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The 5 words were:
- dash
- flute
- retard
- spinach
- tramp
The stories:
- She was built like a brick shithouse
- The spinach had already taken over
- The tramp was sitting on his penguin
- Entra(m)pment (retard girl)
- "Pimp Spinach"
- With a dash of salt on his spinach
- With a dash of salt and a newt's eye
- She had flown on planes before
- The dashing young man waltzed down the block
- Sinister or Divine?
- "Spinach is rich in vitamims,"
- With a dash of salt on his spinach
She was built like a brick
shithouse, this tramp, and she knew it. Her breasts were not mere
DNA, the stuff that God throws in everybody's general direction and you
just hope you get enough of it to entice the hormone-ridden half of the
population into holy wedlock so that you don't spend half your life searching
for at least someone to share your croissant and latte with and the other
half wondering what could have been. No sir, these mammaries were a work
of art, sculpted by the best plastic surgery money could buy, the work
done by the Raffael of reconstructive surgery himself. These were not mere
breasts : in the harsh social environment where she mingled with the best
of them these were called tits.These fine examples of silicone technology
augmented an otherwise prime specimen of the female of the species and
she praised herself lucky that she only had to wash her hair, put her curves
inside something silk by Gucci and finish off with pearls or diamonds,
or whatever the occasion demanded.It never failed. Dash men would
happily cut each other's throat, offer a night of great sex and more important
: lend her the use of their Ferrari's and Rollses and assorted consumer
electronics. Sometimes one of these idiots would endow her with a vehicle
of her own or a condominium all to herself. After a while it had become
the most natural thing in the world, a law of nature.She pulled up the
latest Lamborghini and quite bored with the way the world worked, she walked
further down the road than she needed to. She heard a noise. Walking up
to it she noticed a man playing a flute sitting among some vegetables.
At once her blood felt as if it had frozen in her body, her heart as if
it had to pump led and her every limb was like wood as she tried to come
to grips with the image her eyes treated her to. Before her she saw the
most gorgeous man she had ever laid eyes on. His half-naked body, tan from
spending countless hours in the sun, and not she thought wryly in a solarium
as so many of her suitors did. His body was a sculpture in his own right
and she felt mildly ashamed at her own fake breasts for here certainly
was a man who had never used anything that mother nature had not given
him. Genetics turned out to be a winning proposition after all. It was
her dumb luck that she had never come across a man this fine looking before.
His face was regular and handsome. Alone it would have never commanded
the attention that it did. By virtue of the rest of his physical appearance
and the way he held himself, as if peace of mind and composure were born
to him instead of taught, he looked more god than man.The woman experienced
a completely new array of emotions. First she felt cold and uncomfortable,
but the more she beheld this deity of a man the more she got impressed
and all of a sudden a hot flash came over her that felt as if it had set
her body on fire. She could barely control herself and it she felt it was
all she could do to prevent herself from bodily throwing herself onto him.This
had never happened. This was without precedence. This could not be, this
was not possible, she could not allow herself to be so totally smitten
by this one guy, A MAN for crying out loud.She had to take several deep
breaths before she could think of the next step. She had to meet him of
course, she could not let this opportunity pass her by without taking advantage
of him. Mentally she had already written off the guy she got the Lamborghini
from. Whomever this guy was, he was going to be the prize of the next party
and SHE HAD FOUND HIM, HE WAS ALL HERS !!! Finally she got herself together.
Being her own suave self again, she leaned over the fence where the man
was making his music and in a voice as sultry as she could manage, she
asked him:
"Excuse me, can I ask you a question ?".
As the man turned, she gave him her most winning
smile, one that had already won her many a night in a penthouse appartment.The
concentration left his gaze and the tune was interrupted in the middle
of a complex theme. He gave her back a smile every bit as winning as she
had shown.
"Certainly", he said "What can I do for you ?"
"Can you please tell me what you are playing
the flute for in this garden ?"
"Ahh", and now he openly smiled and he showed
a row of perfect teeth. "I'm playing music for my spinach to help
it grow".
Again the woman froze, but this time it was not
from the initial shock she had felt when she had first seen the man. As
she slowly backed away from the garden, uncertainly smiling at him, she
thought "After all this time I find the perfect guy, someone the others
would foam at the mouth for, and isn't it just my luck that he's a retard
?"
(Ignace)
The spinach had already taken over when she dashed into the room. Wasn't just the texture that bothered her, it was mainly the color. It was green, a deep green. A green that entered her and left her wivout a will of her own. She would've done anything for it. Like a magic flute she would've followed it anywhere. That's how it started. That's how it proceeded. That's how she ended up as a tramp on the street. What a retard!
The tramp was sitting on his penguin, like he did every day. The day was moisty and polka dotted.The train stopped by, asked for directions and went past. Then came the retard, dashing from the right. He was anxious as a pear tree next to a juice factory. He was shaking like a flute played by a tornado. The penguin looked up. The retard asked the tramp. The tramp answered. The retard left in a dash. The tramp sat more comfortably. The penguin looked down and started grazing on his spinach again. The day was moisty and polka dotted...and it showed.
Entra(m)pment (retardgirl)
In a sense she's innocent
but body chains and bloody soul have torn off
bits
left nothing whole
buttons pushed
a flute is played
by mental methods she's enslaved
the state she's in is lunar blue
spinach
green
her lonely room
'don't worry girl you'll be out soon'
she'll dash away her tender tears although
she knows, and often fears
you can't escape from yourself.
(Lizzy)
"Pimp Spinach"
Bitch! You'll Dash Your Ass
Against That Rich Retard's Flute!
Tramp! Gimme tha Dough!
(Triskie)
With a dash of salt
on his spinach,
The retard looks forward.
Through time and into his future.
He looks at sunny days,
Rainy nights,
He sees the good and the bad...
But nothing grabs his attention....
But, as you know,
Every dog has his day.
The retard's day was far off, but it was there.
Finally, he found it.
It was a normal day...
Until he saw the Tramp.
I'm not saying she's a tramp to be mean,
It's the truth.
He was smitten the first time he saw her.
It was her voluptuous breasts,
And her shimmering, smooth legs.
He couldn't help it.
He fell even harder for her
When he heard her beautiful song.
It was a flute,
A sparkling silver flute.
He watched the rainbow it made,
The colors shining off the walls.
He became absorbed,
Then thrown back into reality,
Waking up,
He wiped the salty spinach off his face,
And began to eat.
(Jeni)
With a dash of salt
and a newt's eye, beatle's legs and hemlock, tiger blood and sprig of spinach,
my brew will make you mine! You'll come to me like I'm the pied piper,
playing a flute that drives you wild. You'll dash in here, leaving
that tramp, your wife, far behind. I won't retard your advances.
You'll be all mine.
(Jessica)
She had flown on planes before,
but always the big commercial jumbo jets that Boeing and its affiliates
seemed to crank out at a ludicrous rate. Never had she ridden on what one
of the ramp workers lovingly referred to as a 'double-proppy
Dash-8'.
It looked about one step up from what Wilbur and Orville Wright created,
a close cousin to a bucket and a rubber band. Standing on the tarmac that
absorbed and redistributed the 114 degree California heat, she shaded her
eyes and regarded the tiny plane through the ripples in the sauna of the
air. "I must be an absolute retard, even thinking about going on
that." She mumbled to herself. Still, she could hardly just stand here
in this oven, with the sweat soaking the back of her white summer dress
and gluing it to her skin. Reluctantly she started forward, through the
ripples, as the plane seemed to gain cohesion and solidity. The door in
the side was open, and had been folded down to double as a set of stairs.
Keeping one hand firmly on the straw hat she wore, she slowly started up
the stairs, daring not to hesitate. If she hesitated, she'd turn right
back around and run the other way. The dark interior of the plane swallowed
her up...and thankfully bathed her in the canned, cool breeze of an air
conditioner. The sweat on her back seemed to instantly freeze, and for
a moment the change of temperature made her lightheaded. "Take your bag?"
She opened her eyes to see the blue eyes of a man in uniform. She wondered
idly if his eyes were normally blue, or if they had been frozen in this
ersatz refrigerator with wings. Smiling at her, he took the bag from her
fingers before she recovered herself enough to respond, and stowed it almost
magically in an overhead compartment. "There's only you and two others
flying today." he told her. Yeah, no one else was as suicidal as to bet
this thing would actually fly. The other two were already seated. She passed
them both on her way to her seat (the nearest to the emergency exit, of
course). Both were men; one fat and sweaty with a half-undone tie the color
of spinach...or vomit...hanging beneath the rolls of his neck. He
was squinting with frightening intensity at the small computer on his lap,
and she was amazed that each of his ponderous fingers didn't strike twelve
keys at once. They seemed incapable of any delicate work. The second man
was the first's exact opposite. As dry as a martini rather than as wet
and fragrant as a bad beer. As thin and graceful as the music from a flute,
rather than the loud, awkward sound of a tuba. She shook her head slightly,
slipping past this man as well, finally settling herself into her chosen
seat. Already she was getting goosebumps from the cold air. Out the window,
the waving heat seemed to taunt her, and the wings of the plane seemed
made of paper rather than metal. She heard the engines start up as the
door-slash-staircase thumped shut, sealing them in. The engines were horridly
loud, like the growl of a dragon trying to escape. They seemed to shake
the whole plane. Her fingers dug into the arms of the seat and again she
closed her eyes. In two hours she'd be home. She kept repeating that to
herself. Two hours and she'd be home, finally. She could stop traipsing
about the country like some bum or vagrant or tramp. She'd be home
and safe once more. She heard the roar increase, felt the plane moving,
and swallowed hard. If she survived these two hours, that is.
(Becky)
The dashing young
man waltzed down the block. His leisurely walk belying the frantic look
in his eyes. He must get the package to the Feds. He must! but he needed
to wait till the shadows were more inclusive,
retarding the already
waning light. In darkness lies safety. To keep up his nonchalant appearance
he lightly swung his
flute case while he walked. As if the contents
inside were merely a flute. A passerby would just think he was part of
the orchestra that rehearsed nearby. Nothing more, nothing less. Just a
man enjoying the evening. It wouldn't occur to them that he had a price
on his head. That he had betrayed The
Tramp. The man's easy smile
readily masked the tension in his features. His eyes covered by dark glasses.
Realizing that, despite his nerves, he was hungry he stopped at a bistro
and ordered a spinach quiche - to go. Even his hunger couldn't keep
him in one place long enough to eat. He had to keep moving. He glanced
out the window while he waited and paled. It was nearly time. The dark
was near. He stepped out of the bistro and strolled to the meeting place,
his quiche forgotten. When he arrived at the deserted park, the Feds were
already there. They handed him some papers. His new identity. He handed
over the case. Then he turned and walked into the night.
(Gina)
Sinister or Divine?
A tramp she was not;
Born of an angel.
His grotesque features appeared retarded
--
They danced in the circle sublime.
He brought her roses;
She played the flute.
Candles made poses;
The flames flickered resolute.
Sinister or divine?
Memories of a past she could not tell.
Devious was his plot
An incarnate from hell.
Sinister or divine?
Perhaps Gabriel.
A dash of regal blood
From the father of the great flood.
Sinister or divine?
A demon spawn from lives departed.
Spinach green his skin did crawl.
Legs and arms a hideous maul.
Sinister or divine?
Is this love sinister or divine?
(Charlie)
"Spinach is rich
in vitamims," he said to me, happily munching away on his salad. "Is this
guy a retard, or is it just me? VitamiMs? Moron. Wait...is that
politically correct to say?" I wondered to myself. Fuck it. Who cares if
it is? Oh....wait...was I thinking out loud again? Sheesh. It's a good
thing I mumble a lot. That might get me in trouble someday. Ehh, I guess
I'll burn those bridges when I come to them. It was time to move on. I
wasn't going to pick up any women with THIS guy hanging around, and hey,
isn't that what I was here for?
I made my way from the dining room of the posh
restaurant to the bar. The women in the bar might have been of slightly
lower moral standing than average, but some nights that's not such a bad
thing. I finished the rest of my martini, eased up to the bar, and ordered
another. The funny thing is, I don't even really like martinis. I don't
know that anyone really does. But, after a couple, I'm not really noticing
the taste, or the burning in my throat. But, it's trendy to drink them
these days, and if nothing else, I'm a wannabe trendy guy. Someone once
said "one martini is never enough, and two martinis are too many." Some
other woman once said "After 2 martinis, I'm under the table. After 4 martinis,
I'm under my host." I'm probably misquoting those, and I'll be damned if
I can remember who said either of them. They're both pretty good quotes,
though.
At any rate, I was on martini number five. I'm
a tall drink of water, so it takes quite a few martinis to get me under
my hostess. Although, after 4 or 5, I adhere a little less stringently
to my 'standards,' such as they are. That is rapidly becoming the furthest
thing from my mind, although it's something worth struggling to maintain.
A persistent buzzing in my ear grows in intensity...and
then I realize it's a couple of guys seated near me at the bar, having
a little argument. Most days, I'm happier when I'm able to block out everyone
else. Generally, I do a pretty good job of it. After 5 martinis, it gets
harder to filter out unwanted things. For WHATEVER reason, these idiots
are arguing about figure skating. One is arguing that they are skilled
athletes, and the homophobic one's argument consists of how gay they are.
Brilliant debaters, these two. After overhearing snippets of cleverness
like as "light in the loafers" and "playing the skin flute," I decide
to try the other end of the bar. Guys like this tend to drive women away.
I'd do well to put some distance between us, if I know what's good for
me.
I find myself at the other end of the bar, and
a few seconds later, find myself ordering another martini. The best martini
is a dry martini. I studied to be a bartender once, long ago. It's all
smoke and mirrors, all about showmanship. That's where the big tips are.
Wanna impress someone who orders a very dry martini? Just put the smallest
dash
of vermouth in the glass, swirl it around and toss it out before you put
the gin (or vodka) in. Even better, just wave the vermouth bottle over
the glass. I don't remember why I never got a job working as a bartender.
Just another missed opportunity, I guess. Story of my life, really.
Halfway through my sixth martini, she walks in,
alone. I have the bartender send her a martini. It's the classic move,
so much better than the tired pickup lines. There are no good pickup lines,
sincere or otherwise. Send a woman a drink, and she'll give you the answer
to your question, no games need to be played. Some women just have that
walk. I love that walk. A walk that hints at a seductive bedtime story,
a sensual swaying of the hips, a purposeful, yet feminine stride. She's
absolutely drop-dead gorgeous, curvy in all the right places, yet toned
and athletic, and with the most impossibly long legs I've seen all night.
The tiny black dress looks like it may have been freshly painted on; some
people might think she's a tramp, based on first impressions. I'm
not so quick to judge, and besides, like I've said before, sometimes that's
not such a bad thing. Maybe not such a bad thing at all.
(Barry)
With a dash of salt
on his spinach,
The retard looks forward.
Through time
to his destiny.
He sees sunny days,
Rainy nights,
Loneliness.
Until he
sees his day.
Cause, every dog has his day.
His is a day that is filled
with smiles
Laughter, and tears.
His day is the day he meets the tramp.
Not to be rude,
For that is what she is.
He becomes smitten with her voluptuous
breasts,
Her smooth silky legs.
He falls ever deeper in love when he hears
her
Playing her silver flute.
The tune fills his ears,
A smile his
face,
Till he wakes up,
Realizing it was only a dream,
And wipes the salty
spinach off his face.
(Joni)