask your mother.

shit! gotta write two to make up!

The meat-wagon fishtailed to a halt and a swarm of indiginous natives scurried out of their war torn rubble heaps and latched onto the makeshift APC with a thousand tiny, more than needy, tendrils. The siren blared and a handful were permanently deafened, now that most only had about one ear left anyways. The latch on the top of the vehicle was thrown open and a small man in black overalls emerged covered in sausage's and other delimeats.

"HAMARCHY IN THE UKRAINE!"

and and they all pledged their allegiances to their holy provider.

The three bumps in the road were people, I'm sure.
The car was a Camry.
The reason is to be determined.
The driver was, however, most definately Ol' Frank. They say he is losing it, up there, you know, and that he shouldn't even be driving.
"Nowthy'r ghhna trida pn ths'n on me likidun smthn wrng., thulast upstndin' Merican. But I wn't giev intuthuh crucked jew poleec and especiuly the crucked jew liberal lezhbin medjh!"
I think that's what he said, burping up the whole thing, gheck i can hear the phlem damming up, and the little holes the sound is squeezing through. I'm pretty sure he is speaking to me, maybe there is another guy in the front, i hear some faint murmering and a second door slam, but I can't tell you for sure. I'm hog tied and blind folded in his back seat, and some blood is clogging my ear.
Another bump.
"That whey, chaim twurds the pulehsz"
A shot gun blast.
So there is another person! he must have gotten in the car after he Ol' Frank blindfolded me. Something is moving and poking under me, in a bag, probabaly another reporter. This man hates reporters i think, and keeps calling me a "negro zionist, homo-liberal jew-faggot media grumple"

"Thulast upstandn Mercan whul... (gasp) be...(wheeze) thulast Merican, standin"
Another deafening shotgun blast and the car swerves and meets with a wall, My body is thrown forward, further wedged into the leg space. The hump for the read wheel drive axel jams into my back and i think i broke something.
Things are still though, a hand whips my face around and tears off the blind fold. Looking up i see just the arm of the passanger. The hand wraps around my face again and pulls me up. He shot the driver point blank, with some strange thigns i didnt even know would fit in the skull evenly distributed all over the left side of the car. The passenger was a cop the whole time, I guess he just didn't notice. He wasn't even undercover.

Few weeks later I find out that the old guy had the Israeli prime minister in the bag, and some important North Korean scientistin the trunk, but that the bumps we went over were actaully just parking berms, he was doing doughnuts in the parking lot outside my office. Doesn't make a lick of sense. And in such a sensible car!

Sorry for two workspace and sorta soviet topics in a row, but this one hit me during Dance/Exercise class

The fitness chair(man) barked into the megaphone
"Fifty! Each Leg! This time like you actually care for the community!"
and got some spit on the hand of the Megaphone chairman who was holding it for him. The command was met with the will of the masses and we all began our leg lifts. It was afternoon calisthenics, a 40 minute period between flipping hot iron rods and eating.

"A fit body breeds a fit mind, and a fit mind breeds an undying dissatisfaction that is only quenched with the extermination of selfishness."

That's what the huge banner behind the exercise captain says, and there are more draped about with similar proactive, catchy, slogans.
My cousin is a part of the team that actually designs them, and he says that they are actually making the banners larger, but the print increasingly smaller, to train our eyes to more easily spot the wicked.
They hang over about 3 hundred of us engineers. We lay in rows of about 15 men and 10 deep, two groups, legs in the air. A chipper rhythm rides the thick musty air, it's casual Saturday and the rhythm captain brought his radio. It's the number one radio hit "Oh! how I love moving the meat up the hill for the good of the commune!"
I must say I like moving the meat more than listening to the song, but when it comes to government funded exercise tunes, I think their earlier work is better.

My critique was out of line, and I was treated fairly for it, for I lost track of what number we were on and I ended up kicking a colleague in the face. Maybe they are right and it wasn't an accident, thought I doubt it. My transgression was met with the will of the people, and everyone gave me one spank.

chanting

"WEE-A-BOO
WEE-A-BOO..."


ALTERNATE ENTRY!
The fitness chair barked into the megaphone
"Fifty! Each Leg! This time like you care about the community!"
We all did 200 because we are all chairs!
How Crazy!
The End!
(yeah both were weak)

Some folks get Martin Luther King Day off.

(Ok if Shane can cut corners and make a million excuses so can I, i started writing this one at around noon and then got distracted by the ol' lady. so here)

All the warning signs were there to begin with, and I can't believe none of us noticed them until now.
"Will someone get me some fucking scissors over here!"
I scream, scared witless at the sight of Richards body, undulating around the office floor like an electric...fucking...FuckSomethingJesusChrist is that seriously on his neck?!

"Get it the fuck off me!" Richard screamwheezes, his throat is a bit difficult to utilize at the moment. His neck tie's ones of those shithead parasite...monster...alienidontgiveafuckwhat
"All I can find is a stapler." suggests a brand new intern.
"OK YEAH YEAH TOSS IT TOSS IT!"
(click click)
"IT'S FUCKING EMPTY!"

Idiot.

Richards on his feet now and flailing about...no nevermind. He flung his body into a partition.
But really you just don't expect this sort of thing to happen, but it happens so quickly, i mean i sort of saw his necktie's shallow breathing all day i just can't believe i didnt put 2 and 2 you know. Oh my God!
"If some one doesn't cut that thing off, we are so fired!" his secretary shrewdly points out.
We all pile on. Some idiot pulls the fire alarm.

Fuck Mondays.

Sherpacide, that's waht the new is calling it.
It's not been closely televised, but the papers are all on top of it, the international ones at least. No ones exactly sure why it's happening, or who is doing it, but, personally, I know someone is making a profit off this. Someone doesn't want someone to find something on top of Mount Everest. But to just sit by and witness the eventual extinction of one of our planets most useful races just kills me.
So listen up, girlscouts, we've fund raised just about enough cash to do what I have been planning. Maybe a few more runs through the neighborhood will get us just over fourty nine thousand dollars, and then we can buy a Sherpa of our own and do one of two things, which I will leave up to you young ladies to vote on democratically.
We can either buy the Sherpa and all the equipment and make a short field trip up the Mountain in protest (and perhaps find whats been hidden at the top. Sources say it's the Holy Grail, but I think it's something of a similar magnitude, but more delicious).

or

We can buy the Sherpa and use the rest of the money to cryogenically freeze him and revive him in 20 years, and then Sell him again for an inflated price since he will be the sole survivor, and by thent he demand will be through the roof! I like this plan becuase it doesnt involve buying a heavy jacket, as plan A would, and in twenty years ill be deep into my retirement, and that will give me a few good days of actually riding around on the Sherpas back.

"Look we didn't steal Lenin's corpse for nothing!" he shrieked, while simultaneously realizing that there was, in fact, no solid reason to steal the man's corpse.

He continued, rather ironically, providing the now lifeless icon of shared labor a piggy back ride through the Arizona desert, with little bits of the heroes skin rebelling against it's oil based embalming oppresors, and finally settling into Micheals tightly curled black hair. We all knew he was a little delusional at first, and we knew the major blood loss from all those bullet wounds didnt help, but after witnessing his prolonged session of beating himself up for doing it, he finally submitted that "Well, it just looked just so pretty laying there. And, well, our Martin Luther King Day float would just look naked without it stapled to the front." and we all just sort of felt bad for the little guy.

So much in fact that all 6 of us reflected and realized that, Yeah, our float did need alot of work. What with the mismatched color scheme, the ill-porportioned 20 foot paper-mache armadillo, and dummy dressed as malcom X riding the armadillo, and the blatant lack of Soviet iconography. I mean the whole thing's ok, but it lacked something. And we owed it to Micheal- to Lenin- and to the King himself to have best godamned float this town has ever seen!

Well, this exists now only so i can comment on Shanes.

and since mine will have about 46% more spookiness, and rock a general mysteriousness, mine is all black.