Epic Mutant Storytelling, One by One

games
61

Once upon a midnight queasy dank, lugubrious shadows skittered across the uneven floor of the cobweb-ridden yacht. Nothing stirred, not even a Russian oligarch. In the years since it was fashionable to dance a little bit ago, I was nonetheless moved by sea shanties. And so were my bowels.

And yet, I persisted in my quest to master the fabled Muffled Glockenspiel of Dar-Tanyon; its dulcet tones to soothe my inner rage and subdue my outer passion. I grasped the ebony mallets and I braced for impact.

After a moment of waiting, I added two more moments, making a total of three. Max quota achieved, I then plinked out Pachelbel’s Canon shakily in a Hindustani time signature. As the last note faded, I pensively reflected on the preceding few months, which had to be fifty years long. Odd; such was my distraction that I failed to notice the wretched accumulation of gelatinous fingers wriggling lasciviously inside the cabin across the passageway.

A querulous voice rose above, “Henry, is that you darling?”

The sound of chimes accompanied the swirl of her nightgown. “Yes, it’s me. New nightgown?”

“EBay, daaahling. Isn’t it exquisite?”

While I admired Margaret’s taste, something about the ensemble seemed too steampunk and too pink for such an ominous night. Rubbing my eyes in disbelief I wondered where the lifeboat – the one carrying Tallulah Bankhead (cryogenically frozen) — would get power drinks, fortified with non-GMO carbs, to infuse into her vein. After all, her body was twisted, elongated, roundabout, and humble.

Her woeful form, dashed upon the rocks below the lighthouse, like her – solitary and worn down revealing decades of trauma.

So it was murder! Most foul!!

Turns out, Wikipedia was correct in at least one respect: a banana is a berry. And that proved instrumental in the banana split we ate

5 Likes
62

Once upon a midnight queasy dank, lugubrious shadows skittered across the uneven floor of the cobweb-ridden yacht. Nothing stirred, not even a Russian oligarch. In the years since it was fashionable to dance a little bit ago, I was nonetheless moved by sea shanties. And so were my bowels.

And yet, I persisted in my quest to master the fabled Muffled Glockenspiel of Dar-Tanyon; its dulcet tones to soothe my inner rage and subdue my outer passion. I grasped the ebony mallets and I braced for impact.

After a moment of waiting, I added two more moments, making a total of three. Max quota achieved, I then plinked out Pachelbel’s Canon shakily in a Hindustani time signature. As the last note faded, I pensively reflected on the preceding few months, which had to be fifty years long. Odd; such was my distraction that I failed to notice the wretched accumulation of gelatinous fingers wriggling lasciviously inside the cabin across the passageway.

A querulous voice rose above, “Henry, is that you darling?”

The sound of chimes accompanied the swirl of her nightgown. “Yes, it’s me. New nightgown?”

“EBay, daaahling. Isn’t it exquisite?”

While I admired Margaret’s taste, something about the ensemble seemed too steampunk and too pink for such an ominous night. Rubbing my eyes in disbelief I wondered where the lifeboat – the one carrying Tallulah Bankhead (cryogenically frozen) — would get power drinks, fortified with non-GMO carbs, to infuse into her vein. After all, her body was twisted, elongated, roundabout, and humble.

Her woeful form, dashed upon the rocks below the lighthouse, like her – solitary and worn down revealing decades of trauma.

So it was murder! Most foul!!

Turns out, Wikipedia was correct in at least one respect: a banana is a berry. And that proved instrumental in the banana split we ate as an unexpected light flashed

6 Likes
63

Once upon a midnight queasy dank, lugubrious shadows skittered across the uneven floor of the cobweb-ridden yacht. Nothing stirred, not even a Russian oligarch. In the years since it was fashionable to dance a little bit ago, I was nonetheless moved by sea shanties. And so were my bowels.

And yet, I persisted in my quest to master the fabled Muffled Glockenspiel of Dar-Tanyon; its dulcet tones to soothe my inner rage and subdue my outer passion. I grasped the ebony mallets and I braced for impact.

After a moment of waiting, I added two more moments, making a total of three. Max quota achieved, I then plinked out Pachelbel’s Canon shakily in a Hindustani time signature. As the last note faded, I pensively reflected on the preceding few months, which had to be fifty years long. Odd; such was my distraction that I failed to notice the wretched accumulation of gelatinous fingers wriggling lasciviously inside the cabin across the passageway.

A querulous voice rose above, “Henry, is that you darling?”

The sound of chimes accompanied the swirl of her nightgown. “Yes, it’s me. New nightgown?”

“EBay, daaahling. Isn’t it exquisite?”

While I admired Margaret’s taste, something about the ensemble seemed too steampunk and too pink for such an ominous night. Rubbing my eyes in disbelief I wondered where the lifeboat – the one carrying Tallulah Bankhead (cryogenically frozen) — would get power drinks, fortified with non-GMO carbs, to infuse into her vein. After all, her body was twisted, elongated, roundabout, and humble.

Her woeful form, dashed upon the rocks below the lighthouse, like her – solitary and worn down revealing decades of trauma.

So it was murder! Most foul!!

Turns out, Wikipedia was correct in at least one respect: a banana is a berry. And that proved instrumental in the banana split we ate as an unexpected light flashed on the fish finder. Behold,

6 Likes
64

Once upon a midnight queasy dank, lugubrious shadows skittered across the uneven floor of the cobweb-ridden yacht. Nothing stirred, not even a Russian oligarch. In the years since it was fashionable to dance a little bit ago, I was nonetheless moved by sea shanties. And so were my bowels.

And yet, I persisted in my quest to master the fabled Muffled Glockenspiel of Dar-Tanyon; its dulcet tones to soothe my inner rage and subdue my outer passion. I grasped the ebony mallets and I braced for impact.

After a moment of waiting, I added two more moments, making a total of three. Max quota achieved, I then plinked out Pachelbel’s Canon shakily in a Hindustani time signature. As the last note faded, I pensively reflected on the preceding few months, which had to be fifty years long. Odd; such was my distraction that I failed to notice the wretched accumulation of gelatinous fingers wriggling lasciviously inside the cabin across the passageway.

A querulous voice rose above, “Henry, is that you darling?”

The sound of chimes accompanied the swirl of her nightgown. “Yes, it’s me. New nightgown?”

“EBay, daaahling. Isn’t it exquisite?”

While I admired Margaret’s taste, something about the ensemble seemed too steampunk and too pink for such an ominous night. Rubbing my eyes in disbelief I wondered where the lifeboat – the one carrying Tallulah Bankhead (cryogenically frozen) — would get power drinks, fortified with non-GMO carbs, to infuse into her vein. After all, her body was twisted, elongated, roundabout, and humble.

Her woeful form, dashed upon the rocks below the lighthouse, like her – solitary and worn down revealing decades of trauma.

So it was murder! Most foul!!

Turns out, Wikipedia was correct in at least one respect: a banana is a berry. And that proved instrumental in the banana split we ate as an unexpected light flashed on the fish finder. Behold, just look at it! It’s

6 Likes
65

Once upon a midnight queasy dank, lugubrious shadows skittered across the uneven floor of the cobweb-ridden yacht. Nothing stirred, not even a Russian oligarch. In the years since it was fashionable to dance a little bit ago, I was nonetheless moved by sea shanties. And so were my bowels.

And yet, I persisted in my quest to master the fabled Muffled Glockenspiel of Dar-Tanyon; its dulcet tones to soothe my inner rage and subdue my outer passion. I grasped the ebony mallets and I braced for impact.

After a moment of waiting, I added two more moments, making a total of three. Max quota achieved, I then plinked out Pachelbel’s Canon shakily in a Hindustani time signature. As the last note faded, I pensively reflected on the preceding few months, which had to be fifty years long. Odd; such was my distraction that I failed to notice the wretched accumulation of gelatinous fingers wriggling lasciviously inside the cabin across the passageway.

A querulous voice rose above, “Henry, is that you darling?”

The sound of chimes accompanied the swirl of her nightgown. “Yes, it’s me. New nightgown?”

“EBay, daaahling. Isn’t it exquisite?”

While I admired Margaret’s taste, something about the ensemble seemed too steampunk and too pink for such an ominous night. Rubbing my eyes in disbelief I wondered where the lifeboat – the one carrying Tallulah Bankhead (cryogenically frozen) — would get power drinks, fortified with non-GMO carbs, to infuse into her vein. After all, her body was twisted, elongated, roundabout, and humble.

Her woeful form, dashed upon the rocks below the lighthouse, like her – solitary and worn down revealing decades of trauma.

So it was murder! Most foul!!

Turns out, Wikipedia was correct in at least one respect: a banana is a berry. And that proved instrumental in the banana split we ate as an unexpected light flashed on the fish finder. Behold, just look at it! It’s… Person? Woman? Man? Camera? TV?

9 Likes
66

Once upon a midnight queasy dank, lugubrious shadows skittered across the uneven floor of the cobweb-ridden yacht. Nothing stirred, not even a Russian oligarch. In the years since it was fashionable to dance a little bit ago, I was nonetheless moved by sea shanties. And so were my bowels.

And yet, I persisted in my quest to master the fabled Muffled Glockenspiel of Dar-Tanyon; its dulcet tones to soothe my inner rage and subdue my outer passion. I grasped the ebony mallets and I braced for impact.

After a moment of waiting, I added two more moments, making a total of three. Max quota achieved, I then plinked out Pachelbel’s Canon shakily in a Hindustani time signature. As the last note faded, I pensively reflected on the preceding few months, which had to be fifty years long. Odd; such was my distraction that I failed to notice the wretched accumulation of gelatinous fingers wriggling lasciviously inside the cabin across the passageway.

A querulous voice rose above, “Henry, is that you darling?”

The sound of chimes accompanied the swirl of her nightgown. “Yes, it’s me. New nightgown?”

“EBay, daaahling. Isn’t it exquisite?”

While I admired Margaret’s taste, something about the ensemble seemed too steampunk and too pink for such an ominous night. Rubbing my eyes in disbelief I wondered where the lifeboat – the one carrying Tallulah Bankhead (cryogenically frozen) — would get power drinks, fortified with non-GMO carbs, to infuse into her vein. After all, her body was twisted, elongated, roundabout, and humble.

Her woeful form, dashed upon the rocks below the lighthouse, like her – solitary and worn down revealing decades of trauma.

So it was murder! Most foul!!

Turns out, Wikipedia was correct in at least one respect: a banana is a berry. And that proved instrumental in the banana split we ate as an unexpected light flashed on the fish finder. Behold, just look at it! It’s… Person? Woman? Man? Camera? TV?

I threw Margaret overboard to

7 Likes
67

Once upon a midnight queasy dank, lugubrious shadows skittered across the uneven floor of the cobweb-ridden yacht. Nothing stirred, not even a Russian oligarch. In the years since it was fashionable to dance a little bit ago, I was nonetheless moved by sea shanties. And so were my bowels.

And yet, I persisted in my quest to master the fabled Muffled Glockenspiel of Dar-Tanyon; its dulcet tones to soothe my inner rage and subdue my outer passion. I grasped the ebony mallets and I braced for impact.

After a moment of waiting, I added two more moments, making a total of three. Max quota achieved, I then plinked out Pachelbel’s Canon shakily in a Hindustani time signature. As the last note faded, I pensively reflected on the preceding few months, which had to be fifty years long. Odd; such was my distraction that I failed to notice the wretched accumulation of gelatinous fingers wriggling lasciviously inside the cabin across the passageway.

A querulous voice rose above, “Henry, is that you darling?”

The sound of chimes accompanied the swirl of her nightgown. “Yes, it’s me. New nightgown?”

“EBay, daaahling. Isn’t it exquisite?”

While I admired Margaret’s taste, something about the ensemble seemed too steampunk and too pink for such an ominous night. Rubbing my eyes in disbelief I wondered where the lifeboat – the one carrying Tallulah Bankhead (cryogenically frozen) — would get power drinks, fortified with non-GMO carbs, to infuse into her vein. After all, her body was twisted, elongated, roundabout, and humble.

Her woeful form, dashed upon the rocks below the lighthouse, like her – solitary and worn down revealing decades of trauma.

So it was murder! Most foul!!

Turns out, Wikipedia was correct in at least one respect: a banana is a berry. And that proved instrumental in the banana split we ate as an unexpected light flashed on the fish finder. Behold, just look at it! It’s… Person? Woman? Man? Camera? TV?

I threw Margaret overboard to the surprise of no one.

4 Likes
68

Once upon a midnight queasy dank, lugubrious shadows skittered across the uneven floor of the cobweb-ridden yacht. Nothing stirred, not even a Russian oligarch. In the years since it was fashionable to dance a little bit ago, I was nonetheless moved by sea shanties. And so were my bowels.

And yet, I persisted in my quest to master the fabled Muffled Glockenspiel of Dar-Tanyon; its dulcet tones to soothe my inner rage and subdue my outer passion. I grasped the ebony mallets and I braced for impact.

After a moment of waiting, I added two more moments, making a total of three. Max quota achieved, I then plinked out Pachelbel’s Canon shakily in a Hindustani time signature. As the last note faded, I pensively reflected on the preceding few months, which had to be fifty years long. Odd; such was my distraction that I failed to notice the wretched accumulation of gelatinous fingers wriggling lasciviously inside the cabin across the passageway.

A querulous voice rose above, “Henry, is that you darling?”

The sound of chimes accompanied the swirl of her nightgown. “Yes, it’s me. New nightgown?”

“EBay, daaahling. Isn’t it exquisite?”

While I admired Margaret’s taste, something about the ensemble seemed too steampunk and too pink for such an ominous night. Rubbing my eyes in disbelief I wondered where the lifeboat – the one carrying Tallulah Bankhead (cryogenically frozen) — would get power drinks, fortified with non-GMO carbs, to infuse into her vein. After all, her body was twisted, elongated, roundabout, and humble.

Her woeful form, dashed upon the rocks below the lighthouse, like her – solitary and worn down revealing decades of trauma.

So it was murder! Most foul!!

Turns out, Wikipedia was correct in at least one respect: a banana is a berry. And that proved instrumental in the banana split we ate as an unexpected light flashed on the fish finder. Behold, just look at it! It’s… Person? Woman? Man? Camera? TV?

I threw Margaret overboard to the surprise of no one.
Yet deep in the depths

5 Likes
69

Once upon a midnight queasy dank, lugubrious shadows skittered across the uneven floor of the cobweb-ridden yacht. Nothing stirred, not even a Russian oligarch. In the years since it was fashionable to dance a little bit ago, I was nonetheless moved by sea shanties. And so were my bowels.

And yet, I persisted in my quest to master the fabled Muffled Glockenspiel of Dar-Tanyon; its dulcet tones to soothe my inner rage and subdue my outer passion. I grasped the ebony mallets and I braced for impact.

After a moment of waiting, I added two more moments, making a total of three. Max quota achieved, I then plinked out Pachelbel’s Canon shakily in a Hindustani time signature. As the last note faded, I pensively reflected on the preceding few months, which had to be fifty years long. Odd; such was my distraction that I failed to notice the wretched accumulation of gelatinous fingers wriggling lasciviously inside the cabin across the passageway.

A querulous voice rose above, “Henry, is that you darling?”

The sound of chimes accompanied the swirl of her nightgown. “Yes, it’s me. New nightgown?”

“EBay, daaahling. Isn’t it exquisite?”

While I admired Margaret’s taste, something about the ensemble seemed too steampunk and too pink for such an ominous night. Rubbing my eyes in disbelief I wondered where the lifeboat – the one carrying Tallulah Bankhead (cryogenically frozen) — would get power drinks, fortified with non-GMO carbs, to infuse into her vein. After all, her body was twisted, elongated, roundabout, and humble.

Her woeful form, dashed upon the rocks below the lighthouse, like her – solitary and worn down revealing decades of trauma.

So it was murder! Most foul!!

Turns out, Wikipedia was correct in at least one respect: a banana is a berry. And that proved instrumental in the banana split we ate as an unexpected light flashed on the fish finder. Behold, just look at it! It’s… Person? Woman? Man? Camera? TV?

I threw Margaret overboard to the surprise of no one.
Yet deep in the depths she came up screaming, despite

5 Likes
70

Once upon a midnight queasy dank, lugubrious shadows skittered across the uneven floor of the cobweb-ridden yacht. Nothing stirred, not even a Russian oligarch. In the years since it was fashionable to dance a little bit ago, I was nonetheless moved by sea shanties. And so were my bowels.

And yet, I persisted in my quest to master the fabled Muffled Glockenspiel of Dar-Tanyon; its dulcet tones to soothe my inner rage and subdue my outer passion. I grasped the ebony mallets and I braced for impact.

After a moment of waiting, I added two more moments, making a total of three. Max quota achieved, I then plinked out Pachelbel’s Canon shakily in a Hindustani time signature. As the last note faded, I pensively reflected on the preceding few months, which had to be fifty years long. Odd; such was my distraction that I failed to notice the wretched accumulation of gelatinous fingers wriggling lasciviously inside the cabin across the passageway.

A querulous voice rose above, “Henry, is that you darling?”

The sound of chimes accompanied the swirl of her nightgown. “Yes, it’s me. New nightgown?”

“EBay, daaahling. Isn’t it exquisite?”

While I admired Margaret’s taste, something about the ensemble seemed too steampunk and too pink for such an ominous night. Rubbing my eyes in disbelief I wondered where the lifeboat – the one carrying Tallulah Bankhead (cryogenically frozen) — would get power drinks, fortified with non-GMO carbs, to infuse into her vein. After all, her body was twisted, elongated, roundabout, and humble.

Her woeful form, dashed upon the rocks below the lighthouse, like her – solitary and worn down revealing decades of trauma.

So it was murder! Most foul!!

Turns out, Wikipedia was correct in at least one respect: a banana is a berry. And that proved instrumental in the banana split we ate as an unexpected light flashed on the fish finder. Behold, just look at it! It’s… Person? Woman? Man? Camera? TV?

I threw Margaret overboard to the surprise of no one.
Yet deep in the depths she came up screaming, despite the Fisherman’s Friend I’d put

4 Likes
71

Once upon a midnight queasy dank, lugubrious shadows skittered across the uneven floor of the cobweb-ridden yacht. Nothing stirred, not even a Russian oligarch. In the years since it was fashionable to dance a little bit ago, I was nonetheless moved by sea shanties. And so were my bowels.

And yet, I persisted in my quest to master the fabled Muffled Glockenspiel of Dar-Tanyon; its dulcet tones to soothe my inner rage and subdue my outer passion. I grasped the ebony mallets and I braced for impact.

After a moment of waiting, I added two more moments, making a total of three. Max quota achieved, I then plinked out Pachelbel’s Canon shakily in a Hindustani time signature. As the last note faded, I pensively reflected on the preceding few months, which had to be fifty years long. Odd; such was my distraction that I failed to notice the wretched accumulation of gelatinous fingers wriggling lasciviously inside the cabin across the passageway.

A querulous voice rose above, “Henry, is that you darling?”

The sound of chimes accompanied the swirl of her nightgown. “Yes, it’s me. New nightgown?”

“EBay, daaahling. Isn’t it exquisite?”

While I admired Margaret’s taste, something about the ensemble seemed too steampunk and too pink for such an ominous night. Rubbing my eyes in disbelief I wondered where the lifeboat – the one carrying Tallulah Bankhead (cryogenically frozen) — would get power drinks, fortified with non-GMO carbs, to infuse into her vein. After all, her body was twisted, elongated, roundabout, and humble.

Her woeful form, dashed upon the rocks below the lighthouse, like her – solitary and worn down revealing decades of trauma.

So it was murder! Most foul!!

Turns out, Wikipedia was correct in at least one respect: a banana is a berry. And that proved instrumental in the banana split we ate as an unexpected light flashed on the fish finder. Behold, just look at it! It’s… Person? Woman? Man? Camera? TV?

I threw Margaret overboard to the surprise of no one.
Yet deep in the depths she came up screaming, despite the Fisherman’s Friend I’d only jested to replace her

5 Likes
72

Once upon a midnight queasy dank, lugubrious shadows skittered across the uneven floor of the cobweb-ridden yacht. Nothing stirred, not even a Russian oligarch. In the years since it was fashionable to dance a little bit ago, I was nonetheless moved by sea shanties. And so were my bowels.

And yet, I persisted in my quest to master the fabled Muffled Glockenspiel of Dar-Tanyon; its dulcet tones to soothe my inner rage and subdue my outer passion. I grasped the ebony mallets and I braced for impact.

After a moment of waiting, I added two more moments, making a total of three. Max quota achieved, I then plinked out Pachelbel’s Canon shakily in a Hindustani time signature. As the last note faded, I pensively reflected on the preceding few months, which had to be fifty years long. Odd; such was my distraction that I failed to notice the wretched accumulation of gelatinous fingers wriggling lasciviously inside the cabin across the passageway.

A querulous voice rose above, “Henry, is that you darling?”

The sound of chimes accompanied the swirl of her nightgown. “Yes, it’s me. New nightgown?”

“EBay, daaahling. Isn’t it exquisite?”

While I admired Margaret’s taste, something about the ensemble seemed too steampunk and too pink for such an ominous night. Rubbing my eyes in disbelief I wondered where the lifeboat – the one carrying Tallulah Bankhead (cryogenically frozen) — would get power drinks, fortified with non-GMO carbs, to infuse into her vein. After all, her body was twisted, elongated, roundabout, and humble.

Her woeful form, dashed upon the rocks below the lighthouse, like her – solitary and worn down revealing decades of trauma.

So it was murder! Most foul!!

Turns out, Wikipedia was correct in at least one respect: a banana is a berry. And that proved instrumental in the banana split we ate as an unexpected light flashed on the fish finder. Behold, just look at it! It’s… Person? Woman? Man? Camera? TV?

I threw Margaret overboard to the surprise of no one.
Yet deep in the depths she came up screaming, despite the Fisherman’s Friend I’d only jested to replace her with. Somehow the Pod-People

5 Likes
73

Once upon a midnight queasy dank, lugubrious shadows skittered across the uneven floor of the cobweb-ridden yacht. Nothing stirred, not even a Russian oligarch. In the years since it was fashionable to dance a little bit ago, I was nonetheless moved by sea shanties. And so were my bowels.

And yet, I persisted in my quest to master the fabled Muffled Glockenspiel of Dar-Tanyon; its dulcet tones to soothe my inner rage and subdue my outer passion. I grasped the ebony mallets and I braced for impact.

After a moment of waiting, I added two more moments, making a total of three. Max quota achieved, I then plinked out Pachelbel’s Canon shakily in a Hindustani time signature. As the last note faded, I pensively reflected on the preceding few months, which had to be fifty years long. Odd; such was my distraction that I failed to notice the wretched accumulation of gelatinous fingers wriggling lasciviously inside the cabin across the passageway.

A querulous voice rose above, “Henry, is that you darling?”

The sound of chimes accompanied the swirl of her nightgown. “Yes, it’s me. New nightgown?”

“EBay, daaahling. Isn’t it exquisite?”

While I admired Margaret’s taste, something about the ensemble seemed too steampunk and too pink for such an ominous night. Rubbing my eyes in disbelief I wondered where the lifeboat – the one carrying Tallulah Bankhead (cryogenically frozen) — would get power drinks, fortified with non-GMO carbs, to infuse into her vein. After all, her body was twisted, elongated, roundabout, and humble.

Her woeful form, dashed upon the rocks below the lighthouse, like her – solitary and worn down revealing decades of trauma.

So it was murder! Most foul!!

Turns out, Wikipedia was correct in at least one respect: a banana is a berry. And that proved instrumental in the banana split we ate as an unexpected light flashed on the fish finder. Behold, just look at it! It’s… Person? Woman? Man? Camera? TV?

I threw Margaret overboard to the surprise of no one.
Yet deep in the depths she came up screaming, despite the Fisherman’s Friend I’d only jested to replace her with. Somehow the Pod-People, were not amused, but I

3 Likes
74

[quote=“DonatellaNobody, post:73, topic:220072, full:true”]
Once upon a midnight queasy dank, lugubrious shadows skittered across the uneven floor of the cobweb-ridden yacht. Nothing stirred, not even a Russian oligarch. In the years since it was fashionable to dance a little bit ago, I was nonetheless moved by sea shanties. And so were my bowels.

And yet, I persisted in my quest to master the fabled Muffled Glockenspiel of Dar-Tanyon; its dulcet tones to soothe my inner rage and subdue my outer passion. I grasped the ebony mallets and I braced for impact.

After a moment of waiting, I added two more moments, making a total of three. Max quota achieved, I then plinked out Pachelbel’s Canon shakily in a Hindustani time signature. As the last note faded, I pensively reflected on the preceding few months, which had to be fifty years long. Odd; such was my distraction that I failed to notice the wretched accumulation of gelatinous fingers wriggling lasciviously inside the cabin across the passageway.

A querulous voice rose above, “Henry, is that you darling?”

The sound of chimes accompanied the swirl of her nightgown. “Yes, it’s me. New nightgown?”

“EBay, daaahling. Isn’t it exquisite?”

While I admired Margaret’s taste, something about the ensemble seemed too steampunk and too pink for such an ominous night. Rubbing my eyes in disbelief I wondered where the lifeboat – the one carrying Tallulah Bankhead (cryogenically frozen) — would get power drinks, fortified with non-GMO carbs, to infuse into her vein. After all, her body was twisted, elongated, roundabout, and humble.

Her woeful form, dashed upon the rocks below the lighthouse, like her – solitary and worn down revealing decades of trauma.

So it was murder! Most foul!!

Turns out, Wikipedia was correct in at least one respect: a banana is a berry. And that proved instrumental in the banana split we ate as an unexpected light flashed on the fish finder. Behold, just look at it! It’s… Person? Woman? Man? Camera? TV?

I threw Margaret overboard to the surprise of no one.
Yet deep in the depths she came up screaming, despite the Fisherman’s Friend I’d only jested to replace her with. Somehow the Pod-People, were not amused, but I laughed; leaky nitrous oxide bottle.

5 Likes
75

Once upon a midnight queasy dank, lugubrious shadows skittered across the uneven floor of the cobweb-ridden yacht. Nothing stirred, not even a Russian oligarch. In the years since it was fashionable to dance a little bit ago, I was nonetheless moved by sea shanties. And so were my bowels.

And yet, I persisted in my quest to master the fabled Muffled Glockenspiel of Dar-Tanyon; its dulcet tones to soothe my inner rage and subdue my outer passion. I grasped the ebony mallets and I braced for impact.

After a moment of waiting, I added two more moments, making a total of three. Max quota achieved, I then plinked out Pachelbel’s Canon shakily in a Hindustani time signature. As the last note faded, I pensively reflected on the preceding few months, which had to be fifty years long. Odd; such was my distraction that I failed to notice the wretched accumulation of gelatinous fingers wriggling lasciviously inside the cabin across the passageway.

A querulous voice rose above, “Henry, is that you darling?”

The sound of chimes accompanied the swirl of her nightgown. “Yes, it’s me. New nightgown?”

“EBay, daaahling. Isn’t it exquisite?”

While I admired Margaret’s taste, something about the ensemble seemed too steampunk and too pink for such an ominous night. Rubbing my eyes in disbelief I wondered where the lifeboat – the one carrying Tallulah Bankhead (cryogenically frozen) — would get power drinks, fortified with non-GMO carbs, to infuse into her vein. After all, her body was twisted, elongated, roundabout, and humble.

Her woeful form, dashed upon the rocks below the lighthouse, like her – solitary and worn down revealing decades of trauma.

So it was murder! Most foul!!

Turns out, Wikipedia was correct in at least one respect: a banana is a berry. And that proved instrumental in the banana split we ate as an unexpected light flashed on the fish finder. Behold, just look at it! It’s… Person? Woman? Man? Camera? TV?

I threw Margaret overboard to the surprise of no one. Yet deep in the depths she came up screaming, despite the Fisherman’s Friend I’d only jested to replace her with. Somehow the Pod-People, were not amused, but I laughed; leaky nitrous oxide bottle.

Yet the banana she pocketed

5 Likes
76

Once upon a midnight queasy dank, lugubrious shadows skittered across the uneven floor of the cobweb-ridden yacht. Nothing stirred, not even a Russian oligarch. In the years since it was fashionable to dance a little bit ago, I was nonetheless moved by sea shanties. And so were my bowels.

And yet, I persisted in my quest to master the fabled Muffled Glockenspiel of Dar-Tanyon; its dulcet tones to soothe my inner rage and subdue my outer passion. I grasped the ebony mallets and I braced for impact.

After a moment of waiting, I added two more moments, making a total of three. Max quota achieved, I then plinked out Pachelbel’s Canon shakily in a Hindustani time signature. As the last note faded, I pensively reflected on the preceding few months, which had to be fifty years long. Odd; such was my distraction that I failed to notice the wretched accumulation of gelatinous fingers wriggling lasciviously inside the cabin across the passageway.

A querulous voice rose above, “Henry, is that you darling?”

The sound of chimes accompanied the swirl of her nightgown. “Yes, it’s me. New nightgown?”

“EBay, daaahling. Isn’t it exquisite?”

While I admired Margaret’s taste, something about the ensemble seemed too steampunk and too pink for such an ominous night. Rubbing my eyes in disbelief I wondered where the lifeboat – the one carrying Tallulah Bankhead (cryogenically frozen) — would get power drinks, fortified with non-GMO carbs, to infuse into her vein. After all, her body was twisted, elongated, roundabout, and humble.

Her woeful form, dashed upon the rocks below the lighthouse, like her – solitary and worn down revealing decades of trauma.

So it was murder! Most foul!!

Turns out, Wikipedia was correct in at least one respect: a banana is a berry. And that proved instrumental in the banana split we ate as an unexpected light flashed on the fish finder. Behold, just look at it! It’s… Person? Woman? Man? Camera? TV?

I threw Margaret overboard to the surprise of no one. Yet deep in the depths she came up screaming, despite the Fisherman’s Friend I’d only jested to replace her with. Somehow the Pod-People, were not amused, but I laughed; leaky nitrous oxide bottle.

Yet the banana she pocketed inflated, helping her to stay

4 Likes
77

Once upon a midnight queasy dank, lugubrious shadows skittered across the uneven floor of the cobweb-ridden yacht. Nothing stirred, not even a Russian oligarch. In the years since it was fashionable to dance a little bit ago, I was nonetheless moved by sea shanties. And so were my bowels.

And yet, I persisted in my quest to master the fabled Muffled Glockenspiel of Dar-Tanyon; its dulcet tones to soothe my inner rage and subdue my outer passion. I grasped the ebony mallets and I braced for impact.

After a moment of waiting, I added two more moments, making a total of three. Max quota achieved, I then plinked out Pachelbel’s Canon shakily in a Hindustani time signature. As the last note faded, I pensively reflected on the preceding few months, which had to be fifty years long. Odd; such was my distraction that I failed to notice the wretched accumulation of gelatinous fingers wriggling lasciviously inside the cabin across the passageway.

A querulous voice rose above, “Henry, is that you darling?”

The sound of chimes accompanied the swirl of her nightgown. “Yes, it’s me. New nightgown?”

“EBay, daaahling. Isn’t it exquisite?”

While I admired Margaret’s taste, something about the ensemble seemed too steampunk and too pink for such an ominous night. Rubbing my eyes in disbelief I wondered where the lifeboat – the one carrying Tallulah Bankhead (cryogenically frozen) — would get power drinks, fortified with non-GMO carbs, to infuse into her vein. After all, her body was twisted, elongated, roundabout, and humble.

Her woeful form, dashed upon the rocks below the lighthouse, like her – solitary and worn down revealing decades of trauma.

So it was murder! Most foul!!

Turns out, Wikipedia was correct in at least one respect: a banana is a berry. And that proved instrumental in the banana split we ate as an unexpected light flashed on the fish finder. Behold, just look at it! It’s… Person? Woman? Man? Camera? TV?

I threw Margaret overboard to the surprise of no one. Yet deep in the depths she came up screaming, despite the Fisherman’s Friend I’d only jested to replace her with. Somehow the Pod-People, were not amused, but I laughed; leaky nitrous oxide bottle.

Yet the banana she pocketed inflated, helping her to stay afloat: just look at it!

4 Likes
78

Once upon a midnight queasy dank, lugubrious shadows skittered across the uneven floor of the cobweb-ridden yacht. Nothing stirred, not even a Russian oligarch. In the years since it was fashionable to dance a little bit ago, I was nonetheless moved by sea shanties. And so were my bowels.

And yet, I persisted in my quest to master the fabled Muffled Glockenspiel of Dar-Tanyon; its dulcet tones to soothe my inner rage and subdue my outer passion. I grasped the ebony mallets and I braced for impact.

After a moment of waiting, I added two more moments, making a total of three. Max quota achieved, I then plinked out Pachelbel’s Canon shakily in a Hindustani time signature. As the last note faded, I pensively reflected on the preceding few months, which had to be fifty years long. Odd; such was my distraction that I failed to notice the wretched accumulation of gelatinous fingers wriggling lasciviously inside the cabin across the passageway.

A querulous voice rose above, “Henry, is that you darling?”

The sound of chimes accompanied the swirl of her nightgown. “Yes, it’s me. New nightgown?”

“EBay, daaahling. Isn’t it exquisite?”

While I admired Margaret’s taste, something about the ensemble seemed too steampunk and too pink for such an ominous night. Rubbing my eyes in disbelief I wondered where the lifeboat – the one carrying Tallulah Bankhead (cryogenically frozen) — would get power drinks, fortified with non-GMO carbs, to infuse into her vein. After all, her body was twisted, elongated, roundabout, and humble.

Her woeful form, dashed upon the rocks below the lighthouse, like her – solitary and worn down revealing decades of trauma.

So it was murder! Most foul!!

Turns out, Wikipedia was correct in at least one respect: a banana is a berry. And that proved instrumental in the banana split we ate as an unexpected light flashed on the fish finder. Behold, just look at it! It’s… Person? Woman? Man? Camera? TV?

I threw Margaret overboard to the surprise of no one. Yet deep in the depths she came up screaming, despite the Fisherman’s Friend I’d only jested to replace her with. Somehow the Pod-People, were not amused, but I laughed; leaky nitrous oxide bottle.

Yet the banana she pocketed inflated, helping her to stay afloat: just look at it! Thank goodness. USCG approved fruit!

2 Likes
79

Once upon a midnight queasy dank, lugubrious shadows skittered across the uneven floor of the cobweb-ridden yacht. Nothing stirred, not even a Russian oligarch. In the years since it was fashionable to dance a little bit ago, I was nonetheless moved by sea shanties. And so were my bowels.

And yet, I persisted in my quest to master the fabled Muffled Glockenspiel of Dar-Tanyon; its dulcet tones to soothe my inner rage and subdue my outer passion. I grasped the ebony mallets and I braced for impact.

After a moment of waiting, I added two more moments, making a total of three. Max quota achieved, I then plinked out Pachelbel’s Canon shakily in a Hindustani time signature. As the last note faded, I pensively reflected on the preceding few months, which had to be fifty years long. Odd; such was my distraction that I failed to notice the wretched accumulation of gelatinous fingers wriggling lasciviously inside the cabin across the passageway.

A querulous voice rose above, “Henry, is that you darling?”

The sound of chimes accompanied the swirl of her nightgown. “Yes, it’s me. New nightgown?”

“EBay, daaahling. Isn’t it exquisite?”

While I admired Margaret’s taste, something about the ensemble seemed too steampunk and too pink for such an ominous night. Rubbing my eyes in disbelief I wondered where the lifeboat – the one carrying Tallulah Bankhead (cryogenically frozen) — would get power drinks, fortified with non-GMO carbs, to infuse into her vein. After all, her body was twisted, elongated, roundabout, and humble.

Her woeful form, dashed upon the rocks below the lighthouse, like her – solitary and worn down revealing decades of trauma.

So it was murder! Most foul!!

Turns out, Wikipedia was correct in at least one respect: a banana is a berry. And that proved instrumental in the banana split we ate as an unexpected light flashed on the fish finder. Behold, just look at it! It’s… Person? Woman? Man? Camera? TV?

I threw Margaret overboard to the surprise of no one. Yet deep in the depths she came up screaming, despite the Fisherman’s Friend I’d only jested to replace her with. Somehow the Pod-People, were not amused, but I laughed; leaky nitrous oxide bottle.

Yet the banana she pocketed inflated, helping her to stay afloat: just look at it! Thank goodness. USCG approved fruit! If she had really drowned

3 Likes
80

Once upon a midnight queasy dank, lugubrious shadows skittered across the uneven floor of the cobweb-ridden yacht. Nothing stirred, not even a Russian oligarch. In the years since it was fashionable to dance a little bit ago, I was nonetheless moved by sea shanties. And so were my bowels.

And yet, I persisted in my quest to master the fabled Muffled Glockenspiel of Dar-Tanyon; its dulcet tones to soothe my inner rage and subdue my outer passion. I grasped the ebony mallets and I braced for impact.

After a moment of waiting, I added two more moments, making a total of three. Max quota achieved, I then plinked out Pachelbel’s Canon shakily in a Hindustani time signature. As the last note faded, I pensively reflected on the preceding few months, which had to be fifty years long. Odd; such was my distraction that I failed to notice the wretched accumulation of gelatinous fingers wriggling lasciviously inside the cabin across the passageway.

A querulous voice rose above, “Henry, is that you darling?”

The sound of chimes accompanied the swirl of her nightgown. “Yes, it’s me. New nightgown?”

“EBay, daaahling. Isn’t it exquisite?”

While I admired Margaret’s taste, something about the ensemble seemed too steampunk and too pink for such an ominous night. Rubbing my eyes in disbelief I wondered where the lifeboat – the one carrying Tallulah Bankhead (cryogenically frozen) — would get power drinks, fortified with non-GMO carbs, to infuse into her vein. After all, her body was twisted, elongated, roundabout, and humble.

Her woeful form, dashed upon the rocks below the lighthouse, like her – solitary and worn down revealing decades of trauma.

So it was murder! Most foul!!

Turns out, Wikipedia was correct in at least one respect: a banana is a berry. And that proved instrumental in the banana split we ate as an unexpected light flashed on the fish finder. Behold, just look at it! It’s… Person? Woman? Man? Camera? TV?

I threw Margaret overboard to the surprise of no one. Yet deep in the depths she came up screaming, despite the Fisherman’s Friend I’d only jested to replace her with. Somehow the Pod-People, were not amused, but I laughed; leaky nitrous oxide bottle.

Yet the banana she pocketed inflated, helping her to stay afloat: just look at it! Thank goodness. USCG approved fruit! If she had really drowned I would be sore afraid

2 Likes