It worked better on s3.
Because I'm bored. And because I'm supposed to be studying for the SAT.
It really does work better on s3. It reads like a Mad Libs here.
ha, the story begins: the crazy monkeys ate very weird looking yellow thing, it began to run through a town after escaping their rath and killed many shiny spoon-weilding frogs, which fought the spork wielding catfish, who sadly lost. Also, the great monkey began to scream wildly for seemingly no reason unless that big mirror had something to do with the early morning raisins which the dog wants to steal from California. The thing in the small box wants…no, desires; craves; needs…not much in particular. [“]Thoreau, in Walden, wrote with surprisingly childish handwriting.”laughed the absurdly happy spoon-weilding frogs, while the dead marmot proceeded to smell. Stink, really. And no one cared because eerie light was was flikkering on the ominous silhouette of a…wait! That can’t happen! [“]My imagination is running to the grocery store!”, he mumbled, drunkenly. “Metaphors, metaphors, metaphors, metaphors, metaphors.” Metaphor coffee at Starbucks [.] is nothing, compared to meeting her in Paris when they were both drinking metaphor coffee as the German army invaded. Since it was 1997, when Buffy started airing, their forbidden love was wholly unnoticed by the legions of Fanboys who thought sucking their blood would be horribly cliched so they decided to serenade tourists, dressed only in lederhosen and frilly garments. The tourists were more interested in the lederhosen than anything else, and proceeded to mockingly burp to the tune of a traditional song, “Ice, ice, baby,” the jiggy “homies” harmoniously eructed. The fanboys began to scream, pointing to the Chobits cosplay contest finalists among them. The other patrons quickly left the location, while havoc ensued. “Those aren’t cosplayers!” shouted the real cosplayers. “They’re the German army!” Suddenly, and completely without warning, “Schtinky marmuhts, metovohhhrs, vahhhnboys, aaaahndddd…vuuuhhhrst uf ahllll…’met-ha-for-‘ coffee???? KILL ZEMMMM!” The krauts opened fire on the quite unfortunate and surprisingly vicious group. Everyone dived for cover but were far too aged and obese to effectively hide anywhere so they meekly surrendered to the menacing German army. “Freunden, wir können einpacken!” croaked an old general Electric transistor radio. “Let’s schplit bevore zah zcene gets, like, really heavy!” In an instant, the mumbled the anorexic blonde German general to a portly sergeant named Schultz. Grabbing her lipstick, she smeared a red streak on a piece of a Starbuck’s coffee cup. It was not just the beginning of a beautiful friendship with Louie, but also a secret coup d’etat which was a microcosm of their obsession with buttery croissants which were (indeed) quite crucial to their relationship but instead of eating they used them in vigilante missions and occasionally used them as improvised semaphore flags. “I L_O_V_E[”] and, after buttering, as really inefficient dog toys. Dogs, being largely illiterate, and often gluten intolerant, apparently did not fully comprehend the semaphore code and ate the messages without a thought to how difficult flagging would be now that the utensils were somewhat less useful, seeing as how they were semi-digested and basically really, really gross. So, the sentimental message was chewed up and all hope for a(n) at least partially comprehensible message. The couple left the croissant with the sense there was more to life than just interpreting baked goods and having them eaten by bored Labradors. As they walked slowly toward the fire exit, the woman had to get rid of her pent-up feelings and finally decided to henceforth forgo buttery croissants. Strolling the Champs Elysses, they looked happy until they reached the famous elf monument, at which a single, white wheelbarrow tipped over, revealing a tunnel entrance that was smaller than the smallest giant, but bigg enough for a small rodent[.] “Les Catacombes!” exclaimed the dirt miner. He coughed sadistically while gesturing with his left foot’s big toe thereby admiting his inability to move his right toe as vigorously. A rustling within the chamber caused the woman to rush into the tunnel with a broom and her razor-sharp Swiss kubigiri before realising the tunnel was immaculate and spiderless and instead contained a polished moving sidewalk leading to an ominous looking sixty foot marble fountain that ceaselessly spewed large columns of fresh, sparkling dish soap. [“]Oh my…” whispered the woman ecstatically, “a dish soap fountain.” “You’re soaking in it,” answered a chilling voice after which the fountain abruptly and quite inexplicably overflowed, carrying her downstream to the Land of Eternal anime television. The Sailor Scouts swiftly swam past Puni Puni Poemi but were not fast enough to avoid GhibliLand where Totoro was waiting, looking somewhat more menacing to receive them. After his umbrella caught fire[,] he boarded a bus that looked decidedly feliform with civet-shaped windshield wipers and very aerodynamic rear-view mirrors…(FOUR WORD THREAD, DUDE!) fur exterior, spiked paw-tires, and a four-word licence-plate that read: ‘ERIC.’ Pythonesque And under it, it became crushed by it’s lack of grammatical knowledge and irritating use of irregularly hyphenated compound words. e.g. licence-plates, paw-tires, deep-shame made the bus crash into a giant scratching-post and get fined for horking a giant furball and failing to bury the abundant cat chocolates and, way more importantly, spraying in the corner. Diesel musk. That’s disgusting. The woman ran from the store and fumbled for her poison lipstick to do away with…waffles, tastey waffles! So why is the syrup smelling like diesel musk? You don’t wanna know! She walked up to my office like a new born penguin and pecked on the Squeezebox of Doom. The parents shouted, “TURN THAT DOWN![“] but instead she turned it up to “11” and laughed maniacally. The maniacal laughted attracted a hyena, who was patrolling the Elephant Graveyard. [“]Death awaits you!” said the man in the dark brown hyena fur coat that looked more like piles of coffee grounds[.] The woman didn’t hear him and continued to descend into the catacombs. But, she realized that one skull looked familiar. She hesitated at first then said, “Murray?” “Elaine?” “Wow! What’re you doing here, you dazzling urbanite?” “I just showed up.” The pile of skulls held more familiar faces such as the unforgettable comedian formerly known as Jerry Lewis. France loves French fries, or should that be Belgian fries but not Jerry Lewis. Jerry Leewis is a génie comique…n’est-ce pas? Or something like that. Shaking her head, she sat down on the piano bench and began playing Beethoven’s 9th Symphony…”You’re playing our song,” said Sally. Jack was confused. He wasn’t playing. He wasn’t working either. The pile of skulls erupted with laughter as Sally walked deeper into the entrance. The entrance revealed a circular staircase like Dean Martin had cleaned the blood off. She noticed a mirror that had been broken. Grabbing a shard, she held it above her impressively coiffured 60’s beehive while saying the magic encantation: Kesa Giri Tsuki tsetse tsunami tsar! Instantly, a bag of garbage Pail Kids cards cascaded up from the floor and Graffiti Petey landed suggestively atop Oozy Suzy, gave Sally an idea. “Hey! Why don’t we dress up like elves or dwarves, or both?” Oozy Suzy sighed. “Cosplay, would it was Cusplay, isn’t what I was hoping for, exactly.” She decided to try a less subtle approach by blatantly throwing all of her best action figures onto eBay listed as Brittney Spears collectibles. She photographed them in many chemist shops around London. There were all sorts of interesting bids, especially the ones that look like they’re from celebrities. Michael Moore’s boxer shorts which, by the way, are made of silk, plus a combination of titanium fibers, strong enough and heat-resistant as well because of their adamantine, lustrous, Kevlar panels. What can pierce adamantine-kevlar? Only Lovely Lola knew. And she wasn’t gonna risk Michael Moore’s enormous dresser drawer falling upon her lovely and delicate import furniture. Her silky worms wriggled helplessly towards yet another helpless individual house plant, ready to devour the first unsuspecting suspect. “Where’s Waldo?” the young, horrified children shrieked, when suddenly another endless summer movie was rereleased by John Hughes, who desperately needed a hit after years of nothing. Molly Ringwald was the main character(s). She had as much appeal as someone that was quite passe and unappealing. “Sweet God! What were you thinking?” cried the slightly bewildered boxing factory worker. Waldo’s girlfriend appeared, brandishing a gigantic claymore of the M-18A1 antipersonnel variety. She swung it over the Hedge, surprising the group of animals on the Humane Society’s roof while eating a box, a large Kevlar box, and yet another somewhat unlikely twist of fate, was about to strike. Incredibly, a freak updraught with the other kind of affected British spelling which may, in fact, prove fatal. Nearby, a lorry blew a tyre, or truck-tires for you not graced by God with a 9:18 ratio which is also 1:2 but, 17:18 flat tires “Fetch me a spanner!” “It’s in the works!” “That’s ‘Spaniard!” John shouted. No one ever expects the Spanish Inquisition! “Wow!” THE END Oh, bugger.
(Laughing too hard to come up with anything. Sorry!)
(Trying to decide if I should really continue a story that has already ended)
(Well, it IS “the great and never ending four word thread!)
“Dammit, Palin,” groused Chapman, “Why do you always paint THE END on the end of everything?” “Not sure,” it answered, “but writing The Beginning infringes on God’s turf. And even though God doesn’t need the money, it might be considered” as a California textbook stated, “Not entirely what it seems…” Hmm. It might be true that dentists prefer Crest, but mainly in deep-cut dresses or inside peppermint-patties. Significantly, the side-effects of such delicacies were similar to the side-effects of Vicadin. Not Viagra. Which would quite potentially enlarge your dentist bills and decrease your life insurance payoff…And, speaking of payoffs, you owe me money! But, I digresssss, precioussssssss. We needses the precioussssss. Precioussss Momentsssss “Gollum” figurinessss…and Samwise the Bravesessssss…willlllls cook tatters forrr (wipes face with towel) the Boy Ssssscoutsssss Jamboree! We needses raw fishsessesssses…boom boom diddum daddum…mommum…gollum…orcses…[“]what...are you boys DOING?” “Nothing, Mom!” “Yeah, nothing!” Suddenly a gnarled hand dripping with blood emerged from the train wreckage and silenced Mom forever. By doing so, it caused a giant beanstalk to grow up into the Trump Towers exclusive penthouse suite. Kelly is the topic of conversation in several threads simply because her political significance and the fact that she was eight feet away from her clothing and the naked truth was rather pleasant indeed. Once the feminist convention decided that they were all a bunch of Playstation junkees, they got Target giftcards and quickly emptied the store of Hitman Blood Money titles and Devil May Cry before heading to the next unsuspecting department store. Once the molten lava finished seeping out of Chocolate Volcano they realized that they were wrong. So they ran off to see if anyone else knew the correct proportions for 100,000 gallons converted into a different vanilla ice cream receptacles shaped like little bunnies. These bunnies, called Peeps and made of marshmallow-soft silicone, were a bi-product of nuclear waste. Led by Emeril, -BAM- the Peeps’ destruction army of callous culinary cut-throats enranged over the war which was wantonly wrecking everything in local downtown market places. The carnage and bloodshed spread across the floor like a slippery puss of doom! “Pus,” corrected the cat known as Emmy, who was not slipping thanks to four little ingenious characters whose names were embroidered on Kellies undies which the cat wore because Kelly was naked. With a pussy in her lap, she felt somewhat less than stark nekid. The time is 8:31 in Reykjavik, but since we’re not in Reykjavik we can sleep late. Though ‘late’ is relative to your time-space continuum established by Timex for the somewhat malevolent elven inch tall children of Inch Tall Elves, Inc. Elvis! Elvira! Evelyn! Evangeline! and, of course, Elmer. John Cameron Swayze Day keeps on ticking despite the amount of oranges in his clockwork. “Where in the world is Donald Duck when you finally face der Fuerher?” “Curses!” screamed the concierge loudly as he realized the frightening implications of the enchanting spell that had created a horrible, and I mean horrible, with a capital H, and a capital O, “CAPITAL I!” shouted Hitler, and all the mice checked the dictionary. “Wrong! You are so wrong!” “I’m Wright,” Wilbur insisted. “I’m Left,” another spoke. Directionless Lemur felt distressed.