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Write me a Knee-Slapper

AlexanderQ posted this thread...
Oct. 14, 2013 at 1:31 am

This is my first shot at hosting a contest so here goes! In the form of a comment on this post, introduce to me a quirky, hilarious character and the plot that he/she would follow. This can be written in any form (e.g. paragraph, bullet pointed list, etc.) but the idea is to make me hysterical with laughter through your writing. In one week on October 20 I will post the results. Hope you have fun writing!
1st place: I will read and comment on 5 pieces of your work (your choice or random)
2nd place: I will read and comment on 3 pieces of your work (your choice or random)
3rd place: I will read and comment on 1 piece of your work (your choice or random)
If you don't have that many pieces of work to your name, I will try to make the comments more extensive. Thank you all for participating and happy writing!!!

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GreekGoddess replied...
Oct. 17, 2013 at 9:22 am

Looks like fun! I'll try to get on tonight and post one :)

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AlexanderQ replied...
Oct. 18, 2013 at 11:56 pm

Thanks for looking into it! I can't wait to read what you have to write! Also I will be extending the time period of the contest to three weeks ending in November. Thanks!

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Corin_Willow replied...
Dec. 6, 2013 at 6:27 pm

Two muffins are baking in an oven. One says "Boy, it sure is hot in here." The other replies, "GAH A TALKING MUFFIN!!!!!"

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Brisa replied...
Dec. 7, 2013 at 6:55 am

My name is Angelina Clarisse LePountre.
It's French. All of it.
My story? Well, it doesn't involve a whole lot of people besides my mom, Gena, and my cat, Poofy.
So don't expect a soap opera, is what I'm saying indirectly. I've been practicing the fine art of being indirect; Gena says it's a necessary social skill, right up there with flirting. Obviously I'm going to have to cope without the latter, because that just takes too much of what I like to call brown-nosing. Which is the other critical tool of interaction my dear mother exemplifies; ironically, it never seems to make her List Of Things Angie Should Learn.
Bleh. I digress.
So yesterday Julie McHough (that stupider, shorter, prettier version of Lucifer) called me a freak again. She's jealous because she possess zero originality. I proceeded to tell her so.
Well, remember what I said about practicing indirectness? It completely slipped my mind and for about five minutes and seventeen seconds I let loose. Not only did I inform her of her exceedingly bland personality, but I ALSO went so far as to proclaim her hair to require higher maintenance than the Eiffel Tower (Wicked, self congratulatory smirk).

But I didn't stop there.
The girl stared dumbfounded as I VERY DIRECTLY stated the following facts:
She has the laugh of a gerbil on helium.
Her mascara could tar Interstate I9.
The pink of her Converses doubles as an SOS flare.
The average GPA of her many boyfriends ADDED TOGETHER is roughly equivalent to the number of bananas in my house! ZERO! BECAUSE I LOATHE BANANAS!!
All of these things I said to her.
And I regret none. As I walked away, the white silence of an old battlefield, I smiled.
Sometimes I knock my own fuzzy socks right off.
Over and out, Angelina Clarisse LePountre.

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AlexanderQ replied...
Dec. 7, 2013 at 8:57 pm

Thanks for posting! My favorite line was the one about the bananas!

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GreekGoddess replied...
Dec. 13, 2013 at 9:54 am

I'd like to sumit my story Christmas Now and Forever from my page :), promiss it is fun to read :)

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jacobelicramer replied...
Feb. 3, 2014 at 8:31 am

Hahaha, great story! Very enjoyable :)

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alice.is.falling replied...
Feb. 4, 2014 at 8:29 pm

I strolled up to the doors of Douchalla High, a smile plastered on my freckled face.  New school, new torture, I assumed.  Maybe it was my gaping front teeth that gave people the need to call me a hillbilly at every single school I got transferred to.  Or maybe it was the fact that I wore overalls with Uggs.  Every typical white girl at every typical school seemed to think it a disgrace for Uggs to be wore in such a manner.  
          I do not consider myself a "white girl".  I am a proud tan girl.  Tan meaning, so covered in freckles it makes my skin a few shades closer to being brown.  Not that anyone mistakes me for being african american or anything.  
          I clenched a starbucks cup tight in my hand, focusing on my name, La-a, scribbled in sloppy cursive on the side.  Another thought occured to me as I headed into my first class.  What if people made fun of me because of my name?  
"Alright we have a new student today class," the teacher said lazily.  "Give a warm welcome to...." He scrunched his eyebrows in confusion, and struggled to try to pronounce my name. "Lahh, Ah?"  He guessed and students snickered around the room.
"Actually its La-dash-a, ya know Ladasha?" I said and the room errupted in laughter.  I heard murmurs of "ghetto" and "is she a product of some redneck gang?" 
My mom seemed to think giving me, starbucks, Uggs, and a sparkly pink cell phone would help me fit in. Wrong.
I missed old Cletus back at the farm.  That pig was the best racing pig I had ever ridden.  He won me 20 bucks once at the Redneck Olympics.  
I turned and noticed the girl sitting next to me, scoot her desk a couple inches in the opposite direction with a derisive sniff. 
I cleared my throat.
The girl glared at me, "What?" she snapped.
"Are you a raccoon?" I asked simply.
"OMG, how inbred are you? Of course im not a raccoon!" 
"Then what in tarnations are those black rings around your eyes?" I gestured to her black eyeliner and even blacker eyeshadow and mascara circling her eyeballs.
The girl narrowed her eyes in anger.
"Don't do that!" I said quickly.  "A bear might think your sleeping and have you for dinner.  Better keep those eyes as wide open as you can, because I hunt raccoons for their fur.  You got perty fur."  I touched her blonde hair and she screamed, swatting me away.  The class was roaring with laughter.

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Feb. 5, 2014 at 9:09 pm

This is called, The Diary of a High School Cryptozoologist. It's part of a larger novel I'm writing.

To anyone who was smart enough to figure out that this was not, in fact, a Math textbook, but a diary:

Just because you’re smart doesn’t automatically mean that I like you. For all I know, you could be the super-powerful arch nemesis I didn’t know I had. But I can care less whether you’re reading my diary, given that there’s really nothing of value in its pages save my laments for the lost art of bigfooting that I phrase in the form of angry rants. Frankly, if I hate you, then there’s nothing in here that I wouldn’t say to your face if I haven’t already. But before you start skimming -- the only form of reading our society’s pathetic dependence on factoids and blog feeds allows us the time and opportunity to do -- I would like to offer you a bit of warning.
Do not expect a two dimensional story full of one-dimensional people where the only thing our hero is conscious of is the clear social hierarchy of popularity that she actually succeeds in overcoming by the end. Where she picks up a boyfriend along the way who is kind-hearted, rougishly handsome, loves puppies, and adores her despite the presence of a flirtatious popular girl who is so obviously defined as the villain that it’s toe-curling.
Second, I will under no circumstances be held responsible for any remote attempts to mimic my high school experience. I don’t know why you would want to do that, as my high school experience was pretty much a living hell, but if for some reason you want to know what it’s like to be pitched into a soap opera where you constantly have to play the psychologist despite the fact that no one listens to you anyway, be my guest. But if you’re the type who’s afraid of chipping a nail as you go about your daily business, I suggest you avoid high school altogether.
Of course, you could always wear plastic bags over your hands every day and try to convince people that you’re a germophobe and not just excessively vain, but that’s a different story, which brings me to my final warning.
The statistics I gathered in my head after a day in new student orientation show that seventy-five percent of students and faculty in Syler County day school don’t believe in bigfoot. Not that I’ll force you to believe in bigfoot or anything like some sort of facist cult, but if you find the prospect of sasquatches offending to your sense of superiority over all other species on the planet, then I suggest you stop reading now.
Otherwise, carry on to the details of my lack of a social life and the crush I don’t have on the boy whose existence is entirely unknown to me.

Asteria Mire

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