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*This is partly my own material and also it contains some material sent to me in an email by a mate*.
Garry Potter sat in not so silent contemplation at his desk. The thunder was ominous sounding, much like the sound of a thin sheet of metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene in a play. Looking up from his moribund posture, he peered through the window overlooking the park and casually noted how the hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease. He watched a little boy’s desperation as his boat drifted out of reach across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't. He hardly batted an eyelid as the man he saw every morning on the tube but had never talked too in five years even though they workked in the same building, plummeted to his death.
The man that fell was known for his suicidal tendencies as he was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or something. McMurphy fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a paper bag filled with vegetable soup. Being a tall man, as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree, there was plenty of pavement covered by his impact. Just as Potter was about to pick up his phone to call the Police someone knocked on his door. He called out to the person to enter and she then proceeded to walk into his office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
He was flabbergasted by the vision of perfection that stood tentatively before him. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a tumble dryer. Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze, whilst her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two other sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master. Then she spoke asking if this really was the Metaphysical dating agency as the sign on the door was as indistinct as something like you know what. Her voice had that tense, grating quality, like a first-generation thermal paper fax machine that needed a band tightened. She laughed at Potter’s quipped-reply and he instantly fell in love with her deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up. Potter desperately hoped that she was as easy as the Daily Star crossword.
The instant attraction was mutual and long separated by cruel fate and the fact that they’d never met before, the star-crossed lovers raced across the office toward each other like two freight trains, one having left York at 6:36 p.m. travelling at 55 mph, the other from Peterborough at 4:19p.m. at a speed of 35 mph. They embraced and soon Potter was in a taxi heading towards his flat. He then waited for her to arrive on the bus and together they took the lift to his abode.
To his horror Potter saw that the door had been forced, as forced as the dialogue during the interview portion of Family Fortunes. He cautiously crept into the flat and to his dismay discovered that his Granddad had decided to come visiting. Granddad didn’t do keys as he had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long it had rusted shut. Potter gazed keenly at the old man and thought that he had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while. They spoke briefly and as soon as Potter disappeared into his bedroom with the young lady, Granddad was gone but unnoticed, like the full stop after the Dr. on a Dr Pepper can.
In Potter’s room she made her move, Oh, Garry, take me!" she panted, her breasts heaving like a student on 31p-a-pint night. She was all over him like a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature British beef. As Garry lay prone he wondered if finally he was going to make it with a lady, he also wondered if he should repaint his room, the red brick wall was the colour of a brick-red crayon after all. He knew this was the time and he gently moved the lady aside whilst he reached under his bed and retrieved “Old Faithful” from the box. His Dad passed it on to him when he became 16 and his dad’s dad had done likewise; it was a working class tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with their power tools. She instantly screamed her disapproval and ran out of the flat vowing never to return.
She came down the stairs looking very much like something no one had ever
seen before, having been too distraught to think about using the lift. Garry sat on his bed a wept. He held his limp magic wand in his hand and thought to himself.
“I bet Gandalf never has this problem”.
Garry Potter sat in not so silent contemplation at his desk. The thunder was ominous sounding, much like the sound of a thin sheet of metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene in a play. Looking up from his moribund posture, he peered through the window overlooking the park and casually noted how the hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease. He watched a little boy’s desperation as his boat drifted out of reach across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't. He hardly batted an eyelid as the man he saw every morning on the tube but had never talked too in five years even though they workked in the same building, plummeted to his death.
The man that fell was known for his suicidal tendencies as he was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or something. McMurphy fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a paper bag filled with vegetable soup. Being a tall man, as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree, there was plenty of pavement covered by his impact. Just as Potter was about to pick up his phone to call the Police someone knocked on his door. He called out to the person to enter and she then proceeded to walk into his office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
He was flabbergasted by the vision of perfection that stood tentatively before him. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a tumble dryer. Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze, whilst her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two other sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master. Then she spoke asking if this really was the Metaphysical dating agency as the sign on the door was as indistinct as something like you know what. Her voice had that tense, grating quality, like a first-generation thermal paper fax machine that needed a band tightened. She laughed at Potter’s quipped-reply and he instantly fell in love with her deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up. Potter desperately hoped that she was as easy as the Daily Star crossword.
The instant attraction was mutual and long separated by cruel fate and the fact that they’d never met before, the star-crossed lovers raced across the office toward each other like two freight trains, one having left York at 6:36 p.m. travelling at 55 mph, the other from Peterborough at 4:19p.m. at a speed of 35 mph. They embraced and soon Potter was in a taxi heading towards his flat. He then waited for her to arrive on the bus and together they took the lift to his abode.
To his horror Potter saw that the door had been forced, as forced as the dialogue during the interview portion of Family Fortunes. He cautiously crept into the flat and to his dismay discovered that his Granddad had decided to come visiting. Granddad didn’t do keys as he had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long it had rusted shut. Potter gazed keenly at the old man and thought that he had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while. They spoke briefly and as soon as Potter disappeared into his bedroom with the young lady, Granddad was gone but unnoticed, like the full stop after the Dr. on a Dr Pepper can.
In Potter’s room she made her move, Oh, Garry, take me!" she panted, her breasts heaving like a student on 31p-a-pint night. She was all over him like a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature British beef. As Garry lay prone he wondered if finally he was going to make it with a lady, he also wondered if he should repaint his room, the red brick wall was the colour of a brick-red crayon after all. He knew this was the time and he gently moved the lady aside whilst he reached under his bed and retrieved “Old Faithful” from the box. His Dad passed it on to him when he became 16 and his dad’s dad had done likewise; it was a working class tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with their power tools. She instantly screamed her disapproval and ran out of the flat vowing never to return.
She came down the stairs looking very much like something no one had ever
seen before, having been too distraught to think about using the lift. Garry sat on his bed a wept. He held his limp magic wand in his hand and thought to himself.
“I bet Gandalf never has this problem”.
plop!
*This is partly my own material and also it contains some material sent to me in an email by a mate*.
Garry Potter sat in not so silent contemplation at his desk. The thunder was ominous sounding, much like the sound of a thin sheet of metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene in a play. Looking up from his moribund posture, he peered through the window overlooking the park and casually noted how the hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease. He watched a little boy’s desperation as his boat drifted out of reach across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't. He hardly batted an eyelid as the man he saw every morning on the tube but had never talked too in five years even though they workked in the same building, plummeted to his death.
The man that fell was known for his suicidal tendencies as he was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or something. McMurphy fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a paper bag filled with vegetable soup. Being a tall man, as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree, there was plenty of pavement covered by his impact. Just as Potter was about to pick up his phone to call the Police someone knocked on his door. He called out to the person to enter and she then proceeded to walk into his office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
He was flabbergasted by the vision of perfection that stood tentatively before him. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a tumble dryer. Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze, whilst her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two other sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master. Then she spoke asking if this really was the Metaphysical dating agency as the sign on the door was as indistinct as something like you know what. Her voice had that tense, grating quality, like a first-generation thermal paper fax machine that needed a band tightened. She laughed at Potter’s quipped-reply and he instantly fell in love with her deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up. Potter desperately hoped that she was as easy as the Daily Star crossword.
The instant attraction was mutual and long separated by cruel fate and the fact that they’d never met before, the star-crossed lovers raced across the office toward each other like two freight trains, one having left York at 6:36 p.m. travelling at 55 mph, the other from Peterborough at 4:19p.m. at a speed of 35 mph. They embraced and soon Potter was in a taxi heading towards his flat. He then waited for her to arrive on the bus and together they took the lift to his abode.
To his horror Potter saw that the door had been forced, as forced as the dialogue during the interview portion of Family Fortunes. He cautiously crept into the flat and to his dismay discovered that his Granddad had decided to come visiting. Granddad didn’t do keys as he had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long it had rusted shut. Potter gazed keenly at the old man and thought that he had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while. They spoke briefly and as soon as Potter disappeared into his bedroom with the young lady, Granddad was gone but unnoticed, like the full stop after the Dr. on a Dr Pepper can.
In Potter’s room she made her move, Oh, Garry, take me!" she panted, her breasts heaving like a student on 31p-a-pint night. She was all over him like a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature British beef. As Garry lay prone he wondered if finally he was going to make it with a lady, he also wondered if he should repaint his room, the red brick wall was the colour of a brick-red crayon after all. He knew this was the time and he gently moved the lady aside whilst he reached under his bed and retrieved “Old Faithful” from the box. His Dad passed it on to him when he became 16 and his dad’s dad had done likewise; it was a working class tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with their power tools. She instantly screamed her disapproval and ran out of the flat vowing never to return.
She came down the stairs looking very much like something no one had ever
seen before, having been too distraught to think about using the lift. Garry sat on his bed a wept. He held his limp magic wand in his hand and thought to himself.
“I bet Gandalf never has this problem”.
Garry Potter sat in not so silent contemplation at his desk. The thunder was ominous sounding, much like the sound of a thin sheet of metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene in a play. Looking up from his moribund posture, he peered through the window overlooking the park and casually noted how the hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease. He watched a little boy’s desperation as his boat drifted out of reach across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't. He hardly batted an eyelid as the man he saw every morning on the tube but had never talked too in five years even though they workked in the same building, plummeted to his death.
The man that fell was known for his suicidal tendencies as he was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck either, but a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine or something. McMurphy fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a paper bag filled with vegetable soup. Being a tall man, as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree, there was plenty of pavement covered by his impact. Just as Potter was about to pick up his phone to call the Police someone knocked on his door. He called out to the person to enter and she then proceeded to walk into his office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
He was flabbergasted by the vision of perfection that stood tentatively before him. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a tumble dryer. Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze, whilst her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two other sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master. Then she spoke asking if this really was the Metaphysical dating agency as the sign on the door was as indistinct as something like you know what. Her voice had that tense, grating quality, like a first-generation thermal paper fax machine that needed a band tightened. She laughed at Potter’s quipped-reply and he instantly fell in love with her deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up. Potter desperately hoped that she was as easy as the Daily Star crossword.
The instant attraction was mutual and long separated by cruel fate and the fact that they’d never met before, the star-crossed lovers raced across the office toward each other like two freight trains, one having left York at 6:36 p.m. travelling at 55 mph, the other from Peterborough at 4:19p.m. at a speed of 35 mph. They embraced and soon Potter was in a taxi heading towards his flat. He then waited for her to arrive on the bus and together they took the lift to his abode.
To his horror Potter saw that the door had been forced, as forced as the dialogue during the interview portion of Family Fortunes. He cautiously crept into the flat and to his dismay discovered that his Granddad had decided to come visiting. Granddad didn’t do keys as he had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long it had rusted shut. Potter gazed keenly at the old man and thought that he had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while. They spoke briefly and as soon as Potter disappeared into his bedroom with the young lady, Granddad was gone but unnoticed, like the full stop after the Dr. on a Dr Pepper can.
In Potter’s room she made her move, Oh, Garry, take me!" she panted, her breasts heaving like a student on 31p-a-pint night. She was all over him like a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature British beef. As Garry lay prone he wondered if finally he was going to make it with a lady, he also wondered if he should repaint his room, the red brick wall was the colour of a brick-red crayon after all. He knew this was the time and he gently moved the lady aside whilst he reached under his bed and retrieved “Old Faithful” from the box. His Dad passed it on to him when he became 16 and his dad’s dad had done likewise; it was a working class tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with their power tools. She instantly screamed her disapproval and ran out of the flat vowing never to return.
She came down the stairs looking very much like something no one had ever
seen before, having been too distraught to think about using the lift. Garry sat on his bed a wept. He held his limp magic wand in his hand and thought to himself.
“I bet Gandalf never has this problem”.