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July 11, 2007


Today's topics, picked from the web search strings in the site's referals, are:
  • Stories including the word foyer
  • Working Relationship
  • Love Grenade
Mix and/or Match.

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Sealyon: Acme, Inc

The world is going to thank me for this – I might even get the Nobel Peace Prize. Hell, they’ll probably change the name of the damn prize: The Lundegard Peace Prize.

Isn’t that what we’ve all been working toward for so many years? The organizations, endless marches, meetings, all of the talking, talking, talking…now unnecessary. As long as I hit most major cities, the infectious agent should do the rest of the work for me in just a few months. Peace, love, and harmony are within our grasp! Bombs away!

What? No, not the shove grenade, the other one! Shit.

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Tanya: Love Grenade

“This is wonderful,” Butterfly shrieked. “The end of war. Peace will reign throughout the world!”

The news had come out that morning, a Love Grenade had been developed by the government. An impromptu gathering had formed on the National Mall, and happy hippies abounded.

“Everyone will put down their weapons and seek friendship with their enemies,” Cactus agreed. “Finally they’ll stop fighting and sing Kumbaya.”

The scientists watched on television as the joyful speakers celebrated their new weapon. “They obviously didn’t read the details. Should we tell them?”

“That it’s concentrated toxic waste from Love Canal? Why spoil their mood?”

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Jim: Passing Go

We’d had a working relationship back when Rizzy O was the lead singer for the Love Grenades but I hadn’t heard from him since he went solo. So imagine my surprise when he sauntered up to me in the hotel foyer. “Sheila, my love,” he greeted me.

“’Sup, Riz?”.

“Been meaning to look you up, darling.”

I blinked coyly. “I figured your groupies were handling things.”

“It’s just not the same as doing it with you,” he sighed. “How about it?”

It was my turn to sigh. “Fine,” I said. “As long as I don’t have to spot you Boardwalk.”

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David: Aftermath

Sarge kicked in the door and tossed a flashbang into the foyer, grinning as it went off.

“Man, I love grenades.” We rushed in, located our dazed targets, and took them out. Innocent casualties: zero.

“They’re all right,” I replied.

“’All right?!’ You throw them at people; they explode! What’s not to love?”

“Yeah, exactly. They explode, and that’s it. I try to maintain emotional distance so I don’t miss them when they’re gone.”

“Now that you mention it, I do feel kinda empty without it.”

“Trust me; do what I do. Stick to a working relationship with your explosives.”

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Jeff R:A Practical Demonstation of Why Wodehouse Pastiche and the 100-Word Story Form Don't Really Mesh

My butler and I, have an excellent working relationship. I can ask him something like "Where exactly is the senior Mr. Beckinridge?", and he'll immediately deploy a reply absolutely dripping in wisdom like "I believe his absence is a consequence of the younger Mr. Beckinridge's having rolled a grenade into the foyer where the senior Mr. Beckirdige had been resting."

"Oh Dear. So the two didn't get along?"

"To the contrary. The elder was, by this action, spared an agonizingly prolonged death by wasting disease. It was clearly an act of love."

"With a love grenade, yes?"

"Quite right, Sir."

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