Thought; if someone loses and gets an embarrassing custom title, if they WIN another week, it gets taken away.
What but I want the scar of my first loss to be there for eternity, so when I'm rich and famous for my potato-based low fantasy epic heptalogy I can look back at it and weep.
Also I'm signing up.
|# ¿ Aug 9, 2012 04:44|
|# ¿ Mar 23, 2019 02:52|
Oh no you don't talk about my word per day, sir, I am sickened by your fast typing privilege.
Man, it's really hard to write shorter. This is the perfect spot to use The 10% Solution but I have no time because there is futurama to catch up
Man Who is Immune to Tranquilizers (986 words)
The anguished screams filled the room. It shakes the medical machines strewn everywhere around. He screamed louder, his body contortioned to respond to the everlasting pain. He looked around, noticing the lack of nurses or doctors. He tried to move his attention away from the sensation of a thousand burning belts on him.
A doctor entered the room, followed by a woman, clad in black lab coat. She looked around the room checking some of the machines. The doctor pulled her to the patient.
“You’re his last hope, Genada,” the doctor said. He gave her a folder filled with the man’s medical records. He tried restraining the man.
The woman browsed the papers. “Pain described as ‘crushed by snakes on fire’. So painful he hadn’t been able to sleep for three days. Shouldn’t he be in a hospital room?”
The man struggled free. His hands flew in random directions, almost hitting the doctor. “He refused to move to another bed. He made it himself.”
“He’s immune to them. Any dosage. Any kind. He is immune to all tranquilizers.”
Genada licked her upper lips. “Ah, that’s the unique part.”
She moved closer to the bed and grabbed the man’s wrist, pinning his left hand to the bed. The man convulsed some more, but her grip remained. She then placed her other hand on his chest and pushed it down. She looked at his eyes, ignoring the shriek.
“Is there something in his eyes?” the doctor asked.
“His eye colour didn’t change, so this is not Mendriff-Duecil. Not translucent either, so not Palandrote disease.”
“None of those diseases have the symptoms he expressed,” the doctor said.
“Sometimes diseases stack. To find the main disease, the other sickness must be removed.”
She lifted her hands. Instead of convulsing again, the patient became still, although his eyes are still open.
The woman then felt the neck, pushing her thumb into it while putting her ears on the man’s chest. Genada jumped back as the man screamed again moments later, followed by his body contorting. Cracks can be heard.
“What did you do to my patient?” the doctor asked.
“I simply override his pain response with fear. It had the side-effects of more harmful convulsions. Look,” she said, pointing to the man’s ankles, “it’s broken.”
“Why did you do that? You’re not here to add his pains!”
“I told you not to question my methods,” Genada said. “Besides, I’m getting closer to the cure. He didn’t have sagittarius.”
“You can’t tell he had super cancer just by listening to his heart!”
“Anyway, he needs to move to a different bed.”
“We can’t move him while he’s flailing around like that,” the doctor said.
“Yes, we need him to sleep.” Genada reached into the pockets of her coat and pulled a small box. She opened it and out came a needle, roughly thirty centimetres long. “Fire.” The doctor reached into one of the machines and pulled a metallic tube connected by cable. He turned on the machine and blue flames sparked from the tube. Genada pulled a cigarette, lighting it. The doctor did not ask any question.
“What are you going to do now?”
“Call your nurses to hold him down. I need his head to stay still for, say, ten seconds.”
The doctor pressed a button on a machine next to the bed. Within seconds five muscular nurses entered. Four of the nurses held each of the man’s limbs while the fifth climbed above him and held his head. Genada touched the man’s scalp. She grabbed the tip of the needle with her left index finger and thumb while her right palm is placed on the base of the needle.
“This is going to be a painful three seconds, sir,” Genada said. She pushed the needle into the head. The needle went through and soon all of it is inside. In three seconds, the man screamed his last anguish and closed his eyes.
The doctor ran towards Genada. “You stabbed him in the brain! You killed my patient!”
“I just put him to sleep,” Genada said. She ordered the nurses to leave. The doctor then saw the patient’s chest moving up and down.
“How did you do that?”
As Genada retracted her right hand, the needle is removed as well, as if stuck to her palm. She looked at the doctor and showed him the needle.
“Whoa,” the doctor said. The needle is special; it moved in several directions and able to split into multiple needles, until eventually they are too thin to see.
“Override his pain system, turn off all pain sensors, activate the sleep program, bob’s your uncle,” Genada said.
“That makes no sense,” the doctor said.
Genada shrugged and lifted the patient with ease. However, she soon dropped him and checked the mattress. She sighed. She looked at the doctor. “Take a blood sample and test his immune system. I have a theory.”
The man woke up. Something significant is missing from his life. His bed had changed. Also, his muscles no longer ache; he cannot felt the tentacles of an angry God anymore. He saw the doctor standing next to the bed, behind him a tall woman with green eyes.
“You’re in the hospital, Mr. Spud,” the doctor said. “You’re cured.”
“What caused it?” Spud asked.
Genada moved in front of the doctor, staring at Spud. “You are incredibly allergic to potatoes. Your pain is because you insist on sleeping on a bed made out of potato. To avoid further pain, stop sleeping on a potato bed. Or drinking from a potato mug. Or writing with potato pen. Avoid potatoes in general.”
“But doctor, I come from a family of potatocraftsmen. What else can I do?”
Genada looked at him. She pulled out a needle and stabbed herself in the forehead. “Let me check my database.” After a few seconds, she replied, “Try cucumber.”
|# ¿ Aug 10, 2012 03:19|
Oh no, I can't actually make puns! Will this kill off my chances in the Thunderdome? None of the future prompts are pun-related, right?
I thought there will be a bunch of people that don't matter? What happened to them? Are they forced to take another round in the Thunderdome until they either become the judge or lose?
only one shall remain standing.
judges are you wearing armor while judging these work
|# ¿ Aug 10, 2012 07:39|
Ugh, the wait is killing me.
That's the second most painful part of Thunderdome. There is more to this Thunderdome than just fast potato writing. Far more.
"THUNDEROME Potato Fic Competition 2012"
I think you misspelled something here.
|# ¿ Aug 11, 2012 23:15|
Oh no, there goes my battleship! I knew I shouldn't have bet all my supply of potatoes in this game. Thankfully my bishop is still there and I have a Wild Draw Four, everything will be alright.
v you bastard
|# ¿ Aug 11, 2012 23:59|
Congrats, Sitting Here! You skillful duck, you. Your observation of your position at a potato turns out to be true! You are truly the potatoest of all seers.
edit: there is no luck in the dome
|# ¿ Aug 12, 2012 02:38|
Yes, I should stop now. There are times for everything and now is the time to stop. However, I couldn’t stop at one ear bud. I picked another one from my box and began caressing her canal once more. This time, however, paranoia was beside me all along and the experience wasn’t as satisfying. Still, I now have two dirty buds, enough to get me through the night.
She approached me after she finished her exam. “You are good,” she said.
“Good in what?”
“You cleaned my ear that one night, didn’t you?”
I dropped whatever it is I was holding. I looked at her. “You…noticed?”
She looked at my eyes and laughed. “I woke up just as you finished doing it. I had no idea how to react, so I’ll let you go. But then, when I resumed studying, my head felt clearer! I then cleaned both my ears and would you believe it, I never felt more focused in my life!”
“Uh, yeah, I learned it from…my friends. Too much ear wax is bad for you.”
“She tapped me on the shoulder. “Well, as thanks, what do you want? Ask me anything.”
My heart beat rapidly. After a few seconds the question “can I clean your ears again” escaped my lips.
This path ends in 1050 words. I seem to have mistaken 'hateful' for 'creepy'.
|# ¿ Aug 20, 2012 06:24|
I'm a Muslim from Indonesia. However, I spent most of my formative years outside Java, whose culture this story used. I claim that as my defense.
Cord (1496 words)
The knocking in my door saved me from my nightmares. I briefly thought it was the headmaster waking us up for Tahajjud, but then I remembered I’m no longer a student.
“Mbah Dukun! Mbah Dukun! Help!”
I recognize that voice as the security guard. I stood up from my bed, moved the table of ingredients away and opened the door. There he was, shining a light into my face. “What happened?”
“Sari’s baby...Sari’s baby, she...just follow me!”
He grabbed my wrist and pulled me away from my house. It is then that I remembered not wearing sandals. I never walked barefoot.
As we entered Sari’s house I can hear prayers. It was so loud and genuine that I cringe. On the floor, above a single sheet of cotton, lay a black baby. The baby was silent but the chubby woman next to it was praying and, putting wet towels on his forehead. Next to the cotton sheet was a bowl filled with water.
“So what’s wrong?” I asked.
“The baby’s black!” the security guard said. “He wasn’t born that way. Also he had difficulty breathing!”
I leaned over to the baby, trying to ignore the woman’s sing-song prayers. “Shut up,” I said to her as I touched the baby. It was hot. It was as if he was being roasted.
I instantly thought of my clients, who complained about their stomach warming up at inopportune times.
“You stupid guard! Why aren’t you calling a doctor?” the woman said.
“The father’s going there! The nearest clinic is three hours from here,” the guard said, “So, I called Mbah Dukun.”
Of course, babies are the closest thing a normal human can get to the other world. It is common belief that infants can see and hear what adults don’t, could this baby feel it too? Could this baby feel the flames of hell?
“Stop touching him!” The woman slapped my hand away. “Your rotten hand must not near the baby.”
I asked her if she was the mother, turns out she was the midwife. The mother was sleeping, resting from the childbirth. I expressed my wish to see her. The midwife disagrees, saying that I will curse her with my lifestyle. The guard was on my side and I promised her not to touch the mother.
The mother was sleeping, clearly unaware of her baby’s situation. The midwife had decided not to wake her up, thinking that the stress would just kill her. I walked to the bed, with the midwife by my side. I pulled out a small mirror and put it in front of her face. In the mirror there was the exact same face.
She was not a charmed pregnant woman.
“Are you done?” the midwife asked. “Get out.”
I went out of the bedroom and asked the guard to borrow his light.
“What does Mbah want to do?” he asked.
I explained that I just want to consult the spirits for help. I then exited the house. The guard was taken aback and didn’t try to follow me.
The house was the usual shack. Bamboo walls with thatched roof and stone floor. There was a blue tarp strewn on the outside, used to protect bikes from the rain. The father must have used the bike. I went around the house, looking at the walls for any sign of curses. There’s not much to see if the whole house is cursed, but there is usually some sort of aura that can be felt on the air.
I went to the back of the house before I noticed something amiss on the ground. I shone the light and saw some barren pieces of earth, in the middle of a grass field. Someone had buried something. I claw through the dry soil with my left hand, pulling some grass roots away. On the hole I’ve dug I could see some red blotches. Blood.
Someone had stolen the umbilical cord. For eternal youth, most likely. The many at-home births in this village were a resource for those women. The baby is then cursed, probably because the shamans they contacted weren’t good enough. The blood from the cord may mix with the blood of the women, the incantation was improper, or the shaman may just be a deceitful one.
The guard walked into my sights. “What happened, Mbah?”
“I know why the baby turns that way.”
He looked impressed. “Why?”
As I explained the uses and abuses of umbilical cord, his expression did not change. “So the black skin is the curse?”
“The baby’s not black from the curse, but from hell fire. Whoever uses these charms will fall to Jahanam hell and as they get older and closer to death, they can feel the flames. These ends in nightmares, itches and other sorts of diseases. To save the baby, the curse must be lifted. For that, I need something from my house.”
“I can take it for you,” he said.
The sounds of a motorcycle overpowered my answer. I and the guard ran back to the front of the house, where I could see a man parking his motorcycle, followed by another man clad in a doctor’s coat.
I entered the house to see the doctor leaning over the baby, placing his stethoscope over the baby’s small chest. I walked to the man, who claimed to be the father.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m a shaman,” I said. He narrowed his eyes.
“Why are you in my house?”
“The guard called me. Do you want me to cure your child?”
“I’d rather trust a doctor than someone like you,” he said. “Allah will cure my son.”
“Of course he will. I will be leaving then.”
“We need to go to the hospital for this! His heart is beating too slowly and his skin is...”
I could smell rot. That baby cannot be saved anymore. Not even my powers would do.
The father wrapped the baby up in cloth. He lifted it and hand it to the doctor before running past me. The doctor followed suit and soon the two left, speeding through the village with enough noise to wake up some of the neighbour.
The guard was just standing there, confused at what just happened. I used the butt of his light to scratch my chin and there I smelled something. Something...weird. Something I had smelled before.
He did it. The guard stole the cord.
“Guard, will you come to my house?” I asked.
“Oh, but I really should go around, do my job,” he said.
“Just for a bit.”
As we returned back to my house, I closed the door and ordered him to sit down on the floor. I also sat down, across from him with a small table filled with my ‘trinkets’ between us. I stared at him and said, “Put your hands up.”
He did so. I grabbed his fingers and smelled it. It is faint, but the smell of blood is there.
“Your soap isn’t good enough to hide the scent of blood,” I said.
He pulled his hands away. “What do you mean, Mbah?”
“I didn’t expect a man to steal the cord. What do you use it for?”
“I don’t understand,” he said.
I picked up a glass of water from the table and splashed it to his face. “That water had been laced with spells. Can you feel the itch inside your stomach?”
He touched his stomach and scratched it. However, as he scratched it, the more intense the itch feels. He continued to scratch it until he finally stopped and looked at me, begging to stop the itch.
“What did you do?”
He confessed. He had asked another shaman about the powers of the umbilical cords and assumed the ritual was something he could do himself. He stole the cord just after the cord is buried, two hours before he woke me up. He did the ritual instantly after taking it out from the ground. Eventually he heard that the baby’s problem and went to the nearest shaman: me. He assumed I could heal the baby easily, without needing to know anything about the cord. After the ritual he threw away the cord into a nearby river.
“What’s going to happen to me?”
I pulled out a needle and stabbed one of his fingers, letting few drops of blood fall to a stone cup. I put in a powder made from cloves, the leaves of lime and the mucus of some trees and began chanting.
This kind of self-inflicted ritual doesn’t really accept ‘healing by other shaman’ in any way. The usual way to ‘cure’ this is...religion. I have no time for him to repent.
The spirits pulled him away.
Around dawn I saw the mother talking to the father before leaving together on their bike. Later that night they returned without the baby.
Flames filled my mouth and pain enveloped my black tongue.
Jahanam: Although the number of levels differ from wikipedia and my middle school textbook, this is the deepest level of hell.
Mbah: A way to refer to someone who is 1)older, 2)wiser, or 3)both.
"Inna lil-": He is trying to say this.
|# ¿ Aug 25, 2012 05:42|
Edit: I'm sorry for this stupid question I am not thinking
Because I found it hilarious I'm reading the story by Wrageowrapper. It's a bit loud, so be careful.
|# ¿ Aug 25, 2012 06:35|
Can I just say that you sound so very chill and the low volume actually adds excellent atmosphere? Because you sound so very chill and the low volume actually adds atmosphere.
|# ¿ Aug 25, 2012 11:38|
But in this week there's a tiny amount of mercy, done by extending the deadline. This doesn't bode well for the sake of the future weeks of the 'Dome.
Clearly what we need now is an especially cruel prompt with very tight deadline and stricter rules.
|# ¿ Aug 26, 2012 23:22|
The judges...have feelings? What
My feelings are hurt, and I need time for the wound to heal.
How can I sustain my belief that you are all metallic cyborg overlords now?
edit: also what happened to the name Nautatrol RX?
|# ¿ Aug 27, 2012 02:05|
Finally, week III is over! This was the hardest week so far and I've had unusually low expectation of my story. At least I am still among those faceless masses.
Also you three judges have different way of telling us your judgement and I appreciate that.
Long live Dome.
|# ¿ Aug 27, 2012 02:51|
I will once again attempt to be the winner in Thunderdome. What other option are there?
|# ¿ Aug 27, 2012 23:33|
toanoradian -- "Cord"
Goddammit this is a constant problem! I keep switching tenses. Until I fix this problem I will not have a chance at that beautiful throne...
|# ¿ Aug 28, 2012 06:47|
I think you misspelled something here.
You must declare your intention to compete by 7PM EST by tommorow, Tuesday.
|# ¿ Aug 28, 2012 14:23|
I guess the punishment will tech me not to try my luck with the judges' spelling. The next time the judges misspell (assuming such events will ever happen again) I shall assume the personality of a meek friend reading someone's Sailor Moon fanfic.
Am I still allowed to use the word 'comma'?
|# ¿ Aug 28, 2012 20:36|
Funeral for the Rest of the Europan Humankind
I am conflicted about how to feel about Jupiter. The biggest planet in the solar system could not fill the entire sky. I’d learned few months ago that pictures where Big Splotchy Orb reigned the night sky were camera tricks; a ‘lens thing’ that would impress viewers. In actuality Jupiter didn’t fill half my field of vision.
“For every human being who looks up at this moon in the nights to come will know that there is some corner of another world that is forever mankind.”
The end of the speech confirmed my xenophobia. My ears can only interpret their English as from another planet entirely; the syllables they choose to emphasize were almost always the wrong ones. But their heart was in it. They sincerely felt sad at the foreign corpses inside the coffins lining their home. Even though we suspected them. Even though we’ve attacked them. They spoke those words as if they mean something to us.
The main speaker started reciting the list of dead humans. I only recognized three names out of those 212. I hesitated on reminiscing about my relationships with them until their names had been spoken.
The main speaker spoke out the name of a janitor I once shared a cheese sandwich with.
The main speaker spoke out the name of a monk who once asked me where the nearest restroom was.
The main speaker spoke out the name of fellow laboratory user who died by ignoring safety precautions. My lab partner was always ignorant of such ‘bureaucratic non-scientific twaddle’.
I have no idea what to do during the recital of unfamiliar names. All I hope is that confusion can’t last 200 names; I must feel something by then. I tried to imagine the amazing paragraphs written by people on Earth to remember this tragedy. I then realized I can’t imagine well-written epitaphs.
I failed at imagining myself as the grieving family members.
I couldn’t push any water out of my eyes.
I looked at my boots and just went back to the memories of three months of preparation.
The workers stood up from their chairs after the 212nd name had been uttered. They lifted the coffins and inserted it into the rocket. After several failed attempts at helping them they finally impolitely asked me to leave it to them.
I can’t feel sad. I can’t distract myself from not feeling sad by doing things. I’m the last man on this moon and I can’t act human. What can I do then?
212 people. I am not familiar with most of them. How many females are there? At least two. How many are non-Singaporean? At least three. How many –ologies and –ologists are involved in this program? I have no clue.
212 pioneers. The first ones to discover civilization in Europa. The first ones to establish peaceful relationship with said civilization. Most of them are heroes. I should’ve lamented their deaths. It should not be hard for me to be sad over them. I should have cried waterfalls by now. I have the suit that allows me to do that without my tears freezing even in the minus 130 degrees atmosphere.
212 friends. I couldn’t cry over the death of 212 friends. My heart was not warmed by the Europans’ attempts at Earth funeral. Everyone besides me had prepared the stage for my theatrical display of sadness. I couldn’t do it.
Why couldn’t I?
Am I a psychopath?
Have my anti-social behaviour these past forty years shielded myself from human emotions?
Have I left my humanity on Earth?
What do these Europans have that I don’t? How could they cry at the deaths of people from an entirely different culture? It’s sickening. It’s annoying. It’s alien. They are empaths. They can probe into our memories and create perfect copy of our emotions. They are a hivemind that have absorbed all the culture from the literature we’ve brought. They don’t actually have solid forms; they are constructed from what we think humans should be.
Of course they’re loving not.
It’s just…the nature of living beings. Emotions. Sympathy. They all know how sad this should be.
So what is wrong with me?
I screamed. Thankfully, the tele-communicator inside my head-suit automatically cuts off noise above certain levels of loudness. No one can hear these screams of a confused man. I walked towards one of the coffins. This one bore the name of my lab partner. I kicked the coffin.
“What am I supposed to feel for you? Am I supposed to cry? Am I supposed to wail? What do you want from me? What do you expect from me?” I continued kicking the coffin that didn’t budge. “I don’t know you. I don’t know your birthday. I don’t even remember your last name! Don’t think I ever asked...”
One of the Europans pulled me away from the coffin.
“What am I supposed to do here?”
The Europan suggested that I should pray them luck for their afterlife travels. Hah. Like I know their religion. Like I know anything about religion. Like I ever cared. The best I could say is “May you go to Heaven.” And it’s not like I would be able to say that sincerely.
My eyes are still dry.
I cursed at this apathy. I cursed at my lack of social interactions. I cursed at myself. These useless curses can’t even lift my spirits.
The final coffin had finally been inserted into the rocket. Then the musicians began their magic. The ice under the rocket melted from the ignition. And soon they would soar towards the Big Splotchy Orb. The rocket would then explode in Jupiter’s atmosphere and send the ashes towards any of the coloured storms.
I watched as the rest of humankind stationed on Europa flew towards Jupiter. In about 41 hours I will be the only Homo sapiens left on Europa.
My eyes are still dry.
|# ¿ Sep 2, 2012 15:50|
Oh, so it's that kind of motorcycle "ride".
i hope you're okay Erik Shawn-Bohner
|# ¿ Sep 4, 2012 11:14|
If you write about something being trapped in Gary Numan, you're gross. Bonus points from me if you're scientifically accurate though. Be careful, I literally know everything about Gary Numan's left sciatic nerve.
|# ¿ Sep 5, 2012 02:24|
Observation from Judging Judges' Chamber of Judgement: Entirely too many cats. I blame Martello.
|# ¿ Sep 6, 2012 01:31|
Bzzt. Low content smiley. One point deducted.
|# ¿ Sep 6, 2012 04:26|
These past two weeks the judges had been lazy in their administration. Don't they know that this is unacceptable? I am different. I will pay close attention to you, my dear babies.
WEEK V OF THUNDERDOME
GREETINGS, PEOPLE OF THE FUTURE
So you decided to look at Thunderdome challenges of the old, huh? I salute you! Just be careful, I heard reading too many Thunderdome entries will make you want to enter Thunderdome!
Martello's original Challenge Post was a piece of literary incompetence, so he had chosen to link you instead to this much better list of contestants. Sadly, by the time I wrote this I didn't write the prompt because it was just two pages ago! I can't let you Future People down, so I shall replicate the prompt as it was written:
Fucksticks, this week the prompt is to write a not-awful loving story that involves Gary Numan's goddamn life, motherfucking lifestyle, the themes and structure of his cuntlicking music, or based on one of his cocksucking songs specifically. Except the loving song "Cars." You can't write about that one, at all, because all of you filthy cunts have heard it so it makes it too loving easy. IN ADDITION to but not DIRECTLY RELATED to Gary Numan, you must also write the lovely loving story about being trapped, somewhere. It doesn't have to be a specific physical place, but it can be. It could be a space station, a 50-gallon drum being slowly filled with gasoline, the protagonist's head, another character's head, or whatever stupid bullshit thing you want the character to be trapped in. Have fun writing the goddamn story, you miserable loving bloodrags.
Contestants, hotlinked and ALPHABETIZED:
Yes you can. Though not changing. You're bound to your choice.
Can I do that?
|# ¿ Sep 6, 2012 05:40|
Your list is bad. For the previous weeks it stood because it's the only list, but not this week. Not under my watch. Only the strongest list will remain.
Oh yeah, there it is.
I've listened to Sister Surprise now, and I've also Googled the lyrics, and I still have no idea what it's about,
From this quote alone I can tell that the song is about personification of R. L. Stine's dreams. Please insert Monster Blood to your story.
Sister Surprise Lyrics posted:
|# ¿ Sep 6, 2012 22:47|
It is shameful that I have been this sloppy in terms of administration. It is even more shameful that no one utilized this poor regulation.
Deadline for entry is Thursday, 6 2100 EST SEP 2012.
Entry is now closed.
For those who are now suffering in the Thunderdome, give me stories. Give me stories to itemize, to alphabetize and to rankize. I hunger for items.
|# ¿ Sep 7, 2012 02:47|
Spent the whole day sneaking a peek at Judges' journals. Discover that areyoucontagious slept with stuffed gnomes by his side. It acts as replacement kidney.
|# ¿ Sep 8, 2012 00:20|
Less than 24 hours before submissions deadline
Those lazy 71.42% should be careful. My expectations of your quality decreases by the hour.
|# ¿ Sep 8, 2012 02:40|
gently caress. I've gotta leave the house, so I'm not going to finish before deadline. Here's the incompleteness. May Thunderdome recognize that I went down swinging.
I've got you in my list. That is all that matters.
DID YOU KNOW: Stuporstar is officially classified as Category 6 mecha-hurricane? From CANADA? Literally, the worst thing.
|# ¿ Sep 8, 2012 23:53|
Thank you for the contestants for submitting their entries. I really appreciate your stories. In fact, let me say something about each of you beautiful contestants and your magnificent products. I think you can lean from this which story I hated the least
kangaroojunk, your God of War/The Office crossover sucks
Fanky Malloons, your scathing criticism of traditional publishing method in scientific journals sucks
Wrageowrapper, your 'unique' sitcom pilot script sucks
Benagain, your motel room review sucks
swaziloo, your walkthrough for Getting Lost in Big City Simulation sucks
SurreptitiousMuffin, your "boy who cries wolf" remake sucks
Y Kant Ozma Post, your heartwarming duck porn sucks
Chairchucker, your terrible pseudo-horror for teens sucks
Capntastic, your rocket-launcher user manual sucks
Sitting Here, your confusing Kingdom Hearts plot analysis sucks
sebmojo, your self-aware goon diary entry sucks
Baudolino, your anti-millipede screed sucks
Seldom Post, your dust explosion fetish piece sucks
Nyarai, I thought you were a . Also your house gardening advice sucks
TequilaJesus, your Super Slap Chop advertisement sucks
HiddenGecko, your Farting Superblob #337 transcript sucks
budgieinspector, your robot hobo adventures sucks
Noah, your insider document on how Nielsen really creates its rating sucks
Dr. Kloctopussy, your insight about the status of flower-selling business sucks
Black Griffon, your bureaucratic free bread agreement sucks
Now off to the proper judging.
|# ¿ Sep 9, 2012 01:35|
No, I couldn’t stop now. It would be a waste of hypnotic drugs. I just need to make sure I’m a bit more careful. I inserted a new bud into her canal, looking for her ear membrane, the limit of my exploration. While doing it my left hand wandered to her left ear, pressing the lobe between my fingers. Her lobe felt cool and soft. I continued brushing against the walls of her inner ear, pulling it out to smell the wax occasionally to soothe this rapidly beating heart. Two buds and the night remained still, time remained silent. Three buds and the smell of wax filled me whole. Three and a half buds, my disappointment soared as her right ear was now clean. I moved to the other side of the bed, preparing a fresh set of four buds to satiate me. I held down my rapid breathing, not wanting any other sensation to disturb the perfection of my sister’s wax.
Its taste remained divine through the night, its smell fantastic.
My mother’s earlobes were not attached. She had been really busy this month, too.
This path has 1023 words.
For the sake of Thunderdome I licked a dirty cotton bud.
|# ¿ Sep 9, 2012 01:37|
You should've dissed Goosebumps before you start your story. That is like minus 20+99i points, so you're hosed in several dimensions.
|# ¿ Sep 10, 2012 01:05|
Three guest judges? Oh wow, this is unprecedented in the long, long history of the Thunderdome! Also I think Week VI had the highest amount of contestants, too. Truly this Week is full of wonderful things.
I'm in for Week VII, whatever the prompt.
|# ¿ Sep 17, 2012 00:23|
Should I run this week's challenge by the other two or just let 'er rip?
On one hand there is the spirit of democracy. On the other you won and the two others are first losers.
I say, as an ex-judge (thus more smart than normal rabble), you should consult the two.
|# ¿ Sep 17, 2012 02:05|
Hey, who knows, maybe SurreptitiousMuffin should rule alone, maybe the other judges are just looking for a life beyond Thunderdome.
That's foul move, Mr. Griffon!
(honestly I have no idea what's this 'beyond thunderdome' is all about)
|# ¿ Sep 17, 2012 02:53|
I was more wondering about the joke itself, but that video is pretty okay too.
So guys, what kind of silly hats are you planning to use? I'm planning on propeller hat.
|# ¿ Sep 17, 2012 03:43|
When I saw that SurreptitiousMuffin was one of the judges, I instantly think "Oh, poo poo, poetry is going to be in this." So I went ahead and borrowed Stephen Fry's The Ode Less Travelled and was reading it when I saw the prompt posted. For once I am not surprised.
Doesn't change the fact that for me poetry is another language entirely though. This is going to be a tough week.
I asked last week if anyone knew the cantata I was riffing off and noone answered.
if it's on neither, it's phyric.
I think there are misspellings here.
|# ¿ Sep 17, 2012 06:11|
All future complaints about this round must be presented in iambic pentameter.
God gently caress poo poo drat flippety bastard dumbass
gently caress me, this 'metre' business fries my brain!
Constraint is good, but this is more stifling
SurreptitiousMuffin, you poopyhead
Just like Fanky Malloons and Bad Seafood
(not my submission)
|# ¿ Sep 18, 2012 21:12|
Oh c'mon. It's babby's first meter.
A question about the deadline. By 'midnight' you mean 00:00, the time it shifted to the next 'day', yes? Just making sure.
VV Right. Thanks.
|# ¿ Sep 18, 2012 22:02|
Grumble grumble all poetry are dicks
to even think, but dicker more to write
(submission starts here)
Two things I need to remember, simple
To keep in mind: It’s A and some other
It’s all in here, written in the good List
Of things to buy, which I can get right now
I have money to purchase the items
I believe it’s A, with another of sort
My memories are well-built, the best sort
Ah, yes. From list: it’s A and B. Simple
To memorize. I need to buy items
All for my husband, my precious Other
No time to hesitate, Shop opens now
I bring my pouch of gold, but left the List
Convinced in myself that it’s fine; no List
Is good. This fog in me is plain to sort
I need some B, I understand it now
I miss nothing, no fear, keep it simple
No thing is left, just B, not another
I only need to obtain hat-like items.
B codes for ‘hats’, our favourite items
Our collection is rather long to list
Ushankas, capuchons and some other
Beautiful hats. For fun we like to sort
Through them, but he likes fancy, me simple
Focus please, just buy hats, that’s all for now
My head is fuzzy, fog-filled mess, but now
I have no distraction, just seek items
Of low and yet beautiful worth. Simple!
There is nothing I forgot in the List
The shopkeeper person is the nice sort
No List is fine; I know there’s no other
Stuff I need. I’m sure, hats and no other
Shopkeeper doubts me, what can he do now?
Although unsure, he shows the hats, with sort
of colours red and gold, the best items
I thought through foggy headspace, for the list
of hats we’ve owned. Buy a new hat. Simple.
Too bad there’s another. Not all items
That I have now fulfills the shopping list
For faults of this sort, eat fruit hats. Simple.
(submission ends here)
Gurrargh and blargh, I said. This week is hard.
At least no rhyming is necessary
If it's too difficult for you sunshine, try a loving sestina.
|# ¿ Sep 20, 2012 21:43|
|# ¿ Mar 23, 2019 02:52|
Well, holy poo poo, Black Griffon. I guess the chillest plains hide the -est monsters.
|# ¿ Sep 20, 2012 23:01|