still bored, so let's tell a story one sentence at a time

This thread is a complete ripoff of the thread I'm bored, so let's tell a story one word at a time, but tries to address its major pitfall, namely that the one word limit only results in participants trying to one-up each other by selecting a word no one can sensibly follow up on. The putative winner is whoever wrecks the process beyond repair. Far from 'a story' the result is hopelessly incoherent nonsense.

Allowing each participant one complete sentence won't stop participants from trying to one-up each other. That would be improbable; competitiveness over linguistic creativity may be too ingrained in ilxors for any true cooperation to build a fully coherent story. I do expect it to improve the quality of the nonsense at least.

Rules and Suggestions:

- You may not post two or more consecutive sentences. You may not cheat around this rule by using semi-colons or other transparent ploys to defeat the no-consecutive-sentence rule. Don't even think about it.

- No sentences greater than 50 or 60 words, please. Sure, probably nobody will count them, but for crying out loud, you ain't no Faulkner. Go easy.

- Try to overcome the temptation to be so clever it stops everyone else in their tracks and the story dies an abrupt and ignominious death. Instead be so clever that the story becomes even more exciting & interesting to contribute toward. A spur to our collective imagination.

That's it. A plan so crazy... that it just might work.

I expected, even wanted, it to be a day like any other day and for a short while it seemed that my expectations would be fulfilled.

Eggs for breakfast, hot coffee,the paper on the doormat, even the radio seemed to be working.

What didn't seem to be working was my sense of continuity, that something or other that usually reassures me that the eggs, the paper, the dog, myself or the rest of the world have some connection to the person who laid his head down to sleep at some inspecific time, which now could be eons ago.

One text at 6:55 am screwed it all to hell--it was the burst of dog bark around a blind corner, the scream that ripped the day in half.

The scream was mine.

I had to sneeze, and I was carrying coffee.

After cleaning myself up as best I could, I consulted he text message.

it said "goodnight. you fucking asshole."

"Nothing wrong with that", I thought, preparing to text her back.

“I’m sorry about Jeremy, he means well,” was my intention but the squirrelly letters floated and slip-slid under my sweaty fingers, the speed-laced rolls copped by Mean Eddy still had my peepers all geeked.

Jeremy's stomach grumbled somewhere beneath the blanket on the couch.

Pulling pranks never failed to provoke his famously powerful hunger.

"AH-CHOO!," I finally sneezed all over Jeremy.

Jeremy tasted coffee.

“Prank!” he yelled as he held out his fist for a bump.

So far, so usual but three things were bothering me.

The least being that Jeremy was clutching my blanket about his waist, asking whether I'd seen his pants.

Much more troubling was the fact that Jeremy's face was made up to resemble the renowned Batman villain, The Joker, and he seemed strangely on edge, or even more so than usual, since 'edgy' was his trademark move.

The moon farted slyly.

"Quit mooning me, Jeremy!", I commanded, "It's time we had a little talk."

Jeremy smiled, and asked if anyone wanted a coffee.

I had a vision of me jamming my hairy, loose-skinned fingers into Jeremy's eye, but it turned out not to be a vision at all, because I was actually doing it.

Jeremy's eye burst into fizzing sparks like a teen's faulty Juul before his cybernetic core went into emergency shutdown mode.

The sky had suddenly grown dark again, though it was mid-day.

I then put on my robe and wizard hat.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the galaxy, PISSwôd-K3387 had just finished another long and sticky shift spraying Meitnerpudding off the tall, metallic reactor cylinders inside a factory which was responsible for (among other things) the manufacturing of robe and wizard hats for most Class-D humanoids in the eastern division of the Lower Xanthra Galactic Federation.

The shift manager grabbed a sticky shoulder and whispered "anyone need some coffee?" into the cranny of the neck.

This was one of the factory shift manager's favorite jokes, though its humor was always lost on PISSwôd-K3387, who was deaf and never heard it, but nevertheless smiled politely each time he felt the soft tickle of the manager's tentacles on his skin.

"Morale is good", thought the shift manager, "because everyone who needs coffee has it."

Suddenly, Lil Wayne showed up for his shift

Lil' Wayne's neck cranny practically screamed out for attention.

"Your neck cranny is beautiful," thought the shift manager, and Lil Wayne, in his infinite wisdom, understood that his shift manager loved him and wanted to give him more coffee.

"When is The Carter 6 coming out", joked the manager, who was known as a "bit of a cutup"

"It came out on brain chip implant last week," said Lil Wayne, "but somebody on ILM told me that's some lame-ass retro bullshit for white hipsters who are out of touch with the social dynamics of how the children actually interface with musical content."

a boiling kettle of water shrieked in the distance and wouldn't stop.

"Boiling kettle of water" was a euphemism for the shift manager, whose name was Annabelle.

"Oh dear," thought John Dos Passos, who could hear the noise from his executive hover craft, "she must have seen that we've replaced the employee espresso machine with a Keurig."

Annabelle's neck cranny cracked open wide and steam exploded out into the open air as her tilted head hung lifelessly to the side

"Doesn't all this coffee just make you want to fuck all these beautiful fucking necks?" asked Lil Wayne.

A voice resembling a British man's poor impersonation of an Alabama accent issued forth from Annabelle's neck.

[insert sentence of 13,955 words from Jonathan Coe's 2001 novel "The Rotter's Club"]

What was even stranger was that the novel was written in an ancient language called English, which Annabelle had no way of knowing.

To make matters still more chaotic, red lights began flashing in every room, and the siren warning everyone there that Jeremy of Terra had gone into emergency shutdown mode began wailing in Yiddish (the native language of this galaxy), "Varenung! Jeremi hat kikt dem emer! Varenung! Jeremi hat kikt dem emer!"

"Di rinderns zenen halb," intoned John Dos Passos grimly.

"Don't forget to bring Jeremy back into the story," went the voice from inside Annabelle, which of course nobody understood.

Across the galaxy, Jeremy suddenly awoke from his dream, which was about a shower curtain ripping in half in a steamy locker room.

Nevertheless, in the other galaxy, Annabelle's now decapitated body strode decisively over to a panel hidden on the wall, opened it with a flourish, and threw a switch that deactivated the Jeremy-alarm, after which the voice emanating from within her announced, "We shall now observe a moment of silence for our fallen comrade, Jeremy of Terra."

The internal voice then yelled "Gardyloo!" and dumped waste onto the street below.

Meanwhile, back on earth, Jeremy poured himself a cup of coffee.

A stream of toxic intergalactic waste began melting his refrigerator, but he didn't notice.

"Jeremy, you will always be the foil to my primary reader-proxy/protagonist if you aren't the first to notice conflict that advances the plot," said that forgettable yet essential Class-D humanoid I call home to my consciousness.

"Anyone seen a replacement for my eye that was gouged out?" Jeremy asked no one in particular, although I was standing two feet away from him, trying to mop up the melted refrigerator, which was not putting me in a good mood.

I could barely decipher the manufacturer's warranty tattooed on the cranny of Jeremy's neck.

I stared at that neck cranny for at least 32 minutes, straight.

Emerging from the neck cranny, Jeremy winced in the fluorescent light of the chamber and forgot what he was going to say.

"Prank! Fist bump!" he yelled, this being his default utterance at such times of confusion.

The authors at any rate were beginning to sulk-suffer from dreary beery eyes bleating through foam belching bratwurst breath.

"The Aristocrats", shouted Jeremy.

'Is that what you call this… this?', asked the incredulous talent agent, who had been espying the scene all along.

Whence Wentz would wood Barre's bar, or ore his hiss.

Having remembered this handy phrase, which I must say is much pithier than "klaatu barada nikto", I pronounced it flawlessly aloud, thus preventing the next phase of Jeremy's auto-explosion sequence, which had it been implemented would have reduced me and the talent agent to grape jelly in a trice.

Craving dismembered Miss Dandy Glaze (hitch-eye lust spray, isthmus bitchier burrata nicht dough), Ike renounced "et flobulus lea laude," crust indenting the text craze of Mary Lee's grotto ex-Trojan pretense, miffed lad Ibsen gimp redemption could bathe 'n' soothed Lee anti-balance patient through great jolly innards rice.

Ike soon returned to his home and sat on his couch, which for some reason was completely burnt.

"I like Ike," said Ike, and he liked what he said, and he felt pretty good.

His couch was burnt because the sun was unfortunately playing with long sticks and started a fire.

The sticks were long and created long arcs of fire that stretched from the surface of the sun to fields and forests of the earth.

Fortunately, he had his Nissan Couch Card, and could buy another.

Ike started browsing the Ikea catalog online, looking for ideas for a new couch incorporating Scandinavian contemporary design, when it struck him forcefully that his name Ike shared the first three letters of Ikea.

"Ay caramba!" he exclaimed.

And even as the words escaped his lips, he knew at once his entire destiny had been revealed.

"Destiny," he hissed, "this is a shopping mall and you need to put your robe back on!"

Jeremy not having disposed of the burnt couch, Destiny retaliated to his mouth-progenitor’s exhortation by feverishly strewing layers of charred fabric about the food court of the shopping mall, getting fabric flakes all up in the chicken teriyaki.

Customers' complaints about the chicken teriyaki mounted rapidly and vociferously.

sadly, it was because Lil Wayne cooked it without washing his hands after wiping his bum

A few customers complimented the originality of adding charred fabric to the teryaki as an intriguing new flavor, but they were booed down by the majority and made to feel ridiculous.

“Last chance kitchen starts now,” said a feminine but anonymous voice emanating from the teriyaki, just as Lil Wayne was packing his knives.

Everybody in town was killed.

Lil Wayne, as an out-of-towner, was spared.

Icicles gently formed on a nearby corpse.

Suddenly, nothing happened.

Chapter II: Jeremy’s Trial by Fire

"I'd love to have a barbeque tonight", Jeremy said, even though we had no barbeque pit, no barbeque grill, no hibachi, no fire ring, no charcoal, no wood, no lighter fluid, no barbeque utensils, five wooden matches, and a head of lettuce, a carrot, and three radishes in the refrigerator.

Suddenly, Jeremy saw Eddie Murphy eating Riff Raff's face in the middle of the street, and he decided not to intervene.

Although the thought did flit through Jeremy's circuits that perhaps when Eddie Murphy was finished with Riff Raff, there might be some deep cuts he could consider that would marinate well.

suddenly, he looked back outside, and Eddie was gone, with pieces of Riff Raff strewn about the street, like taffy

Gee, maybe I should have asked Eddie for his autograph, Jeremy wondered.

Suddenly, he heard footsteps.

If that's Eddie Murphy, I'm definitely going to ask for his autograph, thought Jeremy.

It was Eddie Murphy.

A trickle of blood had escaped from the corner of his mouth and dribbled down his chin.

Eddie Murphy was blackout drunk again, and at midnight it would be his birthday.

"Eddie, can I have your-", Jeremy began to ask, but he was interrupted by Eddie attempting to eat his face.

Eddie swiftly broke several of his incisors on Jeremy's all-titanium cranium.

Meanwhile, the hit song “All-titanium Cranium” was playing on the radio.

Between the radio blaring and Eddie Murphy's loud drunken yelps as he danced around holding his mouth, Jeremy wasn't sure if Eddie had heard him say, "-autograph", so he helpfully extended the pen and paper in Eddie's direction and sort of jiggled them to draw attention to their mute appeal for some little personalized greeting, such as 'To Jeremy, rots of ruck, your pal Eddie'.

Instead, Eddie, who had ceased to be human after the stroke of midnight due to the curse put on him by Rick James years earlier, took the pen and brutally stabbed Jeremy to death in the neck, which was very much not titanium and smelled kind of fishy.

After Jeremy's apparent death Eddie began to wonder, after that whole 'give me your autograph' thing, just how big a fan of his Jeremy had been, and so slowly and methodically began to investigate whether the apartment contained any of his comedy recordings as vinyl, cassette tape or CD, and film roles, as VHS tape, Betamax discs, or DVDs, plus any wall posters, People magazines, biographies, or just books that may have mentioned him in passing.

It turns out Jeremy had mistaken him for Richard Pryor.

The jagged wound made Jeremy's warranty, neatly but perplexingly tucked into a cranny, completely indecipherable. The corpse, or whatever this was, was far from exquisite. Just a crumpled smelly mass.

Eddie, still thinking himself the original protagonist, thought, "I want my towel back, and I want a refund."

(that was more than one sentence)

(consider the offending 2nd sentence expunged and move on)

(oops. also include the 3rd, and 4th, too)

His warranty, however, did not cover "acts of Eddie Murphy while dehumanized" and therefore its current illegibility was of little import.

Randall Flagg arrived on the scene, realizing it was time once again for his reign.

"Eddie! My main man! Can I have your autograph?", Randall exclaimed with all the fervor of a true fan.

"Flagg?" gasped Eddie, his voice betraying the horrible suspicion that his unsportsmanlike conduct during the Fifth Intergalactic War might finally come to light with the sudden reappearance of this, his arch-nemesis and former commanding Güberhauptführe.

Then Eddie's eyes hungrily alit on the pen Flagg was holding out in his direction in all innocence, believing that this Eddie was still the same old Eddie the cut-up and clown he knew from long ago, unchanged by fame, fortune, untold amounts of drugs and alcohol, and Rick James' curse.

A few moments passed, and as the fierce and raging tears began to clear from Eddie's keen and incisive eye, he espied an inscription upon the Flagg-pen, the pen which we knew had traveled lightyears from a distant, squalid dimension: "Baktar bicht nÿeer biní Qglooob."

He hummed a tune by Buzzcocks, "I don't mind" he thought it was, although he couldn't be sure.

For the first time since brutally eliminating Jeremy, Eddie Murphy felt almost human, but it quickly passed.

As did a kidney stone he didn't even know he had.

“Shlwooopgh!”

He exclaimed, as the kidney stone came out of his ear.

It was a process of birth, of spiritual renewal.

A bit of Eddie's brain came with it, but he found the overall effect was very refreshing.

There were parades.

The processions bubbled up from portals in the ground and stretched out in psychedelic patterns toward the horizon.

all of a sudden, an unexpected guest arrived - Kadeem Hardison, Eddie's co-star in Vampire in Brooklyn

He started to play a harpsichord duet with James Redd, whose band, the Blecchs, had been leading the 134th parade brigade.

Outside in the cold distance a wildcat did growl, for the wind was surprisingly calm, allowing the growl to be audible from so far away.

Pavlov's dog-like, he cracked himself open a cold Labatt with the boys from Canada.

The growl was met by the strains of “Garryowen” as the pipes of the 134th began to skirl.

The psychedelic processions vanished into the ground from whence they had magically emerged at the first notes of the bagpipes (which incidentally were the highland pipes, not the more petite uilleann pipes, nor the gaida, traditional bagpipes of Balkan shepards) as if they were pursued by seven devils holding knives and forks and looking famished.

Suddenly, Eddie felt fatigued of all the merriment, and also possibly of the mild aural brain-loss he had experienced only moments earlier.

The wildcat finished his Labatt and politely wished his Canadian friends a good evening; continued merriment was not his purpose, either.

Disgusted by the lack of either merriment or drugs, Kadeem Hardison soon left in a huff, while Randall Flagg, who had been waiting, doglike, through it all for Eddie's autograph now left, too, ecstatically clutched a wrinkled Labatt's label, upon the back of which was inscribed, "To my best arch-nemesis ever, respectfully..." followed by a scribble that might have been either 'Eddie Murphy' or else 'Richard Pryor'.

He tucked the label into the pages of a book he'd been reading, the second volume of a biography of Adolphus Busch.

"Looks like it's down to just you and me," Eddie said to James Redd, "What do you say to a couple of hands of cribbage before we turn in?"

The wind blew itself to pieces.

everyone in town that died weirdly came back to life as if they had never been dead, but they smelled REALLY bad.

Nobody remembered the rules of cribbage.

As a result, those who had been continuously alive and still had somewhat functional brains could easily convince the recently dead of whatever cribbage rules favored them, enabling them to win the shirts right off the backs of their rather moldy opponents, but these, too, smelled really bad and it didn't improve the looks of the undead, either.

It was an election year.

The rules for the election seemed to be as unsettled and doubtful as the rules for cribbage had become.

Eddie hated acting against styrofoam balls, but here he was again, in a makeup seat on a trailer, awaiting the next layer of latex.

Then, in spite of the odor of fresh latex assaulting his nose, he smelled something that cut past that baseline aroma with an acrid force that staggered him.

Fragrance is like luck:we all want it when we go on a date. Such was the case when the robotic cello appeared.

On another cello, the scents of linseed, beeswax, elemi, rosemary oil, garlic, and dichromate would have been too much.

Fart.

Chris Cornell would sing of days like this.

This was the thought that fleeted through the mind of Miroslav Danilovich, lead singer in a Soundgarden tribute band called Zvuková Záhrada, based in Slovakia but temporarily on tour in Sofia, Bulgaria, as he trudged through the streets searching for a place where he could buy a bottle of slivovitz.

Miroslav may not have looked like much, but he had it where it counts - in his huge fingernails.