This one line has been bugging the hell out of me for four years. Some kid posted it in a forum after someone told him not to post stories. All I remember is the last line and giggling a lot. I think it was just really bad writing. I should know. I've done a lot of it.

So, the only way I'm going to get the damn thing out of my head is do something with it. Round Robin story time! Yaaaay!

Ahem. Let's write this story, one line at a time, starting from the last one.

"So I tattooed his face with my bat."

Go! Now! Write! I command you!

His face was an open book - a study in blank expression. So I tattooed his face with my bat.

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"Jelly-belly gigglin, dancin and a-wigglin, honey that's the way I am!" Janice the Muppet

I attempted to masturbate furiously to garner some sort of reaction from Richard Simmons, but to no avail. His face was an open book - a study in blank expression. So I tattooed his face with my bat.

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The giant three-phallused phallus of Uzbekistan will one day squirt the cosmic jizz of revenge all over Canada.

There I was, standing in front of the judges, all the while trying to spell "Cretaceous" while slowly working my hand towards my crotch. I attempted to masturbate furiously to garner some sort of reaction from Richard Simmons, but to no avail. His face was an open book - a study in blank expression. So I tattooed his face with my bat.

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Please replace the handset, and try again.

It was the final round of the spelling bee, the air was fizzy with letters and misplaced vowels. A small dribble of urine fell out my penis of it's own accord which surprised me as I thought I had none left in me after they tested me for steroids. It didn't go unnoticed. Lemons, my lucky fruit bat was nestled asleep, concealed from everyone in my fur-lined parka-hood.
There I was, standing in front of the judges, all the while trying to spell "Cretaceous" while slowly working my hand towards my crotch. I attempted to masturbate furiously to garner some sort of reaction from Richard Simmons, but to no avail. His face was an open book - a study in blank expression. So I tattooed his face with my bat.

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GOVT. Warning: Do not smoke around children they will badger you for fags.

I think you're only supposed to add ONE sentence, smam, you big story hog.

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The giant three-phallused phallus of Uzbekistan will one day squirt the cosmic jizz of revenge all over Canada.

ooops! meesa sowwy evrywun, meesa dint mean to go on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on .

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GOVT. Warning: Do not smoke around children they will badger you for fags.

The five-minute break was almost over, and I would be expected back in the auditorium in mere moments -- plenty of time, however, for me to conceal my still-smoking Walther-PPK, hide the body behind a large poster warning against the dangers of having too much fun with bananas, and slip quietly back onto the stage to take my place between a little girl with pigtails and braces who was in the middle of almost-successfully spelling the word "thezzovornuplicarrioblastinates" except she had already left out the silent "j", and a horse whose reason for being there I was still trying to determine with my super-human powers of intuition that I had gained from eating two helpings of Meemaw's radioactive meatloaf the night before.
It was the final round of the spelling bee, the air was fizzy with letters and misplaced vowels. A small dribble of urine fell out my penis of it's own accord which surprised me as I thought I had none left in me after they tested me for steroids. It didn't go unnoticed. Lemons, my lucky fruit bat was nestled asleep, concealed from everyone in my fur-lined parka-hood.
There I was, standing in front of the judges, all the while trying to spell "Cretaceous" while slowly working my hand towards my crotch. I attempted to masturbate furiously to garner some sort of reaction from Richard Simmons, but to no avail. His face was an open book - a study in blank expression. So I tattooed his face with my bat.

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Legend, oh legend, the third wheel legend...always in the way.

My internal television was playing an old episode of I love Lucy, my internal vacuum cleaner sucked the forming pile of lint out of my belly button, my internal microwave warmed my body temperature to 99.1 F, , and my internal clock went 293, 294, 295, 296, ... The five-minute break was almost over, and I would be expected back in the auditorium in mere moments -- plenty of time, however, for me to conceal my still-smoking Walther-PPK, hide the body behind a large poster warning against the dangers of having too much fun with bananas, and slip quietly back onto the stage to take my place between a little girl with pigtails and braces who was in the middle of almost-successfully spelling the word "thezzovornuplicarrioblastinates" except she had already left out the silent "j", and a horse whose reason for being there I was still trying to determine with my super-human powers of intuition that I had gained from eating two helpings of Meemaw's radioactive meatloaf the night before.
It was the final round of the spelling bee, the air was fizzy with letters and misplaced vowels. A small dribble of urine fell out my penis of it's own accord which surprised me as I thought I had none left in me after they tested me for steroids. It didn't go unnoticed. Lemons, my lucky fruit bat was nestled asleep, concealed from everyone in my fur-lined parka-hood.
There I was, standing in front of the judges, all the while trying to spell "Cretaceous" while slowly working my hand towards my crotch. I attempted to masturbate furiously to garner some sort of reaction from Richard Simmons, but to no avail. His face was an open book - a study in blank expression. So I tattooed his face with my bat.

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ken.kaufman@gmail.com

I sat my sorry rear onto the uncomfortable chair, some sort of metal peg jammed into my backbone. My internal television was playing an old episode of I love Lucy, my internal vacuum cleaner sucked the forming pile of lint out of my belly button, my internal microwave warmed my body temperature to 99.1 F, , and my internal clock went 293, 294, 295, 296, ... The five-minute break was almost over, and I would be expected back in the auditorium in mere moments -- plenty of time, however, for me to conceal my still-smoking Walther-PPK, hide the body behind a large poster warning against the dangers of having too much fun with bananas, and slip quietly back onto the stage to take my place between a little girl with pigtails and braces who was in the middle of almost-successfully spelling the word "thezzovornuplicarrioblastinates" except she had already left out the silent "j", and a horse whose reason for being there I was still trying to determine with my super-human powers of intuition that I had gained from eating two helpings of Meemaw's radioactive meatloaf the night before.
It was the final round of the spelling bee, the air was fizzy with letters and misplaced vowels. A small dribble of urine fell out my penis of it's own accord which surprised me as I thought I had none left in me after they tested me for steroids. It didn't go unnoticed. Lemons, my lucky fruit bat was nestled asleep, concealed from everyone in my fur-lined parka-hood.
There I was, standing in front of the judges, all the while trying to spell "Cretaceous" while slowly working my hand towards my crotch. I attempted to masturbate furiously to garner some sort of reaction from Richard Simmons, but to no avail. His face was an open book - a study in blank expression. So I tattooed his face with my bat.

Because my derriere had gotten itself into trouble lately and had to apologize to a woman for making an inappropriate comment, it had been particularly apologetic today. I sat my sorry rear onto the uncomfortable chair, some sort of metal peg jammed into my backbone. My internal television was playing an old episode of I love Lucy, my internal vacuum cleaner sucked the forming pile of lint out of my belly button, my internal microwave warmed my body temperature to 99.1 F, , and my internal clock went 293, 294, 295, 296, ... The five-minute break was almost over, and I would be expected back in the auditorium in mere moments -- plenty of time, however, for me to conceal my still-smoking Walther-PPK, hide the body behind a large poster warning against the dangers of having too much fun with bananas, and slip quietly back onto the stage to take my place between a little girl with pigtails and braces who was in the middle of almost-successfully spelling the word "thezzovornuplicarrioblastinates" except she had already left out the silent "j", and a horse whose reason for being there I was still trying to determine with my super-human powers of intuition that I had gained from eating two helpings of Meemaw's radioactive meatloaf the night before.
It was the final round of the spelling bee, the air was fizzy with letters and misplaced vowels. A small dribble of urine fell out my penis of it's own accord which surprised me as I thought I had none left in me after they tested me for steroids. It didn't go unnoticed. Lemons, my lucky fruit bat was nestled asleep, concealed from everyone in my fur-lined parka-hood.
There I was, standing in front of the judges, all the while trying to spell "Cretaceous" while slowly working my hand towards my crotch. I attempted to masturbate furiously to garner some sort of reaction from Richard Simmons, but to no avail. His face was an open book - a study in blank expression. So I tattooed his face with my bat.

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The giant three-phallused phallus of Uzbekistan will one day squirt the cosmic jizz of revenge all over Canada.