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| Thread ID: 109300 | 2010-05-02 05:57:00 | It was a dark and stormy night Competition | WalOne (4202) | PC World Chat |
| Post ID | Timestamp | Content | User | ||
| 881906 | 2010-05-06 06:21:00 | . . . four days long. (They don't make dreams like they used to - time was you could have a dream with four alternate endings and eight different distressed damsels before your eyelids had properly closed. Resource consents killed all that. ) Meanwhile, our hero realised his wallet had gone, and he discovered what conning tower really meant. Grimly determined to have his revenge, he ripped the flimsy plug from the defenceless sink and watched with quiet satisfaction as water and potato peelings bubbled up from unknown dark, dank, and donk depths. He stealthily made his exit, but not before putting a "No Exit" sign by the conning tower hatch, glancing back at the sleeping crew, he turned off the lights and left. He swam swiftly to the beach and presented a magnificent parrot to the first maiden he encountered. "Madam, allow me to present Hector, parrot in chief to the stars and half the crowned heads of Europe. May I point out that the inhabitants hereabouts have a nasty habit of sacrificing innocent maidens by throwing them in the volcano. I am Mr. Fixit." |
R2x1 (4628) | ||
| 881907 | 2010-05-06 06:28:00 | The so called Mr Fixit was actually from Monty Python and was nicknamed Mt Breakit. | pcuser42 (130) | ||
| 881908 | 2010-05-06 07:19:00 | And so Robinson Crusoe found himself once more marooned on the island, with little chance of rescue, or even a decent adventure while his fate was still being determined by one-liners devoid of plot or purpose, beyond increasing a pathetic post-count. "Damnation", he said, "a golden opportunity to escape from that most unsatisfactory relationship with the goat and to simultaneously land in fresh and fertile lands from which equally fertile minds might create fresh and challenging story lines has been squandered! May the beast known only as pcwinvista develop an imagination, and quickly, or better, suffer a core meltdown." Re-acquainting himself with the goat, for want of any other avenue of relief, he wondered perhaps if he should become a Mason, given that he had ridden the goat more than the requisite number of times to qualify, but cast that aside as lost symbols were very hard to find on deserted islands. So, musing, Robinson lay back on the sand and contemplated the star-lit sky and the orb of the moon. Suddenly, a shadow passed across the face of the moon, then a shapeless black mass swooped down, ominously close to him and in a flash the goat was swept away and gone forever. Bereft, Robinson wandered the island for many days searching for any sign of his lost companion, but all he found was a fragment of tail hanging from a thorny bush. If only it could speak, what a tale that tail could have told, of............... |
Billy T (70) | ||
| 881909 | 2010-05-06 07:24:00 | ..amazing and wonderful things, including... | pcuser42 (130) | ||
| 881910 | 2010-05-06 07:58:00 | ...including all the happenings that had occured on the island. Some of which included the Sailing Night Mare... a wonderous hope for wayward lost sailors. | Greg (193) | ||
| 881911 | 2010-05-06 07:59:00 | the tale of a post count obsessed flitter trying desperately to escape the clutches of Vista. Most people grow out of it pretty quickly, but not all. The goats tail fragment was laboriously soaked in a broth of wild honey and fermented mangoes in an endeavour to clone something companionable. A short seven months later the tale of the tail tailed off due to it being incorporated in a vat of newly re-discovered mead. With a bit of lateral thinking on the other side, the modern Crusoe was able to devise a primitive telescope; climbing to the highest point of the island he invented the emergency fire service when his lens just fortuitously landed at the right angle to kindle the grass using the power of the midday sun. As they packed up their equipment the fire chief presented Crusoe with an itemised bill for "Fires, one, Extinguishing." Pointing out that money was a bit short in that area, Crusoe offered to trade a bowl of Mead. Donning his other hat as Alcoholic Beverage Meadiator" the chief placed Crusoe under arrest, loaded him in the Fire Boat and returned to the Fire Wharf. After serving three days in the galleys reading proofs, Crusoe was a free man, but sans goat, sans mattress, and feeling completely uteless. Resting his chin on his hand, he sat on a bankside Bollard, gazing into the distance until he was apprehended by a Rodin Control Officer. |
R2x1 (4628) | ||
| 881912 | 2010-05-06 07:59:00 | The Sailing Night Mare was in the form of a familiar piece of fruit... (Who's editing? :p) |
pcuser42 (130) | ||
| 881913 | 2010-05-06 08:35:00 | Talking about food, he realised he was quite hungry. No real food for months on that island. We aren't going to mention that goat and why it was not eaten as he realised that line of thinking is a tad ... OTT. He spotted a supermarket nearby and decided to stock up before heading off on his adventure, ah mission. Five hours later he managed to drag himself away from the self-checkout isle ... that barcode scanner with its red lights and the super shiny scale was sooo hypnotic. He swore he had only been in front of the check out counter for 3 minutes. Hang on, what if some magical time warp had occurred? Maybe the Earth's magnetic poles had reversed?!? Fearing the worse, he decided to investigate. |
Jen (38) | ||
| 881914 | 2010-05-06 08:49:00 | The race relations consillyater galloped into town on his favourite yak with sabres gleaming and pennants fluttering. He had heard that someone had hinted about Poles being backward. His eyes had a steely glint - clang! the steel was magnetised by the poles backing up and he couldn't even manage to be his normal one eyed self. Off to the Trentham races he went for some consolation, but fell at the Quins post hurdle, a well known stumbling point. Meanwhile Clusoe realised where he had gone wrong with the bar code scanner and hied him hence to a Bar for some heavy code scanning. Alas, his internal gyros had toppled due to a shortage of goat oil - a pivotal failure. Passing a few red lights, he found himself in Ponsonby - goats in all directions. Springing off to the west he saw a Chevalier, but couldn't see the point. Was our man doomed to go up the Whau without a paddle? | R2x1 (4628) | ||
| 881915 | 2010-05-06 08:54:00 | But then he woke up, and realised all his supposed realities were simply dreams. | Greg (193) | ||
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