Khakipunk: They look like us, sound like us. There’s only one way to test for real humans. I play the sokkie. His feet don’t tap. Uitlander.
Boy’s Own Adventure: Wilderness holiday. Stumbled on gun-running operation. Almost shot. No playstation. Bitten by spider. Worst hol ever.
Homoerotic thriller: The neighbours took him upstairs and showed him the body. He ground against it. Outrage. “Look, I’m not a cop, I’m the stripper.”
Dystopian Xmas Tale: The elves watched, listened, judged me naughty. They left me with sock full of coal. Coal, that used to be my foot.
Postmodern Seuss: “Last time I stole presents, what a mistake! A silly mistake for a big Grinch to make. This year I take the rhyme scheme.”
Electronic Voting Machine Instruction Manual: Press button. Walk away. Opening this machine and testing it for accuracy violates the patent.
Shakesperian Cyber-punk: There is neither good or bad, rich or poor, dream or real, me or you, but data makes it so.
Xmas story: Caucasian, 60-70 yrs, beard. Illegal immigrant. Breaking and entering, theft of milk and pies, “grooming” of minors with toys.
Postmodern Fast-food Romance: “I like men with red hair,” she said, frenching a fry and playing footsie under the table with his clown shoe.
Psychedelic Mills & Boon: The boudoir walls heaved like her bodice. Her eyes met all three of his, and she fell into his million arms.
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