He won the gold medal with his eyes closed.
He’d never been much good at anything in his life, but the first time he found himself sliding down the icy, open-faced track he knew he’d found his place.
Speed. Freedom. Exhilaration. Bliss.
He was the Naked Sledless Luge Olympic Champion.
“Milk.”
“Milk?”
“The milkiest. From cows.”
“From cows?”
“The cowiest. Fat cows.”
“Fat cows?”
“The fattiest. They eat at McDonald’s.”
“They eat at McDonald’s?”
“The McDonald’siest. But only on weekends.”
“Only on weekends?”
“The weekendiest. They’re the farmer’s days off.”
“The farmer’s days off?”
“His offiest. He usually–”
“Wait… What!?”
“Have you seen my wallet?”
“No, honey, and stop trying to change the subject. Just tell me… Does this dress make me look fat?”
“I would never tell you a dress made you look fat. You’re beautiful.”
“Aw, that’s so sweet.”
“The other dress makes you look very trim, though.”
“Luke, I’m your father!” said Luke’s father.
“That stopped being funny when I was in fifth grade,” said Luke.
“Join me on the dark side!”
“Nah, I think I’ll play on the light team this week.”
It hadn’t taken many pick-up soccer games for Luke to start wearing white t-shirts.
“I reckon you best be moseyin’ off now, son,” drawled the drawling old cowboy.
“Well aren’t we Mr. McDrawlyPants?” snivelled the snivelling little sniveller.
“Ker-Bang!” shot the shooty six-shooter.
“You brought it on yerself,” grunted the grunting, grumpy cowboy.
“Ow, my chest cavity really huuuuurts…” whined the whiny, dying whiner.
I’m trying out a new way to write dialogue. I think it has promise!
We were waiting patiently in our seats while the mindless horde swarmed the lobby, looking for refreshments.
Fools!
Everyone knew theatre food was inadmissably overpriced. And that was why we did it. It didn’t give me any pleasure, but it was necessary.
Candy smuggling? How juvenile. We only trafficked in
I thought it might be fun to write something topical about the Olympics, since I just watched the Opening Ceremonies. I like adding a twist to things, so I considered writing about the Super Hero Olympics, possibly making a “Human Torch” joke.
But I realized that wouldn’t be very funny.
Samuel was studying Soviet philosophy, but he was having a hard time with it.
“It’s simple,” said Hank. “To the Soviet school, what makes us human is our ability to subvert our raw, natural instincts with humour and creativity.”
“I see,” said Samuel. “Basically, in Soviet Russia, joke makes you!”
“Mom, my square-shaped brand-name cereal tastes like O-shaped brand-name cereal!”
“Don’t you mean diamond-shaped, dear?”
“No, Mom. That was just a clever marketing scheme! They’ve been square-shaped all along! And I don’t want them to taste like O-shapes!”
“You should write a letter and deliver it to the Post office!”
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
The walls of the canyon echoed with the blast of two shotgun barrels emptying themselves into something or another. Maybe it was a desperate fugitive. Maybe it was the sheriff. Maybe it was a snake or a wildcat. Maybe it was just a cross-eyed bush.
The vultures were curious, regardless.