I am having WAY too much fun with this!

You seriously made me lol :)

I have quite a few, so I'll spare you the bulk, and show you all my extra-favourite bit: (characters are dead, btw - I'm not sure if that matters, though.)

“But I don't understand. You said you'd love me forever.” Robin was unhappy with the whine which had crept into his voice, but he couldn't make it stop.

“Perhaps I did, but I only promised myself to you 'til death do us part, Robin.”

“But we aren't parted any more, my love.” Robin was fairly sure he had the logical upper hand here, since indeed they were together now.

“Again, you are correct, but we were parted, and I might add that you seemed to figure that out pretty quickly, Mr Everyone-gets-a-ride Hood.”

“I was just using Isabella to get information! And, and Kate reminded me so much of you! And-”

“Don't you dare compare me to that shrieking harpy ever again, Robin, unless you want to spend the rest of eternity carrying your head under your arm.”

“You could do that?” Robin regretted asking as soon as he'd gotten the words out.

“I don't know, but do you really want to test me?”

Robin knew better than to say anything. Any response at this point was the wrong one.

“And I also know about all those tavern girls on the way back from the Holy Land.”

“I was stricken with grief, it was idle comfort!”

“And Much?”

“He understood my grief better than anyone...” It was probably best not to mention that that had been going on since their first trip to the Holy Land.

“And Allan?”

“I had a lot of grief...”

“And I'm supposed to believe all of this, am I?”

Robin searched for the right answer. He was fairly sure there wasn't one.

I got nothing.

“To my left, noted intellectual Dean Eustice of Pleasant Hills University. Next to him, Bishop Richard O’Connor, who has provided us with the use of his hall. To my far right, celebrity impersonator Gary Sommers. I know you all saw his David Letterman impersonation at the county fair earlier this year. And it is of course my great honor to sit beside Mayor Turtledove.” All the panel members nodded to each other, and all seemed to nod more respectably to the mayor. “Bishop O’Connor, perhaps you’d like to start us off.”

“Thank you, Justine. It has wecently come to light that an owganization known as PwVNN has begun opewations in town. We don’t know what they do. We don’t know their intentions. We don’t know anything about them at all. I have pwayed for guidance on this issue, both literally and sowt of figuwatively.” His lisping discourse ended abruptly at that, and for some moments there was a confused silence.

“Yes, thank you. Gary Sommers, perhaps you’d like to add your opinion?”

“Top ten things I don’t like about PwVNN. Top ten things… I don’t like about PwVNN.” He flipped over a card. “Number 10: unpronounceable! Number 9: they-”

“And thank you, Gary. Dean Eustice, perhaps you have some philosophical insight?”

“Yes, yes I do. I think it’s important that we frame this debate in such a way th-”

“Won’t someone think of the children!” someone in the audience cried out. “As a mother I am very concerned that this acronym PwVNN is undermining the values this great town was built upon by our founding fathers; love, respect, an ancient Indian burial ground.”

“Ah, screw the children. Think about my business!” a man shouted out.

“Oh, it’s always money with you Horace. Naturally, your first concern is your bottom line!”

“Propane, Wellingtons, Velociraptors, Ninks and Noggins relies on its acronym, because it makes no sense whatsoever without it. I pay my taxes and therefore I give back to the community. I demand that this council strike this usurping PwVNN from the register.”

“I operate under a similar acronym!” cried out Terry Holdings, the proprietor of People With Very Naughty Mothers. “I had to jump through hoops, cut through red tape, have my prostrate checked – before I even got through the front door at APAPH! How did this new organization get such quick approval? I’d never heard of them before today. Did they have their prostates checked? If I ever see any of these people on the street I have every intention of giving them one myself!” There was a general murmur of agreement from those within the hall, and he sat down feeling smugly satisfied that his point had been made.

He liked his breasts like he liked his tea; milky and in huge cups.

It wasn't long before they were griping about everything and causing difficulties. We were supposed to supply all of the toilet paper. We weren't taking the rubbish out enough. Stay off the stage (My boyfriend never heeded this one) although their rubbish was of no personal interest to me. “The Stage” was some kind of platform which was covered in piles and piles (literally) of junk, and I mean junk. His stepdad would go to auctions and bring back some cool stuff, mixed in with useless shit. They kept everything, from t-shirts from my boyfriend's infancy, which were given to me when I had my baby, to one of those pad-holders they used to have in the olden days (also given to me). Once I was given a dress for my daughter that was so old and hideous I used to call it the T.B (Tuberculosis) dress. It had a large brown stain which I claimed was a blood clot coughed up by some poor little girl in an infirmary many years prior. I couldn't help myself; I took a photo of it and sent it to my best friend via picture phone.

He also found every piece of his school work from primary school including (my personal favourite) a story about how he and his mum were making pancakes but before they used the flour they had to pick all of the black specks out of it. I have a feeling there was even an illustration to go with it. I wish I'd stolen it.

This is my opening few paras. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely unintentional. I promise.

‘Here’s another MS from our darling Mr Sanguijuela.’ Nita thudded the manuscript, which was about the size and shape of a wannabe author’s ridiculously overinflated ego, onto the edge of Linda’s desk. ‘Anything in particular you want me to do with it?’

‘Slush pile,’ Linda said, not even glancing at it. ‘Or the recycle bin. Whichever you particularly fancy.’

‘Like I care.’

‘Like I care.’

‘The cover letter says this one’s sitting at three and a half million words.’

Linda looked up from her computer at her assistant. ‘I can’t believe you wasted your time even reading his cover letter. Is it the latest revolutionary post-modern literary masterpiece, constructed entirely of recycled words taken from carefully selected public domain works in order to circumvent the pointlessly rigid copyright laws, rearranged into a new and excitingly unique original work?’

‘How do you do that without looking?’

‘He reuses the same cover letter the same way he reuses other people’s work. Take it away before I set fire to it and get in trouble for setting off the smoke detectors again.’

Nita raised an eyebrow. ‘Again?’

‘Just make it gone.’ Linda turned back to her work, hearing Nita wander off with the thick stack of pages. Alejo Sanguijuela was the only person who ever submitted anything in hard copy any more, print submissions having gone the way of typewritten – and, before that, handwritten – manuscripts. Linda Delgado’s work was done exclusively on screen now, because Alejo’s work never made it out of the slush pile. In fact, he had his own personal slush pile, which was the highest honour anyone could bring themselves to offer to his work. It currently lurked in one corner of the office like a malevolent paper golem just waiting for the right trigger words to be scribed on one of its countless pages in order to activate it so that it could attack.

Municipal Liaison for Australia and New Zealand :: Melbourne
Moderator for Games, Diversions, and Other Exciting Forms of Procrastination

I can see why you enjoyed writing that, Lauren. XD

I got nothing.