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October 25, 2006


Today's theme was a reader suggestion, so thanks to the person who left this in the suggestion box.

Imagine a character who had an unusual occupation, and an urgent reason for telling us about it. Now, in 100 words, let the character speak.

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Tanya: Working Lunch

She heard “Excuse me, miss,” and glanced at him with a barely concealed sneer.


She ignored him, but noticed that he didn’t leave. He moved closer, slowly. “Miss? I’m with the…”

“Look!” she snapped, “I know it’s a public park, but I’m trying to work. So take your petition or your survey or your begging, and hit the road. Get lost.” She rolled her eyes and turned away.

“Miss,” he whispered, “I’m the carnivore handler from the zoo. I need you to be very still.”

Her eyes watered as the hot blast of rancid breath hit her other cheek.

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David: Perhaps He Was Dictating

Attention, readers!

I have usurped this web site in an attempt to deliver a warning most dire. I am a professor of trans-dimensional physics in what you would call an alternate reality. I have recently made a discovery, the nature of which threatens not only my entire existence, but all adjoining ones as well, including your own. I have used all of my resources and my prodigious expertise to pierce the veil between universes to deliver this warning. However, my time is short, so I must be brief if I am to complete this message before the dimensional rift colla

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Ted: The Mutha Ship is Cummin

The assembled were rapt. His delivery made Dr. King's speech seem like a stuttering babblefest.

Chackkafarrah held the crowd in his hand when he spoke of overcoming oppression, living up to one's potential, and his hatred of the Jew. They collapsed in abject apology, reveling in self-loathing.

The Xtians wanted to be converted. More perceived racial guilt.


Chackkafarrah let the whole world know how bug-fuck nuts he was when he extolled the virtues of the Mutha Ship, people who told him the future, and that it was time to drink the Kool-Aid.

"Fucking psycho," they exclaimed, leaving in droves.

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Jim: Before The Storm

Hundreds of official documents were dropped into In boxes, retrieved, stamped, and then sent on by a handful of industrious non-commissioned officers.

Clarence sat on a wooden chair, fidgeting. “Excuse me,” he flagged a passing sergeant. “I’ve been here for three hours and…”

“The Admiral isn’t here yet, sir,” the sergeant said. “After all, it is Sunday.”

“But this is important.” Clarence held up an envelope. “I just finished decoding it.”

“You could leave it with me. I’ll make sure he gets it first thing.”

Clarence sighed. “When will that be?”

“Right after his inspection of the Arizona, I think.”

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From The Comments: Susan

The man stepped up the microphone, swatting bits of fluff from his clothing.

The moderator said, "Sir, please state your name and your concern."

"M'name's Seamus. I shear sheep. The sheik's sheep. The sixth sheik's sheep, actually. Shearing the skeik's sheep? Shockingly simple. The sheep - Sheeba, Sherry, Shandra, Shannon, Sheila, Shiloh and Schlomo - are sheared and then shampooed. But now! The sixth shiek has me shoveling! Sheep shit! So I shear the sixth sheik's sheep and shovel sheep shit!"

The moderator nodded. "And your concern, Seamus?"

"How am I going to have time to teach elocution at the local college?"

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Stacy: Caught In The Act

“Ok, recording…now. Ma’am, tell us your name.”

“I’m the Eyeball Fairy!”

“Can you tell us exactly what that means?”

“Means? It means swing by and pick up the eyeballs.”

“What eyeballs?”

“The eyeballs little kids tend to rub out of their heads at night.”

“I don’t understand… we’ve never had any incident reports…”

“Well, I am new. Somewhere a Daddy told his little boy that if he didn’t stop rubbing his eye so hard it’d fall out, and then the Eyeball Fairy would be coming by to pick it up. Words have power, you know, so here I am!”

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Michele: Dream Job

I hate my job.

It's interesting and challenging. I just hate what I have to do sometimes.

It's a necessary evil. Some people need to see the demons. Some need to foresee that plane crash.

Don't think you're a chosen one or anything. It's all random, really. I pick your name off a list and decide if you get torment or peace. You're not special just because you're about to foresee your own death. I hate that I make you wake up screaming. But it's what I do.

I am the maker of dreams.

And tonight is your lucky night.

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