Escape from Elba
Exiles of the New York Times
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Author Topic: Creative Writing  (Read 27155 times)
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nytempsperdu
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« Reply #1620 on: July 23, 2007, 02:16:32 AM »

For to it you were most certainly not born, fortuitously, because your gifts are so badly needed by the proletariat, especially those twirling lariats in that show put on by Will, while Rogering Jill...or was that Ginger?  Aieeee, Dios mio! So many so famous for such short tiempos, what's a reeling (or even a videotaping) brain to conceive, or rather, to germinate underground as in Germinal wherein so very many were terminal, as in Cleveland's Tower, wherein tennis was played as on the courts where the revolutionary oath was ta'en, a vow as etern' as e'er the Marseillaise, or e'en the Mayonnaise..I mean, the Internationale.  And which is the better chanson?  Je ne sais pas, tant pis, mon dieu, et sacre bleu!

Au revoir, mes enfants. Je tu veux un tres bon reve.
« Last Edit: July 23, 2007, 02:26:47 AM by nytempsperdu » Logged
barton
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« Reply #1621 on: July 23, 2007, 09:24:39 AM »

And then the unholy hybrid of William S. Burroughs and Alain Robbe-Grillet took his leave, ducking through the privet hedge, and rushing off across the moor in hopes of finding
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"History doesn't repeat itself, but it often rhymes."
barton
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« Reply #1622 on: July 23, 2007, 09:35:18 AM »

his attorney, St. Eve of Baldpate, who had recently fled the wild and trackless wastes of Cleveland in search of civilization and tastier pizza.  When he failed to show for work this Monday morning, no one but Essex realized that he had lost himself in the moors which lay between DeKalb and Chicago.  Anchovy, whose estate lay on the grounds of Fermilab, directly over the pulsing heart of the cyclotron, had been subdued into aristocratic complacency by the giant magnets which lay underground, and would be of no use in the search for St. Eve. 
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madupont
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« Reply #1623 on: July 23, 2007, 11:45:46 AM »

For your benefit, this blog has been submitted for analysis to the Maimonides Hospital psychiatric department.
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barton
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« Reply #1624 on: July 23, 2007, 12:39:01 PM »

St. Eve's legal assistant, May Mona-Dees, was beside herself with worry.

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whiskeypriest
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« Reply #1625 on: July 23, 2007, 01:04:18 PM »

Which she had been able to accomplish solely by virtue of her secret expirements in human cloning
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desdemona222b
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« Reply #1626 on: July 23, 2007, 06:36:48 PM »

until she had ended up with just a head with a mouth on it, quite disgusting.

"I suppose you expect me not to go to the press with this," said a thin little man in green seersucker. 
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desdemona222b
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« Reply #1627 on: July 23, 2007, 06:39:15 PM »

Off topic: I was idly watching the end of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire on HBO, and I noticed the reconstituted Voldemort sniffing as if he was smelling the air.  The problem being, he has no nose.  If he has no nose, how does he smell?

No doubt he smells rather badly - I doubt that sort bathes regularly, my dear whiskey.
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barton
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« Reply #1628 on: July 24, 2007, 10:22:19 AM »

Essex wandered the outer ring of Fermilab calling out for St. Eve, in a clipped British accent that dropped syllables and rendered it as "Steve."  Distracted, he missed various warning signs, and stumbled directly over a giant buried accelerator magnet which pulled on various rivets, buttons, old trolley tokens, some Uzbeki currency which contained lots of ferrous metal alloys, and aristocratic bling, all with tremendous force and thus pulled him to the ground where he was pinned and helpless.

Bart, who was passing through en route to a bluegrass festival in Newfoundland, spotted the wriggling man and came over to see if he could help.  Wearing only a faded teeshirt and copper-riveted jeans, he felt the magnet's tug only as a mild depression and sense of world-weary ennui, as the iron molecules in his blood were urged downwards toward his feet by the laws of physics. 

"The first thing you need to do," said Bart, "is...

 
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martinbeck3
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« Reply #1629 on: July 24, 2007, 10:40:06 AM »

...breath deeply,then as I pull you exhale and if it hurta you are fobidden to swear or say any 4 letter-word.Long lettered words like gadalmitee are permitted...
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martinbeck3
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« Reply #1630 on: July 24, 2007, 10:42:15 AM »

note the 1st. (A is S just typing with my thumb)
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desdemona222b
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« Reply #1631 on: July 24, 2007, 11:21:43 AM »

the first thing you need to do is say "Uncle".

"Dash it all, you fool," cried Essex.  "Do you KNOW who I am?  I am the great-grand-son forty times removed from Edward III!"

"Say "Uncle", you
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martinbeck3
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« Reply #1632 on: July 24, 2007, 11:43:59 AM »

say Uncle and smile you bastard!
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martinbeck3
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« Reply #1633 on: July 24, 2007, 11:52:32 AM »

UNCLE! ONCLE! TIO! ZIO! FADDER/MOTTER BRODDER!
"Now grab my foot and pull me out if thee pleases"
"See I am the descendant of this guy:

   http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0405094/plotsummary

There fore I am related to one Whiskey-Preest who was the Konfessor to a certain Sekt of the Search Feature, whci BYTW would be gladly appreciated if included in this here blog".
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barton
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« Reply #1634 on: July 25, 2007, 10:12:53 AM »

"Remove your pants," said Bart, "and I think you can free yourself."

"Free myself in what sense," said the Earl of Essex, and winked.  The family gift of good humour under duress had reasserted itself.  He wriggled out of his pants and managed to stand, though the supermagnet still tugged painfully on his horrible British teeth and his garter snaps.

"Did you just spell humor with a 'u', sir?" asked Bart, looking around nervously.

"What the bloody hell are you talking about?" asked Essex.  "We are characters within the narrative, not observers of the meta-narrative, you dolt!"

"Don't call me a dolt," said Bart, fingering his

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