The "Creative Writing" forum, which includes Retro Game Reviews, has been archived and is now read-only. You cannot post here or create a new thread or review on this forum.
There must have been some kind of a mistake. Somewhere along the line a troglodyte with more knuckle-hair then brain cells has made the most grevious of errors and now it's affecting me!
How can it be related to me? Look at it. Just look at it!
I'd always pictured what my brother would be like from the moment that drunken harlot told me she'd let my fat ogre of a father impregnate her again. Gah! Can't they control their sickening yokel urges!
He was to be a special breed. Another little me, but one that would fall into line and help with my world domination. He was to be my right-hand man. A little more heavily built then I, but still of above average intelligence. I guess if I'm honest, I'd always pictured him as David Hasselhof. I'm not sure if it is actually he or Kit that truly impresses me in their daring adventures, but they both seem to get the job done.
Do I get Hasselhof? Do I hell. Instead I'm given this. It's a right chip off my old mans block. In fact, its resemblance to one of the sightlier growths on my father's back has to be seen to be believed. I thought that the so-called God of this doomed planet had insured out of fairness that all people were given either good-looks or intelligence. There are of course the odd exceptions such as I who are meant for greater things and are blessed with both, so I don't see why there may not be the odd abomination of humanity out there. In fact, I think most of them end up working on The Samaritans phone lines dishing out advice to angsty teens from their emotional Pez despensers, but this was not to be for any of my faction.
So that's it. A burbling, fat, dim, excrement machine with all the alure of Adidas aftershave. If Bubbles and Michael Jackson had mated without protection, I'm pretty sure their offspring would have been similar to this with Michael's looks and Bubbles brains.
The only positive to come from its existence is that it takes focus from me. Now when the hunched-over, hairy-lipped, thermal-stockinged brigade of old women visit, I'm left to my own devices. They just "coo" and "aww" over its spit-bubbles, constantly kiss all over its face and actually argue of who get's to sanitize its crevice.
All this extra time comes in handy with my plotting. Not only this, but I've found that itchy rash has ceased it's attack on my face. A 16-month-old with shaving rash turns a few heads in the Supermarket, I can tell you.
This is a set-back in my plans and shall require all my brain power to work around and it's all because of the inneptitude of some high-paid schoolboy in a white coat.
I hate you world, and I shall have my revenge...
How can it be related to me? Look at it. Just look at it!
I'd always pictured what my brother would be like from the moment that drunken harlot told me she'd let my fat ogre of a father impregnate her again. Gah! Can't they control their sickening yokel urges!
He was to be a special breed. Another little me, but one that would fall into line and help with my world domination. He was to be my right-hand man. A little more heavily built then I, but still of above average intelligence. I guess if I'm honest, I'd always pictured him as David Hasselhof. I'm not sure if it is actually he or Kit that truly impresses me in their daring adventures, but they both seem to get the job done.
Do I get Hasselhof? Do I hell. Instead I'm given this. It's a right chip off my old mans block. In fact, its resemblance to one of the sightlier growths on my father's back has to be seen to be believed. I thought that the so-called God of this doomed planet had insured out of fairness that all people were given either good-looks or intelligence. There are of course the odd exceptions such as I who are meant for greater things and are blessed with both, so I don't see why there may not be the odd abomination of humanity out there. In fact, I think most of them end up working on The Samaritans phone lines dishing out advice to angsty teens from their emotional Pez despensers, but this was not to be for any of my faction.
So that's it. A burbling, fat, dim, excrement machine with all the alure of Adidas aftershave. If Bubbles and Michael Jackson had mated without protection, I'm pretty sure their offspring would have been similar to this with Michael's looks and Bubbles brains.
The only positive to come from its existence is that it takes focus from me. Now when the hunched-over, hairy-lipped, thermal-stockinged brigade of old women visit, I'm left to my own devices. They just "coo" and "aww" over its spit-bubbles, constantly kiss all over its face and actually argue of who get's to sanitize its crevice.
All this extra time comes in handy with my plotting. Not only this, but I've found that itchy rash has ceased it's attack on my face. A 16-month-old with shaving rash turns a few heads in the Supermarket, I can tell you.
This is a set-back in my plans and shall require all my brain power to work around and it's all because of the inneptitude of some high-paid schoolboy in a white coat.
I hate you world, and I shall have my revenge...
Page:
The title was a direct quote, but mainly because that was the quote that gave me the idea.
I wrote it, so therefore is it not my own writing style? It doesn't sound like Stewie if you read it through, it's too English, and if the title was different I doubt most people would have known that's where I got the inspiration from.
Ta anyway.
I wrote it, so therefore is it not my own writing style? It doesn't sound like Stewie if you read it through, it's too English, and if the title was different I doubt most people would have known that's where I got the inspiration from.
Ta anyway.
Edit
Not strictly plagiarism, more perhaps a complete lack of originality. The title is a quote, and the character and writing style are not your own. As a standalone piece it's ok, but I would prefer to see you enter your own story as it is a contest.
The charector I wrote the from the point of view of is 16-months-old. I got the idea from the superb charector that is Stewie.
How is it in Family Guy?
If by that you are saying that I stole this then you're very wrong. I will admit to getting the vague idea for it while watching Family Guy, but I still would fail to see how that would be plagiarism given that the work is my own...
Is it plagiarism?
Is there a penalty for plagiarism?
There must have been some kind of a mistake. Somewhere along the line a troglodyte with more knuckle-hair then brain cells has made the most grevious of errors and now it's affecting me!
How can it be related to me? Look at it. Just look at it!
I'd always pictured what my brother would be like from the moment that drunken harlot told me she'd let my fat ogre of a father impregnate her again. Gah! Can't they control their sickening yokel urges!
He was to be a special breed. Another little me, but one that would fall into line and help with my world domination. He was to be my right-hand man. A little more heavily built then I, but still of above average intelligence. I guess if I'm honest, I'd always pictured him as David Hasselhof. I'm not sure if it is actually he or Kit that truly impresses me in their daring adventures, but they both seem to get the job done.
Do I get Hasselhof? Do I hell. Instead I'm given this. It's a right chip off my old mans block. In fact, its resemblance to one of the sightlier growths on my father's back has to be seen to be believed. I thought that the so-called God of this doomed planet had insured out of fairness that all people were given either good-looks or intelligence. There are of course the odd exceptions such as I who are meant for greater things and are blessed with both, so I don't see why there may not be the odd abomination of humanity out there. In fact, I think most of them end up working on The Samaritans phone lines dishing out advice to angsty teens from their emotional Pez despensers, but this was not to be for any of my faction.
So that's it. A burbling, fat, dim, excrement machine with all the alure of Adidas aftershave. If Bubbles and Michael Jackson had mated without protection, I'm pretty sure their offspring would have been similar to this with Michael's looks and Bubbles brains.
The only positive to come from its existence is that it takes focus from me. Now when the hunched-over, hairy-lipped, thermal-stockinged brigade of old women visit, I'm left to my own devices. They just "coo" and "aww" over its spit-bubbles, constantly kiss all over its face and actually argue of who get's to sanitize its crevice.
All this extra time comes in handy with my plotting. Not only this, but I've found that itchy rash has ceased it's attack on my face. A 16-month-old with shaving rash turns a few heads in the Supermarket, I can tell you.
This is a set-back in my plans and shall require all my brain power to work around and it's all because of the inneptitude of some high-paid schoolboy in a white coat.
I hate you world, and I shall have my revenge...
How can it be related to me? Look at it. Just look at it!
I'd always pictured what my brother would be like from the moment that drunken harlot told me she'd let my fat ogre of a father impregnate her again. Gah! Can't they control their sickening yokel urges!
He was to be a special breed. Another little me, but one that would fall into line and help with my world domination. He was to be my right-hand man. A little more heavily built then I, but still of above average intelligence. I guess if I'm honest, I'd always pictured him as David Hasselhof. I'm not sure if it is actually he or Kit that truly impresses me in their daring adventures, but they both seem to get the job done.
Do I get Hasselhof? Do I hell. Instead I'm given this. It's a right chip off my old mans block. In fact, its resemblance to one of the sightlier growths on my father's back has to be seen to be believed. I thought that the so-called God of this doomed planet had insured out of fairness that all people were given either good-looks or intelligence. There are of course the odd exceptions such as I who are meant for greater things and are blessed with both, so I don't see why there may not be the odd abomination of humanity out there. In fact, I think most of them end up working on The Samaritans phone lines dishing out advice to angsty teens from their emotional Pez despensers, but this was not to be for any of my faction.
So that's it. A burbling, fat, dim, excrement machine with all the alure of Adidas aftershave. If Bubbles and Michael Jackson had mated without protection, I'm pretty sure their offspring would have been similar to this with Michael's looks and Bubbles brains.
The only positive to come from its existence is that it takes focus from me. Now when the hunched-over, hairy-lipped, thermal-stockinged brigade of old women visit, I'm left to my own devices. They just "coo" and "aww" over its spit-bubbles, constantly kiss all over its face and actually argue of who get's to sanitize its crevice.
All this extra time comes in handy with my plotting. Not only this, but I've found that itchy rash has ceased it's attack on my face. A 16-month-old with shaving rash turns a few heads in the Supermarket, I can tell you.
This is a set-back in my plans and shall require all my brain power to work around and it's all because of the inneptitude of some high-paid schoolboy in a white coat.
I hate you world, and I shall have my revenge...
Page: