1. How old were you the first time you got your heart big-time broken?
2. Are you more comfortable in jeans or sweats?
3. Do you wear shorts in the summer?
4. Is there one (or more) piece of jewelry you won't leave home without?
5. Have you taken a vacation this year?
6. Would your ideal vacation spot be on a beach, by a lake, in the mountains, in a city, or strictly in a posh resort?
7. Do you remember your first kiss?
8. If you drink sodas, do you prefer (including the Diet versions) Coke, Pepsi, Dr Pepper, Sprite, 7-Up, or other?
* Kids, if you have a question for tomorrow's Miss's Mailbox, send it in by tonight.
R.I.P., Luciano Pavarotti. The man and the voice will be missed.
TWISTED LINGUISTICS harvested a delightful crop of Words Gone Wild. I'm seeing a distinct pattern here in the shreds of my mind and I can't help what I'm about to do. Rather than define these buggers, I thought it would be more fun to defile them in a little ... story.
staff is gong bonkers
ban me from your click
say my peace
Memoires From the House of Sleeze
There was once this place on a famous street (albeit on the wrong end) in a famous city which shall remain nameless, a formerly grand and baronial mansion abandoned and gone to seed. Since nobody else wanted to live there, a group of pereverts took up residence and began -- you guessed it -- plying their trade.
First they went out and recruited a crew of working ladies off the best corners and, voilà, they had a staff of models and hostesses and -- you know. We seemt to think they would never fair better elsewhere, especially since the side shows weren't hiring, and we were right. They decorated the place in Early Sleaze and opened it up for business, and it took off with a bang. They served oysters and kool-laid and any kinky thing any customer could think up, they offered it. And the customers loved it.
And then one night a model in typose (her specialty was S&M) picked a fight with a girl named Memoires.
"You maroon!" she screamed at her rival. "Why don't you go back to Pittsburgh, have yourself some PA nites?"
Now, Memoires was the main attraction of the house, always dressed in silk moiré -- if you could call it dressed -- and all the other denizens of the place lined up and took sides. Well, the perevert owners (headed by a Père John, who had a 50% interest) quickly reckognized that this was trouble with a capital T. And they knew that to let it escalate could reck their business.
"Hit the gong!" yelled one of the 10% owners. "The staff is gong bonkers!"
"Just let me say my peace," Typose girl implored her employers. "Maybe we can agree on a treaty."
"Silence!" demanded another one of the owners, this one a 20-percenter. "Put on your chasity panites and behave! We cannot allow our staff to descen into descention. It's not decent! Memoires is our biggest moneymaker here. Perhaps it would be best if the surly typose girl leaves."
"Please don't fire me!" she begged, tying herself up contritely and posing as prettily as she knew how. "You can take me off the Web site and ban me from the click but let me stay in the house!"
"Let me think," said Père John, clicking his dentures as he thought.
Meanwhile, the girls grew restless and began yelling insults at each other. The verbal assaults rapidly devolved into hitting, jabbing, pinching, poking, clawing, and biting. Only when one of the pereverts caught sight of Typose rolling around on the floor with Memoires, pulling her maroon hair and choking her blue, did it finally occur to him to bang the gong. As the heavy, ancient gong bonged and reverberated, its peals resonating off the red silk walls, the fractious ladies fell to their knees, covered their ears, and began speaking in tongues. It seemt the gong had made the staff bonkers. As you might imagine, the whole business model of the house changed after that and it wasn't long until the strange rituals going on in there attracted the attention of the media.
The local editor could not believe the base descention into sleeze that had occurred in the infamous house on the famous street and it was with great diffuculty that she wrote about it in the local paper. She failed, however, to diffuse the mystique that was swirling about the place. Well, that gave rise to the cult following that now surrounds the house. Memoires is high priestess and chief tongue-speaker of the cult known as the House of Sleeze, and it brings in more money than plain old original sin ever had a chance of making.
|You Scored an A|
It's pretty obvious that you don't make basic grammatical errors.
If anything, you're annoyed when people make simple mistakes on their blogs.
As far as people with bad grammar go, you know they're only human.
And it's humanity and its current condition that truly disturb you sometimes.