A glowing box with a door poofed into the middle of the world’s first patent office with an electric flash. A haggard man burst out of it.
“Sir, quickly! I’ve come from the past to claim a patent!”
“Certainly,” said the patent officer. “On what?”
“I call it Chewing Gum!”
Gideon was filling in a hole. He was filling it with acid and dirt, but mostly acid.
He hoped a polar bear would fall in and have all its fur burned off, and then he could laugh at the bear for being naked.
His plan didn’t really extend beyond that.
“So are you in?” asked Janice, brandishing a stack of brand new business cards.
“I like your enthusiasm,” said the investor, “but…”
Janice frowned. “But what?”
“I’m not sure the world really needs a Leviathan Tamer.”
He felt differently in the morning, in a sort of slobbery, lifeless, half-digested way.
This story was based on a title suggested by @MisterFiendZero.
With their beady eyes and sharpened beaks, the old men from Startaria looked eerily birdlike. They were experts in appearance manipulation. Plastic surgeons and anthropologists from around the world spent lifetimes trying to learn the Startarians’ secrets.
But when questioned, the old men just made cooing sounds in their throats.
“Hey, have I told you about the sci-fi book I’m writing? It’s set in the coolest solar system ever. The main characters live on a lava planet which is kept cool by the rays of an icy anti-sun.”
“…You can’t be serious.”
“And there are secret cloned laser cyborg aliens.”
This story is based on the title suggested by @Yax.
“Yo, man. I thought Randy carried this song. You got a great low-end range there, dog.
“But Paula, you were pretty pitchy, and Simon, honestly, work on your rhythm. You missed, like, half your cues!”
“Wow!” said Ryan Seacrest. “This is exactly why we’re doing American Idol: Judge the Judges!”
Mr. Mannequin was not a particularly outgoing person. He was more concerned with the latest fashions than with making social contact. He was content to let others pass by and stare (in jealousy of his fine wardrobe, probably).
On Wednesdays, he tidied his master’s secret laundry room genetic engineering laboratory.
“You fool of a henchman!” cried the criminal overlord, with a mighty sneeze. “I’m allergic to cats!”
“But he’s such an itty bitty pretty kitty, isn’t he? Such a cutesy snootsy bittle snookums…”
“You fool!” cried the criminal overlord, with a mighty cough. “I’m even more allergic to lovey-dovey gibberish!”
Her works were renowned throughout the world. She was a teenaged aardvark sculptor, the greatest that ever lived. She worked with stone, ice, and clay: every medium was her domain, subject to her whims.
She hid in anonymity, each masterpiece a portrait of self-loathing, of her wish for human form.
This story was based on a title suggested by @VikkieTheMimm.
“Now I know my ABCs,” crooned the little girl, “next time won’t you sing with me?”
“Awesome!” said Paula Abdul. “You’re going to Vegas!”
“But I wan’ go home!”
“No.”
“Isn’t this exciting, folks?” enthused Ryan Seacrest. “Little Kimmy’s going to be our next finalist on American Idol: Toddler Edition!”