In case you missed it, I held a fun contest where people had to write a story using some of my favourite words. I'll post the stories later on in this post.
I used an online tool to randomly choose the winner. I was going to take a video of me doing it to prove that I didn't scam the contest but holy tedious. Instead, I just took photos of the screen. If you don't trust me, then why are you here? ;-)
(I had the names in the wrong spot here.)
People who used Natashaisms got double entries. Natashaisms: carp, snortlaugh, holy cannoli. Still, Katie won! (It took her name out of the top and put it on the bottom after I clicked "Pick Random Line".)
She won four Dripstiks. Thank you, Mecinna for donating the free Dripstiks! Brilliant invention.
So, Katie, when you get back from Wheatland, send me your address again. I... lost it.
Here are the stories. (I didn't include Jude in the contest, though he wrote a stellar story and was the only one to use "pants" properly. *wink* He also worked "something" "guy" and "girl" into one sentence on purpose-- them being our Twitter handles: @SomethingGuy & @SomethingGirl. He's so sexy.)
JULIE:
Really.
You’d find me scintillating. But, it seems the girls I date end up
being trollops with boring greige homes who just want me to pay for a
restaurant meal because they're a bit peckish. Once, a date showed up
with a fauxhawk, dressed in caoutchoic pants! (Although I must admit I
was twitterpated about her for a bit.) But she turned out to be as dry
as the deserts of Qatar and was only after me for the money I have from
the Darth Vadar voice over business I own as a result of my father’s
nepotism. So, if you want to meet the most intelligent and handsome
bloke alive (and you are Angelina Jolie look-alike) just FaceBook or
Twitter me! (I must stipulate though that no Natashaisms allowed on my
FB wall. That woman drives me batty with all her musings.)
MARY:
There was
a scintillating tea house that was visited with glee by local gentry
simply because it was located on the bottom floor of the local
trollop's house. Let me stipulate that those who visited the tea house
never ventured beyond the first floor, they were simply enjoying the
risque-ness of being so close to the next floor. One bloke in
particular made it a habit to visit weekly as it left his wife
completely twitterpated. One day his wife was feeling especially
peckish and when she came down the stairs in greige pants and matching
caoutchouc boots, he couldn't stand it any longer. Deciding to take
drastic action, he visited his hair dresser to have his fauxhawk tidied
up before flying to Qatar. The nepotism of the ruling family would be
easier to deal with than her. He left her a note.
MALISA:
I awoke with a start. The early morning sky was a dim greige and I
felt peckish. I could recall the dream too vividly. I was burning
caoutchouc while the hot dry air of Qatar whipped the tips of my
rebellious fauxhawk in my face. I was running….running from the lies,
the propaganda of the twitterpated masses of North America. What did
they see in this president anyway? Was it because they found the bloke
so scintillating? Some might call me a trollop with how many political
ideals I’ve fancied, but I know I’ve got my pants on straight this
time. If only I could stipulate that others must think the same as me!
If everyone knew that Natashaism was the only right way! If they just
stopped to see the wisdom in it, there would be no more need for silly
religion. It makes me feel unsettled at best, but foaming with violent
fury at my worst. Perhaps I will find that all of these followers are
inbred (which would explain a lot) and then we will know the truth.
Nepotism leads to communism.
It could happen here. If I can’t really move to another country, I can dream about it. ‘Cause I can’t belong to this family; I’m just not that into you.
KATIE:
I
was sunbathing naked on the beach in Qatar. The sky, which had been
scintillating, was now a morose greige. I stood to gather my clothing
and leave, but stopped and instinctively covered what parts I could
when I heard someone approach from behind. I turned to see a handsome
bloke with a sun-drenched blond fauxhawk. “Trollop.” he said plainly. I
laughed loudly, snickered really, for I knew this young man. He was a
partner in the office I worked for. His father had hired him straight
out of college and he had made partner a year later. Though I am not a
fan of the nepotism that runs rank through Fortune 500 companies, I
couldn't help but think of this peckish boy with his pants off. He must
have felt He must have felt equally twitterpated, for I soon found
myself saying “I must stipulate, though, that you wear a caoutchouc.”
GABRIELLE:
Hey kids,
we're at the Hollywood Premiere of Michael Moore's 'Capitalism: A Love
Story' and I have two words: SCIN-TILL-ATING. The celebs came out in
style and damn they were HAUTE! Ben Affleck arrived in plaid trousers
and can I just confess: that's one bloke I wouldn't fight even if he
WAS paparazzi. Dakota Fanning may have violated her New Moon stipulate
by sharing her democratic views on the red carpet but shhhh, Dakota -
we won't tell! Fiesty Megan Fox, ever the trollop, wore her signature
split-to-the-hip gown that would make even Glenn Beck peckish. And the
fall trends were out in full force, people. Can we say PLAID?! Demi and
Ashton were "twitterpated" in greige kilts that flaunted their new line
of oh-so-necessary iphone pocket "Cuddles". The Brits even showed to
give a nod to Mr. Documentary, givin' me one hella DEL.IC.IOUS shiver
ripple. Jude Law looked as yummy as the Ivy's maple tiramisu in his red
velvet Gap hoodie, though he seems to be forgetting his caoutchouc
lately, girls. Tisk,tisk. I say this lova' needs to go to Qatar where
they don't have nannies! Another stud, loin moins sophistiqué, Monsieur
Gosselin arrived. Since parting with Dame Fauxhawk, he's been working
scenes like this with a tad bit of nepotism. This is one buck who wants
his fifteen minutes.
LAURIEBEE:
My
spouse and I stipulate to nepotism when it comes to the choice of
nannies. I won’t have peckish old broads pretending to be twitterpated
with my babies—yet dressing them in old caoutchouc greige pants. Nor
will I tolerate the trollop who seeks to impress an old bloke in a
fauxhawk with her scintillating ways all for the sake of a tryst in
Qatar. Oh, carp! I’d rather tolerate the mother-in-law!
JOHN:
As
usual, Reginald Quentin Scallop ruffled the pages of his morning paper,
holding the corners between a slightly moistened forefinger and thumb,
occasionally brushing the crease of his pinstripe pants with the back
of his hand. But the swirling aroma of coffee, the sweet scent of his
buttonhole rose, the dense mustiness of the Cafe de Brioche,
scintillating though it was, did not hold its usual tenor. He had lost
the taste for it all, just as he had found this morning's headlines
bland, and though no doubt fecund with promising ideas, his mind
drifted. Though his intellect was peckish for material he could later
use in his work, Reginald was restless. Qatar was in his thoughts. His
thinly groomed moustache twitterpated. At a table nearby a man in his
mid-thirties hacked, coughed and then snort-laughed into his
handkerchief, the woman opposite him giggling and slapping his back,
and like some old rug every slap produced a plume of dust. Reginald
shifted in his seat. But really, he thought, must I stipulate the
wherefores of this little performance, as if it wasn't evident that
orange Ugg-booted trollops with their half-baked fauxhawked blokes
should not under these circumstances mooch around my part of town, when
I am on the verge of something . . . brilliant? Reginald stopped
himself. Qatar again. Nepotism had brought him there; his uncle
imported caoutchouc from Senegal and sold it to local toy
manufacturers, middle-class foppish greige-suited businessmen eager to
please the Emir by developing liaisons with Occidental merchants. But
Reginald was not a businessman. Reginald was not an importer. He was an
artist, and like all artists, Reginald was in love with some other
place, some other time, some other person. And that person, Reginald
knew, was in Qatar.
JUDE:
The city held more scintillating secrets than a hermaphroditic track star's shower stall.
One bloke knew all but he was holy-cannoli insane. Madness spewed from him like snortlaughs from Jerry Lewis, which was just pants.
Short of waterboarding the fauxhawked creep, the former vice-president felt as useless as a twitterpated trollop who had not had her hand held since the swine flu broke out. The old man was hungry, peckish even, for information on what had happened in Qatar. It was connected to that Red's medical reform revolution. The Qatar secret was something that could offer redemption to all but the most nepotistic guy or girl. The old man needed redemption, needed something, like a guy needs a girl, like geese need to flock south.
If it took a caoutchouc baton to convince "Mr. Lewis" to stipulate to Mr. O's plan, well, so be it. "We Republicans have ways to make talk," muttered the former VP into his greige pillow as he sought again, to forget that shot gun incident. Carp, he thought, I should have gone drinking that day with Ted Kennedy.