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Post by Chicago Jake on Oct 9, 2006 23:44:03 GMT -6
Let's see if we can make any significant progress on this project before thread drift and free-association fever take over and it goes down the proverbial shitter.
The idea is "collaborative writing," where everyone contributes a little bit at a time to advance the story. The fun is that you never know where it will go, and the "group mind" creates new twists and turns that no one author could dream up.
The guidelines are simple: don't post more than a few paragraphs at a time, don't post again until at least two other people have posted after you, and don't do anything too drastic (like kill someone off!). But have fun and make it interesting.
I'll start, with some character creation. Feel free to create new ones if you feel the muse:
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As the Air Jamaica A320 screeched to a halt on the Sangster runway, 150 pairs of eyes peered out the windows for their first views of paradise. The heat waves wiggled off the tarmac, and the passengers fidgeted nervously, anxious for their first breath of the warm Jamaican air.
Two of those eyes belonged to Stewart Patrick, a 30 year old single stockbroker from Omaha. His life had been nothing but work lately, and his boss had insisted he take a vacation before he lost his edge. A little research had turned up Hedo II as the perfect place for some R and R. He was looking forward to a week of nothing but relaxing, unwinding, and partying.
Another pair of eyes were set in the pretty face of Maryann Summers, a 36 year old divorcee from Ohio. She was tired of the dating scene, and looking forward to getting away from it all. She had heard that single women could expect some favorable odds at Hedonism II, and thought she might just meet her destined Mr. Right. If not, well, she would be happy just to work on her tan.
Also on the plane were Brad and Janet Randall, a mid-forties married couple from the East Coast. Twenty years of careers, kids, and credit card payments had rendered their sex life as dull and dry as the dust bunnies beneath their bed. They were hoping this trip would help them to reconnect and rediscover all the things that had made them fall in love in the first place.
These four souls, along with many others, hoisted their carry-ons and deplaned, eventually boarding the bus for Hedo II. Little did they realize what the beaches, bars, and buffets of Hedo held in store for them during their next seven fateful days!
Next!!!!!!
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Post by Tex on Oct 10, 2006 11:04:29 GMT -6
Meanwhile, setting off all of the alarm bells at JFK Airport security, was BB, a poo obsessed repeater from Brooklyn, who was returning to Hedo to find the ultimate kink.
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Post by Christinko on Oct 14, 2006 19:12:20 GMT -6
After searching through BB's carry-on, the perplexed inspectors couldn't find any WMD and had no idea what the strange devices were in the bag. They allowed him to board because the devices didn't look as though they could do damage to any part of the body but the genitals of a man.
On the flight, BB sat next to Betty Sue from Omaha, a pert, saucy farm gal on her first solo trip to Hedo. She tried to engage him in discourse but he chose to ignore her initial advances and read his book about Sinatra instead.
Later on the flight, when he had to use the airplane's bathroom after 3 cups of coffee.....
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Post by upsman on Oct 14, 2006 19:25:48 GMT -6
He got up and bolted towards the rear of the plane. Much to his dismay, both lavatories were occupied. Suddenly a door opens.BB comes face to face with none other than Nester, the adorable Phillipino pick pocket from the 50's t.v. show "Route 66".
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Post by Just Mike on Oct 14, 2006 19:33:08 GMT -6
there was TV in the 50's???
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Post by edie2u on Oct 14, 2006 21:02:58 GMT -6
As the bus to Hedo navigated all the road construction, loose goats, and various other obstacles in their path, someone from the back of the bus yelled "Red Stripe Break"! Janet who works in a bank decided to stay on the bus while her husband Peter made the beer run. She began talking to Patrick and asked if he had any really good tips on the market. Patrick who's middle name is Vincent leered at Janet and said...I have a really good tip that I would like to deposit in your vault. Janet immediately said...
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Post by Exildo Wonsetler Briggs III on Oct 14, 2006 21:29:39 GMT -6
"wanna fuck?"
Patrick sized up his opportunity and invested his savings as best he could. Right about then, Peter returned and made it clear he wanted Patrick to divest his dividends.
Patrick compounded his problems when he tipped Janet, losing his cash dividends in a money shot.
Meanwhile, Janet licked her wounds, wondering when she would ever again be able to . . . .
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Post by ♥ COVID-19♥ on Oct 14, 2006 22:08:13 GMT -6
After searching through BB's carry-on, the perplexed inspectors couldn't find any WMD and had no idea what the strange devices were in the bag. They allowed him to board because the devices didn't look as though they could do damage to any part of the body but the genitals of a man.
On the flight, BB sat next to Betty Sue from Omaha, a pert, saucy farm gal on her first solo trip to Hedo. She tried to engage him in discourse but he chose to ignore her initial advances and read his book about Sinatra instead.
Later on the flight, when he had to use the airplane's bathroom after 3 cups of coffee..... ... he trudged charily towards the aviated latrine, accidentally stumbling into Air Jamaica's Air Marshal for this flight, Christine St. Illy, a reformed nymphomaniac who -- despite her advanced years -- nevertheless could still muster a "come hither" look that would cause mass defections from Viagra users world-wide. This is a woman that had a squishy ass that wouldn't quit -- oh, sure, it might take a personal day occasionally, but it would never quit.
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Post by Chicago Jake on Oct 14, 2006 22:14:02 GMT -6
... he trudged charily towards the aviated latrine...... charily? aviated? In the spirit of a collaborative story, it is considered common decency to stick to real, dictionary-type English words......Jake
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Post by ♥ COVID-19♥ on Oct 14, 2006 22:28:24 GMT -6
Which dictionary?
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Post by Christinko on Oct 15, 2006 12:40:51 GMT -6
... he trudged charily towards the aviated latrine...... charily? aviated? In the spirit of a collaborative story, it is considered common decency to stick to real, dictionary-type English words......Jake Whiner boy. Are you going to pick at him for using the British spelling of "toward" too? Or you could accuse him of trying to impress WaterDweller. Grin!
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Post by Christinko on Oct 15, 2006 12:42:06 GMT -6
After searching through BB's carry-on, the perplexed inspectors couldn't find any WMD and had no idea what the strange devices were in the bag. They allowed him to board because the devices didn't look as though they could do damage to any part of the body but the genitals of a man.
On the flight, BB sat next to Betty Sue from Omaha, a pert, saucy farm gal on her first solo trip to Hedo. She tried to engage him in discourse but he chose to ignore her initial advances and read his book about Sinatra instead.
Later on the flight, when he had to use the airplane's bathroom after 3 cups of coffee..... ... he trudged charily towards the aviated latrine, accidentally stumbling into Air Jamaica's Air Marshal for this flight, Christine St. Illy, a reformed nymphomaniac who -- despite her advanced years -- nevertheless could still muster a "come hither" look that would cause mass defections from Viagra users world-wide. This is a woman that had a squishy ass that wouldn't quit -- oh, sure, it might take a personal day occasionally, but it would never quit. The squishy ass never quits because she too had had too many cups of coffee.
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Post by ♥ COVID-19♥ on Oct 15, 2006 20:34:07 GMT -6
Whiner boy. Are you going to pick at him for using the British spelling of "toward" too? Or you could accuse him of trying to impress WaterDweller. Grin! Hey! Stop picking on my ol' pal Jake, lady! You'd be sensitive about word usage, too, if Hazel kept kicking your butt in Scrabble on a regular basis!
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Post by Chicago Jake on Oct 15, 2006 21:07:27 GMT -6
True, but in Naked Scrabble, there really are no losers......Jake
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Post by Christinko on Oct 15, 2006 21:23:27 GMT -6
Damn, I need to stop playing Scrabble with my sister-in-laws and play with men. Doh!
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Post by ♥ COVID-19♥ on Oct 15, 2006 22:18:00 GMT -6
Damn, I need to stop playing Scrabble with my sister-in-laws and play with men. Why not just play with yourself?
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Post by Christinko on Oct 15, 2006 23:49:41 GMT -6
What makes you possibly think that I don't? On an hourly basis.
Gotta keep up to par in case I have an opportunity to use those skills in a one-on-one match.
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Post by Ardbeg... innit on Oct 16, 2006 5:26:38 GMT -6
The fault is obvious in attempting a collaborative effort on a site that promotes thread drift. Please try this again on dennys site where strictly held thread disipline promotes a more linear structure required for group efforts.
HELL PEOPLE IF THIS WAS GROUP SEX WOULD YOU ALL ACT THIS WAY?? FOCUS
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Post by Christinko on Oct 16, 2006 7:49:59 GMT -6
You are supposed to focus in an orgy? Oh, Dr. Goon, tell me it isn't so! I've been doing it wrong all these years otherwise...dang it!
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Post by Ardbeg... innit on Oct 16, 2006 8:05:08 GMT -6
Hell Chris, in an orgy I would think that people would at least be actively attending to the topic at hand rather than off in the corners discussing valid dictionaries and Scrabble. That just sounds too much like your average afternoon on the point (which doesnt exactly fit my definition of an orgy, though still a lot of fun) ;D
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Post by ♥ COVID-19♥ on Oct 16, 2006 8:40:52 GMT -6
What makes you possibly think that I don't? On an hourly basis. It takes you that long? Welcome to another episode of MythBusters.
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Post by Christinko on Oct 16, 2006 8:41:15 GMT -6
Speaking of orgies...is the smallest number of bodies necessary to constitute an orgy: 5 (if at least 2 women are present?) With only 1 woman that festive event would be a gang-bang, right?
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Post by ♥ COVID-19♥ on Oct 16, 2006 8:41:58 GMT -6
HELL PEOPLE IF THIS WAS GROUP SEX WOULD YOU ALL ACT THIS WAY?? For me, group sex involves any number of participants beyond merely myself.
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Post by Ardbeg... innit on Oct 16, 2006 9:17:51 GMT -6
Use two hands then.
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Post by ♥ COVID-19♥ on Oct 16, 2006 9:22:11 GMT -6
I can't -- I need one to use the remote to fast forward through the DVD.
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Post by Ardbeg... innit on Oct 16, 2006 9:26:28 GMT -6
I think you could figure out a way to play with yourself AND your remote at the same time if you put your head to it.
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Post by ♥ COVID-19♥ on Oct 16, 2006 10:22:28 GMT -6
Sorry, but that place is strictly reserved for an exit, not an entrance.
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Post by edie2u on Oct 16, 2006 17:44:58 GMT -6
"wanna fuck?" Patrick sized up his opportunity and invested his savings as best he could. Right about then, Peter returned and made it clear he wanted Patrick to divest his dividends. Patrick compounded his problems when he tipped Janet, losing his cash dividends in a money shot. Meanwhile, Janet licked her wounds, wondering when she would ever again be able to . . . . ...find another deposit of that size. But alas, Hedo still awaited them. Tonight was PJ night and she had been reading message boards, so she knew that her costume was inspired. As they came to a stop in front of Hedo she was surprised to see Brad push through the crowded bus and run straight to the check in desk yelling "Janet, hurry"! Peter grabbed his carry on and ran through the dining room removing all of his clothing except for his red, white, and blue speedos. He was thinking to himself "These women are going to be all over me like white on rice! What more could they ask for...I'm in good shape, they can tell I have lots of money by these heavy gold chains around my neck, and this great Rolex! Man, I'm in like Flynn...Now where are all those naked chicks?" as he made his sprint to the beach.
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Post by waterdweller on Oct 16, 2006 18:19:13 GMT -6
Several months earlier, and several thousand miles away, in a small but vibrant town halfway between two larger cities, Sister Freeda Peeples and her novice protegé, Rachel Slurs, were bending over the monitor at Father Mulcahy's computer. Sister Freeda's large brown hands fairly danced over the keyboard as they researched alcoholism on the search engine dedicated to drinking: "Gurgle".
They had noticed that Father Mulcahy, after finishing with early mass, had walked back to the presbytery with his cassock caught in his underwear, exposing his pale, shrunken legs to the world, and particularly to the shocked eyes of Mrs Foxwart, late of Nineveh-on-Salvia, Brookehampton, Kent (near the post office). Her screams had caused several windows along Church Street to fly open, and curious non-Catholic onlookers to poke their heathen heads out, to see Father Mulcahy's wrinkled posterior and Winnie-The-Pooh briefs strutting their stuff.
Sister Freeda had seen it coming, from her comfortable seat in the third pew. Even as the good father had been wrapping up the mass, alternating unevenly between English and Latin, as he had done for almost twenty-nine years in his personal protest against Vatican II, it had been obvious that today would be a chilly one for his nethers. He had realized, much to his chagrin, that he had finished all the sacramental wine the night before during the Bingo marathon, and not wanting to disappoint the flock, he had substituted single malt whiskey from his personal flask at the last moment.
Had he watered it down, it might not have made much of an impact, but three parishioners were now sitting in the rear pews of the church, unconscious and snoring, while Mr Murthaugh, normally a solid, quiet man, had attempted to pee in Northeast corner of the transept.
In shock at the results of his substitution, Father Mulcahy had downed the remainder of the contents of the chalice (which was substantial, as he had only managed to give the sacrament to twelve of his parishioners before the strange goings-on had started). Unfortunately, this had given him a severe case of hiccups, so that the closing prayers of the service were liberally punctuated with hics and snorts, as he alternately tried to stem them and gave them free rein.
Midway through the Communion of the Faithful, as he spoke the "Agnus Dei", the whiskey really kicked in:
"Ecce (*Hic*) Agnus Dei, (*Hic!*)"ecce qui tollit (*Hic!*)peccata mundi..."
Father Mulcahy's red-rimmed eyes searched the congregation for salvation, and seeing none, he raced through the remainder of the Mass as quickly as he could in the hope that the small WC off the vestry might afford him solace and solitude.
He barely blurted out "Ite, Missa est...", before he bolted through the small door off the ambulatory, and into the sanctuary of the bathroom. Unfortunately, the door to the church had not even closed as he hiked his cassock up, plopped down on the toilet, and let fly an enormous fart, which reverberated around the gothic arches like a sour note played in jest by the organist.
This, in turn, cleared the church in a hurry, leaving only the three passed out members of the congregation, and Mr Murthaugh, who in attempting to pee, had neglected to unbutton his fly, and had wet down the front of his worn grey suit. As he hurried to catch up with the other congregants, his shoes squished noisily, and he left damp footprints marking his trail back into the dark corner from which he had come.
Sister Freeda had seen the whole sorry spectacle, unfolding like a demented Origami in the grey light of the church. She had dropped her wimpled head into her hands at the sounding of the Father's flatulence, blatting like a trump against the walls of the church.
"Enough", she had said to young Rachel. "The good father is juiced again, my young and faithful companion".
Rachel looked up the considerable distance to the Sister's eyes, that were looking back down that same considerable distance at her.
"Sister," said Rachel, "should we consider discussing this sad situation with Monsignor Kelly? Surely he can help us?"
"I don't know, Rachel," replied Sister Freeda. "I must think about this carefully."
"OK, Sister." said Rachel. "Can I have a kitten?"
Rachel's untreated Attention Deficit Disorder was grating harshly on the good sister's nerves.
The sister and the novice looked up and down at each other again, and with unspoken resolve, Sister Freeda determined then and there that they would research the matter on the Internet, and communicate their findings to the Diocesan offices.
Rachel ordered a small cheese pizza.
Later that week, as the Sister and her young companion trudged dutifully along the road to Terpsichorea, they met a coach approaching in the opposite direction. This was just as well, as if it had been traveling in the same direction, it would have passed them.
As it was, the coachman pulled up, as the sister and her young charge appeared out of the mists.
"Good God!" exclaimed the coachman. He was shrouded in a dark cape with a high collar, and his head was covered with a tri-corne hat
"No, good sir, it is merely me, a humble sister, and her young charge. We're on this road, trying to reach Terpsichorea before nightfall. But why are you dressed so strangely?"
The coachman looked around at the darkness.
"Sister, it is already night. The sun is down, and devils haunt these woods. You are in grave danger", shouted the horseman over the nervous snorts of his horses. "And I got this cape and hat from the famous equestrian and golf outfitter - the Coach and Fore. What, you don't like it?"
Sister Freeda and Rachel also looked around, and realized the coachman, ill-dressed as he was, was right. Night had fallen hours ago, and in their dedication to their trek, and in the bright light of their faith, they had failed to notice the gathering gloom.
"Oh coachman," mourned Sister Freeda. "It is dark night now, and we did not notice the gathering gloom."
At that, Melville Gloom, standing in a nearby field, threw down the bundles of flax he had been gathering. With barely disguised anguish in his voice, he cried out ,"no one ever notices me. I could stand here until moonrise, and until moonrise the day after that, and no one will notice me, ever!"
The moon edged glassily from behind a cloud, and the coachman brought the whip to play against the flanks of his horses. At the sharp touch of the whip, the horses reared, flailing their hooves, and galloped down the road into the darkness.
"Shit!" exclaimed the coachman, as he stared in the moonlight at the broken harnesses.
"Do you like to finger-paint?" asked Rachel. "My grandfather used to take me fishing."
The coachman slumped in his seat, listening to the sound of hooves receding in the distance. Melville Gloom, having picked up his bundles of flax, walked up to the little group.
Still clutching his bundles, he asked, "Coachman, if such you truly are, where are you heading?".
The coachman looked down from his seat, and with pity in his eyes, replied, "nowhere right now by the looks of things. Why do you ask, Gloom?"
"I was wondering if I could get a ride with you," answered Gloom.
"An iceberg sank the Titanic," said Rachel.
Gloom clambered up onto the coach, and shook hands with the coachman. "I'd be happy to guide you," he offered, "where do you need to go?"
"I'd say downhill would be the best bet for the moment", replied the coachman, "at least until I find the horses."
"Oh. Yes, of course," said Gloom. "You'll want to head South, then..."
"Which way is that?" asked the coachman.
Gloom looked sideways at the coachman for a moment, with a blank look on his face. "Why, downhill, of course".
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Post by waterdweller on Oct 16, 2006 19:35:53 GMT -6
PS - I just looked at Jake's guidelines, and I realized that I've gone WAY over the "just a few paragraphs" limit. Apologies.
However, rest assured, I've not taken this too far afield. I've already outlined how I'm going to bring it all back to Jamaica...
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