Imaginary Friends
Posted: 9/9/2009
Written By: Matt
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With all the posting I've been doing lately, I've come to love the Captcha security words. So much so that I have a new mini-game. It is much like the class introduction game, but this time you are making up a new person, and their name is the combination of the Captcha security words on your screen at the time you post your comments. Just give us a snippet of their lives.
If your name doesn't work, hit the recycle button on the Captcha tool and you'll get new words.
It goes like this...
Deborah Chits sleeps late, waking up only groggily when the school buses draw the neighbor children from their door in the dark light of morning.
I should love those kids, she thinks to herself, slipping from the covers to find her coffee.
I really wish I loved those kids.
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Comments
The Name
Matt has this comment...
9/9/2009 9:11 AM
Seriously. It gave me Deborah Chits. Not hard at all. In fact, if I was playing again with this post, I would be writing about our good friend, Ann Walloped.
I bet she's married to a mobster and was given that cool mob name when she took down a traffic cop with her purse at an expired meter.
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Too Much Fun
Matt has this comment...
9/9/2009 9:16 AM
I really should be working. But this time I'm presented with Esther Fidgets, probably an older lady in the front church pew with a sewing needle and ball of yarn during an impassioned Baptist revival.
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4 More Years
Anonymous Wordslinger has this comment...
12/21/2009 1:59 PM
President Marshy looked over the South lawn, oblivious to the wind and snow. His thoughts consumed him.
"It will be war, then," he said softly.
"Damn those Swamplanders."
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Anonymous Wordslinger has this comment...
12/21/2009 3:19 PM
The receptionist at the urologist office, her face scanning over the chart on the clipboard she held.
"Mr. ... Encounter?" she said hesitently. "Dewey Encounter?"
Dewey stood up slowly and trudged into the clinic. He knew then that more than a urologist, he needed a therapist.
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A Wrestler
Matt has this comment...
12/28/2009 10:22 PM
The Butcher paced in the dark hallway that opened to the stadium aisle, down which he would strut to the ring. It was to be his last match.
His nervousness rose. For the first time, he was going off script.
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