Failed Social Networks Modeled after Twitter

Day 103 - FGR Copy A Cat

Image by lintmachine via Flickr

BITTER

Social network for insensitive tarts

CRITTER

Social network for pests

FITTER

Social network for tailors

JITTER

Social network for neurotics

KNITTER

Social network for crochet enthusiasts

LITTER

Social Network for garbage men

MITTER

Social network for Romney supporters

QUITTER

Social network for slackers

SHITTER

Social network for the colon conscious

SITTER

Social network for the sedentary

SLITTER

Social network for sociopaths

SPITTER

Social network for slobber mouths

WITTER

Social network for humorists

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A Left Brain Plot to Kill a Right Brain Post

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Fear hangs out with the letters on my keyboard among the dust clusters and granola bar crumbs.

Actually, fear appears as a red herring, a fishy character that presumably kills off my blog post. But I know the real perpetrator, Perfectionism.

The Perfectionist evil doer hijacks my brain, duct tapes my arms to the chair, and shoves a Cashmere sock in my mouth.

Bound and gagged, I’m forced to stare at a white screen with a gray border, not boarder, although Gray never checks out, unlike my distant cousin Focus.

At least, I don’t have to make Gray breakfast or change the linens on the bed. How could I with my hands duct taped to a chair?

I just wish Gray and White weren’t on the same page. Gray darkens the psyche and White never shimmers like a high-gloss shine.

Whose idea was it anyway to align a shady squatter with a faded screen icon.

Both hold inspiration prisoner in a dark subterranean room, while Perfectionism rewrites the sentences.

“Keep your damn hands off my words,” I say telepathically.

Then add, “You won’t get away with this. You meddling bitch.”

And she didn’t.

Unbeknown to my restrained right brain, an anonymous tip from a desktop informant alerted the literary authorities of my inspiration’s incarceration.

The SWAT team arrived, smacked the evils doers with the taskbar then removed the duct tape from my arms.

I opened my eyes to a normal window view with an expanse of white space to the right.

Thanks a lot, SWAT.

You saved me from perimeter torture and gray and white page border blight.

Who Killed the Economy the Banker or CEO?

A SHERLOCK HOLMES MYSTERY YOU WON’T SEE ON TV

Sherlock Holmes

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INT. KITCHEN

A bloodied corpse lies beneath the kitchen table. Holmes and Watson examine it for clues.

WATSON

Holmes, I dare say the Economy has been shot, strangled and stabbed —

HOLMES

And poisoned, Watson. You missed the syrup residue on his lips. This pour soul died from a blueberry waffle.

English: Photograph of two Eggo's toaster waff...

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Holmes glances at the table.

Now that’s strange. The blueberry waffle was on the plate a minute ago.

WATSON

Officer Klepto bagged it, sir.

Holmes and Watson whirl around at the sound of a thud.

Klepto is sprawled out across the floor, drool leaking from the corners of his mouth.

WATSON

Someone call for an ambulance.

HOLMES

For a hearse, dear Watson. I’m afraid Officer Klepto is kaput. The blueberry waffle was laced with rat poison. Poor Klepto couldn’t wait until Grunt returned with the donuts.

WATSON

You don’t have to be so harsh on the lad.

HOLMES

Harsh?

WATSON

The lad works hard and deserves respect. At least, call him by his name.

HOLMES

Lyndon Van Grunt III is rather tedious to say.

WATSON

Indeed, Holmes. Grunt is easier on the vocal chords.

HOLMES

Where are the two suspects?

WATSON

In the parlor, sir.

HOLMES

Time for a word with them.

INT. PARLOR

Holmes and Watson enter the parlor and walk up to the Banker and CEO. Holmes shakes each of their hands and then wipes his own with a handkerchief.

HOLMES

Sticky fingers. Just as I suspected. Despicable. Just despicable. And you call yourselves men. Bah! You’re nothing but rats in suits!!!

Indistinct muttering from Banker and CEO.

HOLMES

Say what?

More indistinct muttering.

HOLMES

Book them!

WATSON

How so, Holmes?

HOLMES

They’ve got sticky fingers, Watson . . . from the maple syrup used to poison the waffles that killed the Economy.

But killing him wasn’t enough. The CEO shot Economy, after strangling him with a golden parachute, and then stabbed him with a $900 pen.

But Economy’s number wasn’t up until Banker gave him the plate of waffles that he stole from Aunt Jemima.

They’re perp walked out the room.

HOLMES

Now they’ll be making maple syrup from a vault in the Cayman Islands. We can only hope they try to escape from the plane in their golden parachutes. The vault’s already overrun with rats in expensive suits.

THE END

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