Here, have a fun link:

You plug in some parameters, and it writes you a short story. It all sounds reasonable (and sane) enough when you're filling in the little boxes, but once you click "go", somehow it all falls apart...

Two Reserved Uncles Ski-ing to the Beat
A Short Story
by swordznsorcery

George Smith was thinking about Humphrey Hubert again. Humphrey was a funny juggler with swarthy fingers and blue-eyed toes.

George walked over to the window and reflected on his empty surroundings. He had always loved loud Liverpool, with its creepy, crispy confetti. It was a place that encouraged his tendency to feel angry.

Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the funny figure of Humphrey Hubert.

George gulped. He glanced at his own reflection. He was a noisy, upbeat tea-drinker, with red fingers and tanned toes. His friends saw him as a tasty, tender tiger. Once, he had even brought a hard choirboy back from the brink of death.

But not even a noisy person who had once brought a hard choirboy back from the brink of death was prepared for what Humphrey had in store today.

The wet teased like fighting koalas, making George quiet. George grabbed a flat walking stick that had been strewn nearby; he massaged it with his fingers.

As George stepped outside and Humphrey came closer, he could see the fried glint in his eye.

"I am here because I want bananas," Humphrey bellowed, in a quick-tempered tone. He slammed his fist against George's chest, with the force of 7685 mice. "I frigging love you, George Smith."

George looked back, even more quiet and still fingering the flat walking stick. "Humphrey, squeak," he replied.

They looked at each other with happy feelings, like two soft, spewmungous sharks running at a very moody barmitzvah, which had rock music playing in the background, and two reserved uncles ski-ing to the beat.

Suddenly, Humphrey lunged forward and tried to punch George in the face. Quickly, George grabbed the flat walking stick, and brought it down on Humphrey's skull.

Humphrey's swarthy fingers trembled and his blue-eyed toes wobbled. He looked sharp, his body raw like a flat, forgotten flower.

Then he let out an agonising groan and collapsed onto the ground. Moments later Humphrey Hubert was dead.

George Smith went back inside and made himself a nice cup of tea.

The End

Alas, poor Humphrey, and his blue-eyed toes - led astray by his love of bananas. The less said about the hard choirboy though, the better. Most likely.
heartonsnow: (Default)

From: [personal profile] heartonsnow

This is like a story written by a dyslexic person. (No offence intended)
heartonsnow: (Default)

From: [personal profile] heartonsnow

I have had many pen friends who translate things literally and get words totally wrong!!!

If you don't believe me, read this breadbasket.


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