Two-Fisted Tweets
Published by James Hutchings at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 James Hutchings
In view of the large number of suicides by hanging, the government has announced increased penalties for the possession of rope.
Sometimes, she reflected, a stranger is just a friend you haven't alienated yet.
Raising the curved knife high above the salad, the high priest wished the nameless god would break his diet.
His ambition was to have his hopes dashed. He couldn't work out whether he'd achieved it or not.
"With this device I shall change history! The accursed name of Adolf Hitler will be erased from the annals of European painting!"
"My wife doesn't understand me."
"Pardon?"
Rotting hands reached from the darkness. At last, someone was attracted to her for her brains
They withdrew his invitation to speak at the conference on stalking. But he knew they didn't mean it.
achine. I said I think there's something wrong with the time m
Dear lonelyguy72,
We are unable to display your meetpeople.net profile. We have reviewed it, and can find no photo of your erect penis.
"Mum, Dad," said the nervous young vampire, "there's something I have to tell you. I'm...sparkly."
"But I only pleaded guilty ironically," protested the hipster.
The Auto-Pope's reign was brief. It exploded after someone asked it whether married gay couples should get divorced.
"Most people are so stupid," thought most people.
Finally the lambs admitted the truth: they were compulsive gambollers.
She tried to dance like no one was watching, but everyone stared at her.
The year's top psychology students enjoyed their food pellets, and watched as the failing students received their electric shocks.
"You'll never get anywhere until you learn to fit in," Papa Lemming told his son.
"I really need to tidy up pi," thought God.
Her father was like a chocolate cake: she couldn't have a conversation with a chocolate cake.
The baby had its mother's eyes. In return for obedience, it promised to give them back.
Penthouse wrote rejecting his essay on Jean-Luc Godard. He realised he could no longer contribute to the New Yorker.
She loved teaching Mad Science, except when Bobby tried to tell her his homework had eaten his dog.
He was the only person she knew who wrote fan-fiction about himself.
Sasquatch poured the reporter another glass of wine.
"You know," he told her in a low voice, "'foot' is actually a mistranslation".
It was like his life ran along lines laid down by someone else, thought Thomas.
"Death to the mutants!" the preacher roared. He held a gun in one hand and a Bible in another, as he thumped the lectern with his fist.
Desperation, she thought, smells like aftershave, cigarette smoke, and the fifth beer.
"Just go to sleep," said Mama Monster. "There's no child on your bed."
His delusions of grandeur weren't nearly as severe as he thought.
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