the Sweet Smell of Burning Fur (plonq) wrote,
the Sweet Smell of Burning Fur

  • Location:
  • Mood:
  • Music:

Bad writing

atara and I set aside some time today to clean up some of the clutter in the dining room. We are going to head back in there tomorrow or the next day, but we managed to accomplish our primary goal of clearing the clutter from the main thoroughfare.

It is amazing what you will find sometimes if you start digging through the piles of forgotten junk in your house. One thing we found was the long-lost sync cable for my PDA (not as critical now as it was before I discovered the Google calendar sync feature, but still a nice find). Another thing I found was my entries for the Bad Opening Lines contest at MFF a couple of years ago. My entries were ineligible because I am married to the person who was running the contest, but the other judges assured me that I would not have won anyway because my bad lines weren't bad enough.

I think they are pretty bad, but I will let you be the judge. (Warning: anthropomorphic content to follow. Shield your eyes and hide the kids if such things offend you.)

The Siamese goddess flowed into my dingy office like a furry beam of catnip and lavender-scented sunlight where she poured her lithe, silky feline form into the unworthy Naugahyde swivel-chair, crossed her legs enticingly, tipped back the brim of her broad sun hat with a perfectly-manicured claw and said, "I thought the one-eyed Moroccan hamster seer was speaking metaphorically when he warned that trans-dimensional gerbil ninjas were coming to abduct my brother, but now he's gone and the seer has fled and I desperately need your help to find that small medium at large!"

Freddy the furry ferret philanthropist and part-time bee keeper was widely recognized around the town for his broad, flamboyant hats, colourful lederhosen, spicy Hungarian meatballs and his propensity for stripping down to his bare fur and dancing in the fountain at the town square, tapping a frantic beat with his wooden peg-leg while his prosthetic tail swung in time - which is exactly what he would have been doing now if he had not mysteriously vanished on his way to the bakery two nights back like the last bath towel in a shared room at a furry convention; a towel whose existence is universally acknowledged, but whose present location is obscured behind an opaque veil of evasion, misdirection, denial and innuendo.
  • Post a new comment


    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.
  • 1 comment