Yankeedoodle30
"I have a very detailed imaginary life, and it sometimes takes precedence over what's actually happening around me.”
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Write what you want to do when you grow up or what you do. Maybe even a dream you had. Don't forget to tag me @Famewriter!
Written by Yankeedoodle30

My dream job, when I grow up, is to be a . . .

full-time barista at Starbucks, and since I’m only sixteen, I won’t be needing their health insurance cuz’ I hardly ever get sick, unless I eat too much mayonnaise, straight from the wide mouth jar. This should push me to the front of the line because I will be saving the corporation hundreds of dollars a year for their sub-par health insurance.

My mom says I have an excellent memory; it’s almost photographic because it’s in black & white and not color. Right out of the gate, I've got that going for me, which is good cuz' I’m going to learn all 87,000 different drink combinations so I can make them without hesitation; well, maybe half-a-hesitation.

My Mom says I have a 24/7 cheery demeanor, which makes me extremely easy to live with, as long as I stay in my room, which I do most of my waking hours unless I’m in school or at the mall, or the movies, or the amusement park, Starbucks, Yamba Juice or Subway. That litter personality quirk is going on the first line of my resume right after my educational history.

My goal is to become a supervisor of a local store and then a regional manager of a small chain of Starbucks; probably not more than ten.

 My Mom says when I put my mind to doing something, I can usually do it, if I really want to do it, and without having somebody tell me what to do, when to do it and how to do it. That’s how I learned to play the piano on my own. It took over seven years but now I’m really good. I can play the love song from “Frozen” with both hands and I’m so fast, I don’t need help turning the pages of the sheet music.

Yesterday I was surfing the Starbucks website when I discovered any employee, even the ones that mostly sweep up, take out the trash and clean the bathrooms and replace the empty toilet paper rolls, can send their suggestions to the big corporate guys that own the company and live in big houses in Seattle and drive nice cars. 

I read that for every legitimate suggestion sent in, those guys will personally send you a coupon for a free tall cup of the coffee of your choice. If they actually use your suggestion, then they give you half a day off with pay and a little trophy with your name on it; the kind I got for coming in 4th place in the last day of school sack race.

My first suggestion will be: A combination comfort station/coffee annex for overflow crowds. Every time the order line has more than ten people, a 2nd Starbucks Annex will be available in the men’s bathroom. It will be open to both men and women when no one is going potty. It will be staffed on a part time basis by the employees that mostly sweep up, take out the trash and clean the bathrooms and replace the empty toilet paper rolls. 

The actual toilet time, per each legitimate customer, will be ninety seconds so more coffee can be sold. In addition to offering specialty coffees from around the world, the annex will also serve freshly baked pastries, Italian pannini sandwiches and soups, as well as the usual Starbucks rest room's custom selection of toilet paper and soap. (but not in large quantities like you get at Costco)

I will also have a lounge area near the bathroom with hand carved signs that say: “The Land of Coffee”, for those legitimate customers  waiting to use the rest rooms. They can can sit and relax, or stand and listen to live acoustic music and poetry readings on Sunday’s by non-professional musicians and poets. If they can’t hold it any longer and just have gotta’ go, real bad, they will be encouraged to use the facilities next door at Jamba Juice or Subway. Just don’t tell them you are part of the toilet overflow crowd from the Starbucks Coffee annex.

Since Starbuck restrooms are 35% larger than Walmart’s, this extra space will be used to store: extra stir sticks, napkins, giant cases of artificial sweeteners,(like you can buy at Costco) and those fancy specialty gift cups with the STARBUCK LOGO that sell for twenty-five bucks and up, which I think is a rip off because you can get ten of them for twenty bucks at Costco.

If the rest room annex stations become popular, which I expect they will, I will suggest they add a secondary annex along the corridor leading from the main seating area to the rest rooms.

When I meet a barrista I like the smell of, and I want to spend the rest of my life with, I plan on getting married in the outdoor Starbucks Chapel and Courtyard, which will be another of my suggestions. I have already written the slogan: “Come for the wedding, stay for the coffee.” I’ve also included that near the top of my resume, right after my list of hobbies.

I also plan to suggest that Starbucks include a Starbucks Bank annex in every store so their loyal customers who shop at Starbucks can finance a year's worth of coffee, with low interest rates, no matter how bad their credit rating. They just have to sign an affidavit stating they will never sue Starbucks if any part of their body is scalded from ordering extra hot coffee.

I’m also suggesting the use of extra large tip jars which will mean more money to be divided amongst the workers and the supervisors and the corporate CEO”s who live in Seattle in big fancy houses and drive those nice cars.

I like soda and so I'm gonna' have the company invent a bottled coffee-cola-chocolate hybrid that will be sold as a “drinkable dessert”.

I can’t wait till I’m eighteen when I can apply for a Starbucks job. My mom also says when I turn eighteen, I can start drinking coffee.

  "Live long and enjoy the prosperous coffee business and may the froth be with you."

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Write what you want to do when you grow up or what you do. Maybe even a dream you had. Don't forget to tag me @Famewriter!
Written by Yankeedoodle30
My dream job, when I grow up, is to be a . . .

full-time barista at Starbucks, and since I’m only sixteen, I won’t be needing their health insurance cuz’ I hardly ever get sick, unless I eat too much mayonnaise, straight from the wide mouth jar. This should push me to the front of the line because I will be saving the corporation hundreds of dollars a year for their sub-par health insurance.

My mom says I have an excellent memory; it’s almost photographic because it’s in black & white and not color. Right out of the gate, I've got that going for me, which is good cuz' I’m going to learn all 87,000 different drink combinations so I can make them without hesitation; well, maybe half-a-hesitation.

My Mom says I have a 24/7 cheery demeanor, which makes me extremely easy to live with, as long as I stay in my room, which I do most of my waking hours unless I’m in school or at the mall, or the movies, or the amusement park, Starbucks, Yamba Juice or Subway. That litter personality quirk is going on the first line of my resume right after my educational history.

My goal is to become a supervisor of a local store and then a regional manager of a small chain of Starbucks; probably not more than ten.

 My Mom says when I put my mind to doing something, I can usually do it, if I really want to do it, and without having somebody tell me what to do, when to do it and how to do it. That’s how I learned to play the piano on my own. It took over seven years but now I’m really good. I can play the love song from “Frozen” with both hands and I’m so fast, I don’t need help turning the pages of the sheet music.

Yesterday I was surfing the Starbucks website when I discovered any employee, even the ones that mostly sweep up, take out the trash and clean the bathrooms and replace the empty toilet paper rolls, can send their suggestions to the big corporate guys that own the company and live in big houses in Seattle and drive nice cars. 

I read that for every legitimate suggestion sent in, those guys will personally send you a coupon for a free tall cup of the coffee of your choice. If they actually use your suggestion, then they give you half a day off with pay and a little trophy with your name on it; the kind I got for coming in 4th place in the last day of school sack race.

My first suggestion will be: A combination comfort station/coffee annex for overflow crowds. Every time the order line has more than ten people, a 2nd Starbucks Annex will be available in the men’s bathroom. It will be open to both men and women when no one is going potty. It will be staffed on a part time basis by the employees that mostly sweep up, take out the trash and clean the bathrooms and replace the empty toilet paper rolls. 

The actual toilet time, per each legitimate customer, will be ninety seconds so more coffee can be sold. In addition to offering specialty coffees from around the world, the annex will also serve freshly baked pastries, Italian pannini sandwiches and soups, as well as the usual Starbucks rest room's custom selection of toilet paper and soap. (but not in large quantities like you get at Costco)

I will also have a lounge area near the bathroom with hand carved signs that say: “The Land of Coffee”, for those legitimate customers  waiting to use the rest rooms. They can can sit and relax, or stand and listen to live acoustic music and poetry readings on Sunday’s by non-professional musicians and poets. If they can’t hold it any longer and just have gotta’ go, real bad, they will be encouraged to use the facilities next door at Jamba Juice or Subway. Just don’t tell them you are part of the toilet overflow crowd from the Starbucks Coffee annex.

Since Starbuck restrooms are 35% larger than Walmart’s, this extra space will be used to store: extra stir sticks, napkins, giant cases of artificial sweeteners,(like you can buy at Costco) and those fancy specialty gift cups with the STARBUCK LOGO that sell for twenty-five bucks and up, which I think is a rip off because you can get ten of them for twenty bucks at Costco.

If the rest room annex stations become popular, which I expect they will, I will suggest they add a secondary annex along the corridor leading from the main seating area to the rest rooms.

When I meet a barrista I like the smell of, and I want to spend the rest of my life with, I plan on getting married in the outdoor Starbucks Chapel and Courtyard, which will be another of my suggestions. I have already written the slogan: “Come for the wedding, stay for the coffee.” I’ve also included that near the top of my resume, right after my list of hobbies.

I also plan to suggest that Starbucks include a Starbucks Bank annex in every store so their loyal customers who shop at Starbucks can finance a year's worth of coffee, with low interest rates, no matter how bad their credit rating. They just have to sign an affidavit stating they will never sue Starbucks if any part of their body is scalded from ordering extra hot coffee.

I’m also suggesting the use of extra large tip jars which will mean more money to be divided amongst the workers and the supervisors and the corporate CEO”s who live in Seattle in big fancy houses and drive those nice cars.

I like soda and so I'm gonna' have the company invent a bottled coffee-cola-chocolate hybrid that will be sold as a “drinkable dessert”.

I can’t wait till I’m eighteen when I can apply for a Starbucks job. My mom also says when I turn eighteen, I can start drinking coffee.

  "Live long and enjoy the prosperous coffee business and may the froth be with you."

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You have a few days left to live. Only you know this. You are able to leave behind a note, letter, story or poem. It can be about anything you wish. Show us what you write. (Feel free to tag me. And by all means, don't feel that you're constrained to write something sad)
Written by Yankeedoodle30 in portal Fiction

For Sale: Gold Retirement Spoon (used)

To whom it may concern. 

Those of you who do not know me, may not know that at one time in the distant past, I was young and handsome, had a good job, had a nice and fast car, and I was popular with the ladies, and I was a snappy dresser and rich and famous, not celebrity famous mind you, just that the clerks at the Dollar Tree, knew me by my first name. I wasn’t really rich, I just had about $3,500 sewn into my mattress.

I am now old and broke and homeless and no one knows who I am. I wasn’t really handsome, pretty much average which is the reason I was popular only with two ladies, one had a hair lip and the other one was deaf. Nothing wrong with having a hair lip or being deaf, I just couldn’t understand the first one and the other one couldn’t understand me.

My car was nice and fast when it was new, I bought it when it was really old. I eventually ended up driving it into the ground. No really, I didn't see a big patch of vertical ground in front of me and I drove right into it. 

My career never really took off: I worked in a spoon factory and hoped one day to move over to the fork department but I kept getting passed by for promotions. When I retired they gave me a gold plated spoon. Turns out, it wasn’t gold plated at all, some wise ass spray painted it gold. So since I’m homeless now, anybody wanna’ buy a gold spoon painted with yellow paint?

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You have a few days left to live. Only you know this. You are able to leave behind a note, letter, story or poem. It can be about anything you wish. Show us what you write. (Feel free to tag me. And by all means, don't feel that you're constrained to write something sad)
Written by Yankeedoodle30 in portal Fiction
For Sale: Gold Retirement Spoon (used)

To whom it may concern. 
Those of you who do not know me, may not know that at one time in the distant past, I was young and handsome, had a good job, had a nice and fast car, and I was popular with the ladies, and I was a snappy dresser and rich and famous, not celebrity famous mind you, just that the clerks at the Dollar Tree, knew me by my first name. I wasn’t really rich, I just had about $3,500 sewn into my mattress.

I am now old and broke and homeless and no one knows who I am. I wasn’t really handsome, pretty much average which is the reason I was popular only with two ladies, one had a hair lip and the other one was deaf. Nothing wrong with having a hair lip or being deaf, I just couldn’t understand the first one and the other one couldn’t understand me.

My car was nice and fast when it was new, I bought it when it was really old. I eventually ended up driving it into the ground. No really, I didn't see a big patch of vertical ground in front of me and I drove right into it. 

My career never really took off: I worked in a spoon factory and hoped one day to move over to the fork department but I kept getting passed by for promotions. When I retired they gave me a gold plated spoon. Turns out, it wasn’t gold plated at all, some wise ass spray painted it gold. So since I’m homeless now, anybody wanna’ buy a gold spoon painted with yellow paint?



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Written by Yankeedoodle30

. . . or does it?

The first time I saw her, she was playing in the park, it was almost dark.

She was nine and and I was nine. 

When I turned ten, every time I looked at her, she looked like sleeping 

beauty dressed up like the sun.

                  "I just turned eleven and she is the love of my life."

 But in a month, she will laugh at me and stomp out of my tiny world.

Two years from now, when I’m thirteen she will give me hope and then kick me in the shins, and she and her snotty friends will all laugh at me.

Four years later,  when I turn fifteen, after a few hits and misses, we'll be back together again, but she'll play me for a fool, steal my stuff and sneak off again.

At sixteen, when I can drive, she'll meet me half-way and tell me she loves me and needs my help. I'll drop out of school and get a job, so I can: buy her next fix, help her take a hit, score her more coke, and watch her when she shoots up.

At eighteen, my friends will leave me behind and it'll just be the two of us and she'll be wasted all the time.

Halfway to nineteen, nothing will be left of my soaring love except an empty ache. 

She will be dead from a slow suicide of drugs and alcohol. Unfortunately, I don't know all this yet, because you see . . . 

                       "I just turned eleven and she is the love of my life."

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Written by Yankeedoodle30
. . . or does it?
The first time I saw her, she was playing in the park, it was almost dark.
She was nine and and I was nine. 

When I turned ten, every time I looked at her, she looked like sleeping 
beauty dressed up like the sun.

                  "I just turned eleven and she is the love of my life."

 But in a month, she will laugh at me and stomp out of my tiny world.

Two years from now, when I’m thirteen she will give me hope and then kick me in the shins, and she and her snotty friends will all laugh at me.

Four years later,  when I turn fifteen, after a few hits and misses, we'll be back together again, but she'll play me for a fool, steal my stuff and sneak off again.

At sixteen, when I can drive, she'll meet me half-way and tell me she loves me and needs my help. I'll drop out of school and get a job, so I can: buy her next fix, help her take a hit, score her more coke, and watch her when she shoots up.

At eighteen, my friends will leave me behind and it'll just be the two of us and she'll be wasted all the time.

Halfway to nineteen, nothing will be left of my soaring love except an empty ache. 

She will be dead from a slow suicide of drugs and alcohol. Unfortunately, I don't know all this yet, because you see . . . 

                       "I just turned eleven and she is the love of my life."
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"...Neil deGrasse Tyson and Carl Sagan began smoking their blunt. The conversation that followed..."
Written by Yankeedoodle30 in portal Sci-Fi

Neil deGrasse Tyson, Is a Black Hole, Sucking the Fun Out of the Universe

“Carl, what are we smoking?"

“Well Neil, it’s one of my methods of escaping reality. I remove the tobacco from a blunt cigar and replace it with blond hash.”

“The reason I invited you here is, haven’t you given the press the impression that we have a close scientific working relationship and you consider me to be your mentor?”

“Ahhh, I may have mentioned it quite a few times but I didn’t mean it.”

“Okay, at least you know the difference between reality and fiction but I still consider you to be a 21st century celebrity scientist who has made minor contributions to astronomy.”

“Carl, that really hurts my analytical based feelings. I must say however, although I am a militant anti-drug person, this is good stuff.”

“Don’t you get tired of being a pop science media darling who lacks at maintaining the bare minimum of a general sense of decorum and dignity."

“You have no evidence to support your egregious claims.”

“Actually I do. I have video footage that reveals you have a questionable scientific background and a propensity towards spouting inanities, trivial sound bites and numerous downright falsehoods.”

“Not fair, I have a top notch staff of technical writers and editors. Psssst. How much does this stuff cost?”

“That’s the problem isn’t it? As a TV celebrity scientist, you haven’t published anything of note for over six years.”

“I dabble in science occasionally . . . can I get a couple pounds of this hash for wholesale?”

“Neil, you are nothing more than a media cheerleader for science”.

“Not fair. Your evidence is faulty and or out dated and no longer relevant.”

“You’re no different than the other pop culture icon scientists - Bill Nye and Michio Kaku."

“Is there a discount if I double my order?”

“Your critics call you an incoherent scientific “quote machine” and that you have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“This really is good stuff. Can I light up another one, please?” and could I bring home a few of those doobies for my friends, Mary and Jane?”

“No Neil, and I’m going to drive you to the airport and make sure you get on the right plane.”

“Can I put this thing out and light it up on the plane?”

“What do you think, Mr. deGrasse?”

“. . .do you think I can smuggle a Bic lighter on the plane”?”

“What do you think, Mr. deGrasse?”

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"...Neil deGrasse Tyson and Carl Sagan began smoking their blunt. The conversation that followed..."
Written by Yankeedoodle30 in portal Sci-Fi
Neil deGrasse Tyson, Is a Black Hole, Sucking the Fun Out of the Universe

“Carl, what are we smoking?"

“Well Neil, it’s one of my methods of escaping reality. I remove the tobacco from a blunt cigar and replace it with blond hash.”

“The reason I invited you here is, haven’t you given the press the impression that we have a close scientific working relationship and you consider me to be your mentor?”

“Ahhh, I may have mentioned it quite a few times but I didn’t mean it.”

“Okay, at least you know the difference between reality and fiction but I still consider you to be a 21st century celebrity scientist who has made minor contributions to astronomy.”

“Carl, that really hurts my analytical based feelings. I must say however, although I am a militant anti-drug person, this is good stuff.”

“Don’t you get tired of being a pop science media darling who lacks at maintaining the bare minimum of a general sense of decorum and dignity."

“You have no evidence to support your egregious claims.”

“Actually I do. I have video footage that reveals you have a questionable scientific background and a propensity towards spouting inanities, trivial sound bites and numerous downright falsehoods.”

“Not fair, I have a top notch staff of technical writers and editors. Psssst. How much does this stuff cost?”

“That’s the problem isn’t it? As a TV celebrity scientist, you haven’t published anything of note for over six years.”

“I dabble in science occasionally . . . can I get a couple pounds of this hash for wholesale?”

“Neil, you are nothing more than a media cheerleader for science”.

“Not fair. Your evidence is faulty and or out dated and no longer relevant.”

“You’re no different than the other pop culture icon scientists - Bill Nye and Michio Kaku."

“Is there a discount if I double my order?”

“Your critics call you an incoherent scientific “quote machine” and that you have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“This really is good stuff. Can I light up another one, please?” and could I bring home a few of those doobies for my friends, Mary and Jane?”

“No Neil, and I’m going to drive you to the airport and make sure you get on the right plane.”

“Can I put this thing out and light it up on the plane?”

“What do you think, Mr. deGrasse?”

“. . .do you think I can smuggle a Bic lighter on the plane”?”

“What do you think, Mr. deGrasse?”






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Write whatever you like, but it has to be about dealing with soul-crushing loneliness
Written by Yankeedoodle30 in portal Poetry & Free Verse

“I’ll never say, never again”

I met him in a pool room somewhere between love

and yesterday. He took me back to his hotel. A fancy

room on the fifteenth floor. I was so drunk on rye

whiskey and unfrozen water, I couldn't make out the

number on the door. I had drunk myself dizzy, the

room was spinning, my head was dancing with stars.

He laid me on the bed and had his way with me, then

he left to party with friends.

I lay there naked, I was scared. My father died drunk

in his slumber and I knew I'd been drinking too much

and I'd probably be next. I broke the label and unscrewed

the top of a brand new room service whiskey bottle.

I never fell asleep, and soon the street lights blinked off

and the amber sun rose; it’s tinged with regret. As my

hangover strikes, I turn on the tap but the water's

too loud. There’s no fool proof cure for the morning

after, for a fool like me. I got mashed last night, just

like my college days when we would: pass the bottle,

put on a smile and get wild.

My head is pounding, no way I’m coming down.

Whoa! I've got an empty cup, I pour another shot.

The bliss is temporary and I realize, he never came

back last night, probably hooked up with a real looker,

lot's more prettier than me.

Alone with my pen, I face the ultimate truth and write

my last goodbye letter. Is it the cold that’s making me

shake or the whiskey and rye? I'm pretty sad but so what?

It'll be over all too soon.

I struggle towards the bathroom mirror, I'm all tore up,

my mind is sore. I got dulled senses, aching bones,

and my heart is too frail to feel anything. It’s an ugly sight,

smeared lipstick, running mascara, and the telltale red eyes

of a drunkard.

I tell an imaginary bartender, give me a painkiller cocktail

and keep them coming, don’t water them down, make em' neat.

You know you’re lonely when there’s no one around to pass

you a bottle. I finish my note with a simple good bye, and I

drift off to sleep. I’ll never wake again but I know one thing is

for sure, I’ll never have to say, I’ll never take another drink again.

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Write whatever you like, but it has to be about dealing with soul-crushing loneliness
Written by Yankeedoodle30 in portal Poetry & Free Verse
“I’ll never say, never again”

I met him in a pool room somewhere between love
and yesterday. He took me back to his hotel. A fancy
room on the fifteenth floor. I was so drunk on rye
whiskey and unfrozen water, I couldn't make out the
number on the door. I had drunk myself dizzy, the
room was spinning, my head was dancing with stars.
He laid me on the bed and had his way with me, then
he left to party with friends.

I lay there naked, I was scared. My father died drunk
in his slumber and I knew I'd been drinking too much
and I'd probably be next. I broke the label and unscrewed
the top of a brand new room service whiskey bottle.

I never fell asleep, and soon the street lights blinked off
and the amber sun rose; it’s tinged with regret. As my
hangover strikes, I turn on the tap but the water's
too loud. There’s no fool proof cure for the morning
after, for a fool like me. I got mashed last night, just
like my college days when we would: pass the bottle,
put on a smile and get wild.

My head is pounding, no way I’m coming down.
Whoa! I've got an empty cup, I pour another shot.
The bliss is temporary and I realize, he never came
back last night, probably hooked up with a real looker,
lot's more prettier than me.

Alone with my pen, I face the ultimate truth and write
my last goodbye letter. Is it the cold that’s making me
shake or the whiskey and rye? I'm pretty sad but so what?
It'll be over all too soon.

I struggle towards the bathroom mirror, I'm all tore up,
my mind is sore. I got dulled senses, aching bones,
and my heart is too frail to feel anything. It’s an ugly sight,
smeared lipstick, running mascara, and the telltale red eyes
of a drunkard.

I tell an imaginary bartender, give me a painkiller cocktail
and keep them coming, don’t water them down, make em' neat.
You know you’re lonely when there’s no one around to pass
you a bottle. I finish my note with a simple good bye, and I
drift off to sleep. I’ll never wake again but I know one thing is
for sure, I’ll never have to say, I’ll never take another drink again.
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Write about something that makes you absolutely pissed. Don't use any CONVENTIONAL cuss words, instead make up your own.
Written by Yankeedoodle30

Fast food is worse than a dickweed . . . . . pile-jacker!

A scratchy voice called out, “Hallo wecom to bugking maya takyou oder pease.”

I was late for work and responded, “Listen you freakin’ mudblood, your words are coming out of that tinny speaker all fickyficked up, give me a number two and a large black coffee."

A garbled voice responded, “Isa ordeor coreeeect on thay screep.”

I hollered, “Yes,” and drove to the first window. 

A pimply faced dickwhistle, wearing a but-wiper paper hat said, “That’s five thirty five.” 

I handed him a five and two ones.

He took another order and kept repeating the same words.

Dickwad leaned out the window. “Hey man, wanna receipt?”

“No, you fludder-whumpas, just give me my dandy-nerf change and my BK doo-doo.

and don’t give me no sparks.”

The kid . . . obviously deaf from birth didn’t respond and counted out my change one coin at a time.

I said, “Hey klattle-klack, where’d you learn money math, in some bratchin’ loafing center?”

He handed me my food and started taking next order.

I pounded the counter. “Listen you under age figgity-bumpkus, give me my thumpa-doo black coffee; I don’t have all plonking day you dumb spazz shiner.”

He handed me my black coffee.

I hollered, "You’re an inbred lard-rag,  get the twunt out of my face, you poor excuse for a wank-sniffer.”

I drove off and took a sip of my luke warm coffee. It tasted like klattle-klack sludge mixed with snapper-splatt.

                            Damn kid had spit in my in firthin coffee.

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Write about something that makes you absolutely pissed. Don't use any CONVENTIONAL cuss words, instead make up your own.
Written by Yankeedoodle30
Fast food is worse than a dickweed . . . . . pile-jacker!

A scratchy voice called out, “Hallo wecom to bugking maya takyou oder pease.”

I was late for work and responded, “Listen you freakin’ mudblood, your words are coming out of that tinny speaker all fickyficked up, give me a number two and a large black coffee."

A garbled voice responded, “Isa ordeor coreeeect on thay screep.”

I hollered, “Yes,” and drove to the first window. 

A pimply faced dickwhistle, wearing a but-wiper paper hat said, “That’s five thirty five.” 

I handed him a five and two ones.

He took another order and kept repeating the same words.

Dickwad leaned out the window. “Hey man, wanna receipt?”

“No, you fludder-whumpas, just give me my dandy-nerf change and my BK doo-doo.
and don’t give me no sparks.”

The kid . . . obviously deaf from birth didn’t respond and counted out my change one coin at a time.

I said, “Hey klattle-klack, where’d you learn money math, in some bratchin’ loafing center?”

He handed me my food and started taking next order.

I pounded the counter. “Listen you under age figgity-bumpkus, give me my thumpa-doo black coffee; I don’t have all plonking day you dumb spazz shiner.”

He handed me my black coffee.

I hollered, "You’re an inbred lard-rag,  get the twunt out of my face, you poor excuse for a wank-sniffer.”

I drove off and took a sip of my luke warm coffee. It tasted like klattle-klack sludge mixed with snapper-splatt.

                            Damn kid had spit in my in firthin coffee.


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Star Trek or Star Wars? Why? (Please tag me, @Tee_Hi)
Written by Yankeedoodle30

Star Trek vs Star Wars: You Decide

********************

Subtract the word Star and you have: a Trek or a War.

********************

• A Trek to a Star sounds like you’re boldly going where no mountain climber has gone before and climbing Mount Everest, over and over and over again until you get to the top and plant the Federation Flag.

It’s all downhill from there until the next trek to climb yet another really big mountain;

• A war on a Star sounds interesting if you’re into the galactic history of a place that’s far, far away, but why would anyone not so boldly go that far to document two warring factions and document why they are mad at each other?

Is it a galactic feud, an uncivil war or just some locals having fun taking pot shots at the current government in power.

***********************

                           Which fans have the coolest “nicknames"?

• The fanatic fans of Star Trek are simply called: Trekkies or Trekkers.

• The fanatic fans of Star Wars are called: . . . ahhhh, that’s a matter of debate?

    C-3Peons, Lucasites, Star Warriors, Jarjarians, Fans Who Have A Bad Feeling About         This, Obi Wannabes, Aren't you a little short to be a stormtrooper?

***************************

But . . . The ultimate answer can be found in what the fans do in their spare time when they are not eating, breathing or dreaming about being Trekkies or Star Warriors.

Star Wars fans like to: 

Visit baseball stadiums, go to hockey games, sports bars, Six Flags, J Crew, the beach, have a B.Y.O.B. party, romantic dinners, visit art galleries, and attend the symphony.

Star Trek fans prefer to: 

Visit smoothie bars, go to The Lego Store, the Family Fun Center, a 3D movie without a date, watch a sunset, plan a frugal picnic, explore an empty parking garage at night, build a campfires at a small regional park, go to a real Zoo, clean up the neighborhood, attend a funeral for a close trekkie friend, bake a key lime pie, check out a library book, renew your library card, make a bucket list, put together a 200 piece jig saw puzzle, go bowling with the bumpers out, visit your favorite nursing home, go comparison shopping at the Goodwill Store and 99 cent store, browse Walmart's Greeting Card aisle, lay on your back and watch for shooting stars, learn to change your oil, organize a self-guided walking tour of your back yard, cook some meals in advance and freeze them, make a time capsule, open a time capsule, build a giant blanket fort, start a compost bin, make some homemade greeting cards, dig up your family tree, replant your family tree, turn on the water sprinkler, turn off the water sprinkler, start a workout routine, stop working out, make Christmas gifts in advance, pick up a copy of the town’s free newspaper, read a copy of the town’s free newspaper, play with a pet – it doesn’t have to be your own, explore Wikipedia and find something that is wrong (two minute time limit), binge-watch re-runs of anything, attend a dress rehearsal, donate some unwanted things to charity (no memorabilia), build a cardboard castle, and take a stab at writing Sci-Fi poetry.

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Star Trek or Star Wars? Why? (Please tag me, @Tee_Hi)
Written by Yankeedoodle30
Star Trek vs Star Wars: You Decide
********************
Subtract the word Star and you have: a Trek or a War.
********************
• A Trek to a Star sounds like you’re boldly going where no mountain climber has gone before and climbing Mount Everest, over and over and over again until you get to the top and plant the Federation Flag.
It’s all downhill from there until the next trek to climb yet another really big mountain;

• A war on a Star sounds interesting if you’re into the galactic history of a place that’s far, far away, but why would anyone not so boldly go that far to document two warring factions and document why they are mad at each other?
Is it a galactic feud, an uncivil war or just some locals having fun taking pot shots at the current government in power.
***********************
                           Which fans have the coolest “nicknames"?

• The fanatic fans of Star Trek are simply called: Trekkies or Trekkers.

• The fanatic fans of Star Wars are called: . . . ahhhh, that’s a matter of debate?
    C-3Peons, Lucasites, Star Warriors, Jarjarians, Fans Who Have A Bad Feeling About         This, Obi Wannabes, Aren't you a little short to be a stormtrooper?
***************************
But . . . The ultimate answer can be found in what the fans do in their spare time when they are not eating, breathing or dreaming about being Trekkies or Star Warriors.

Star Wars fans like to: 
Visit baseball stadiums, go to hockey games, sports bars, Six Flags, J Crew, the beach, have a B.Y.O.B. party, romantic dinners, visit art galleries, and attend the symphony.

Star Trek fans prefer to: 
Visit smoothie bars, go to The Lego Store, the Family Fun Center, a 3D movie without a date, watch a sunset, plan a frugal picnic, explore an empty parking garage at night, build a campfires at a small regional park, go to a real Zoo, clean up the neighborhood, attend a funeral for a close trekkie friend, bake a key lime pie, check out a library book, renew your library card, make a bucket list, put together a 200 piece jig saw puzzle, go bowling with the bumpers out, visit your favorite nursing home, go comparison shopping at the Goodwill Store and 99 cent store, browse Walmart's Greeting Card aisle, lay on your back and watch for shooting stars, learn to change your oil, organize a self-guided walking tour of your back yard, cook some meals in advance and freeze them, make a time capsule, open a time capsule, build a giant blanket fort, start a compost bin, make some homemade greeting cards, dig up your family tree, replant your family tree, turn on the water sprinkler, turn off the water sprinkler, start a workout routine, stop working out, make Christmas gifts in advance, pick up a copy of the town’s free newspaper, read a copy of the town’s free newspaper, play with a pet – it doesn’t have to be your own, explore Wikipedia and find something that is wrong (two minute time limit), binge-watch re-runs of anything, attend a dress rehearsal, donate some unwanted things to charity (no memorabilia), build a cardboard castle, and take a stab at writing Sci-Fi poetry.
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Written by Yankeedoodle30

Episode III: Fun at the Outspokin' Bicycle Shop and Livestock Feed Store

The call had come into the Police Station 9-11-Emergency and Suicide line at three in the morning. Because it had been a slow night, the five man staff had gone home, but not before Mac Run and ordering a round of Quarter pounders, large fries and all the soda you can drink.

The day crew showed up at the station at their usual time: 9:30 am but before they checked the messages on the 9-11Emergency and Suicide line, they gathered together in the break room to discuss last night’s re-run episode of Seinfeld. Because a serious discussion broke out, as to who was the better actor, Kosmo Kramer or George Costanza, where Kramer won by a show of hands of 14 to 7, the entire force was late getting out onto the streets and back into the squad room.

The message, rather cryptic, had left no clues as to who stole the seventy fives cases of bike locks from the Outspokin' Bicycle Shop and Livestock Feed Store.

A gravelly and throaty sounding voice had said: “I just stole seventy-five cases of bike locks from the Outspokin' Bicycle Shop and Livestock Feed Store, two blocks from the Bus Station.” 

Less Mature had listened to the gravelly and throaty sounding message more than twelve times; he had taken copious notes, and completed four Google literature searches, all in less than six hours. He got out his pocket calculator and punched in the numbers: 75 cases x 213 locks per case = 15, 975 total locks absconded by the unsub. (That’s police jargon for: unknown subject). Less cleared the calculator and punched in the total times the price of each lock plus tax. 15,975 x $1.67 = $26, 678.25. He rounded the number off to the next dollar. $26, 677. He had been taught to always round down and not up.

He got out the stations heist journal to see how this caper compared to previous ones over the last eight decades. Turns out, it was the 2nd biggest heist in the cities history. The number one heist was back in 1976 when Smilin’ Deaf Eddy had been caught crossing the state line with 112,000, ¼-20 bolts of various lengths. 112,000 x .25 cents =$28,000.

Since the deaf man crossed over state line, he was subject to the Reco Act (Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations) and was convicted and sentenced to 40 years in solitary confinement at Leavenworth Federal Prison.

Detective Chris P. Bacon rode up to the Outspokin' Bicycle Shop and Livestock Feed Store, rang the tiny bell on the handlebars twice before jumping off his late model purple with gold stripes, Schwiin 3-speed bicycle. It wasn't a real Schwinn brand bicycle, but a cheap knock-off reverse engineered and manufactured by the local high school metal shop, on the Q/T (secretive manner)of course.

The bike continued going and Chris called out, “Whoa nelly.” 

His voice activated the automatic brakes and came screeching to a stop. Before the bike could fall to the ground, he called out, “Activate kickstands.” There was one on each side of his bike because he never knew which way the bike was going to fall. It all depended on a list of variables, the least of which was the direction and speed of the prevailing winds. This time, there was no wind, it was dead still, and so there was a 50/50 chance of falling each way.

The bike was wobbling upright when Sergeant Less Mature ran up to the detective and shouted. “I call the right side.”

Chris was left to gamble his dollar away, their usual wager, and hoped the bike fell over to the left. For what seemed like seconds, two seconds to be exact, the bike leaned to the left, began tilting, causing Chris to smile and think of ways he would spend his dollar. Just then, a pebble on the asphalt hit the front tire, swinging the wheel to the left causing the bike to right itself before making a second attempt to fall over. The detective exchanged he smile with sergeant in return for a scowl. The bike had made its final decision and fell to the right landing perfectly on the outstretched kickstand.

Chris reached into his bill fold his grandmother had made for him out of cow leather and horse gut and slipped out a well used dollar bill and handed Less his winnings.

“Thank you Detective, I already know what I’m buying with my share of the winnings.”

“And what might that be, Mr. Mature.”

“Tomorrow is Ophelia’ s birthday, she will be eighteen, I think I told you, we’re now going steady. I’m going to get her something special from the 99 Cent Store.”

“My gosh man, I’m sure she’ll be thrilled, are you going to give her the penny change?”

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead, Sir, but I think to make it a fun evening, we’ll flip for it.”

“Tell me sergeant, have you kissed Ophelia yet, because until tomorrow, she is still under age for a grown man like yourself to be dating.”

“No problem sir, we aren't even at the hand holding stage. To use a common baseball metaphor, I haven’t made it to first base, in fact the game hasn’t started, actually the season is still four months away from the first game so I think I’m safe for now.”

“Good thinking sergeant now tell me about the second largest heist in our towns history.”

“Yes Sir, the unsub left a message on our voice mail . . . . “

“Excuse me, tell me again what unsub stands for?”

“Of course sir, my fault, it stands for unknown subject, they use it all the time on my favorite TV show, Criminal Minds. They say it at least four times a show, that’s over forty times a season.”

“Sergeant, I’ve never watched that show, in fact I’ve never heard of it because I don’t own a TV.”

“Sorry sir, I didn’t know that, I won’t mention that particular show again, now as I was saying Sir, the unsub left a message on our voice mail. I researched the message most of yesterday before I called you.”

“What evidence did you discover?”

“Actually, quite a bit, Sir. Even though the unsub was trying to disguise his voice by holding a used handkerchief over the part of the phone you talk into, I could detect a slight southern accent but then he pronounced outspoken, outspoken, so I would say, our perp is from the northern parts of Wisconsin down to the Gulf of Mexico, but definitely not California. Those people have no accent, they just talk using this fancy-dancy slang.”

“Sergeant, there’s a problem with you identifying the unsub, your talking about at least eighty million people, understand? Now what other evidence did you find; like a broken door lock or busted window or a hole in the roof?”

“Sir I found all those things plus the door to the loading dock was left wide open and since they don’t have a night watchman that wants to work for lees than minimum wage, the building was left wide open.”

“So you’re saying, anybody driving by or riding by on their bike or even a horse could just sashay in, take anything and then ride off.”

“I suppose so Sir, but seventy five boxes is a lot of boxes to carry on a bicycle or even a horse unless the horse was pulling a wagon.”

“There you go Sergeant, you just cracked another case wide open.”

“Well thank you sir but how did I crack this case wide open, are we talking literally about the cases of bike locks or perhaps, metaphorically.”

“Both actually, and so now all we have to do is find a big strong horse pulling a wagon with 15, 975 bike locks and we will find our unsub who will be most likely the driver of the wagon.”

“Sir, there may be one problem with that scenario, Sir, what if the unsub used more than one big strong horse to pull off the heist, wouldn’t that change who and what we’re looking for?”

“Nope. You see sergeant; it’s a matter of economics. Would you rather have to feed and water and pick up the poops for two horses or one horse?”

“I’ve never owned a horse Sir, but I guess the best answer is, the unsub has one horse.”

“Right, and I bet if we look inside the feed store, we’ll find that a bag of horse feed was also stolen. A bag big enough to feed only one horse, now lets go find the horse and wagon so that you can get to the 99 cent store before they close.”

“Very kind of you sir, I can’t wait to see Ophelia tomorrow, it’s the only day she gets to work twelve hours rather than her normal eighteen hours. It’s not a bad job for her sir, it’s just too bad the snack bar is located across the tracks in the bad side of town, but of course, that’s where the Bus Station is located.

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Written by Yankeedoodle30
Episode III: Fun at the Outspokin' Bicycle Shop and Livestock Feed Store

The call had come into the Police Station 9-11-Emergency and Suicide line at three in the morning. Because it had been a slow night, the five man staff had gone home, but not before Mac Run and ordering a round of Quarter pounders, large fries and all the soda you can drink.

The day crew showed up at the station at their usual time: 9:30 am but before they checked the messages on the 9-11Emergency and Suicide line, they gathered together in the break room to discuss last night’s re-run episode of Seinfeld. Because a serious discussion broke out, as to who was the better actor, Kosmo Kramer or George Costanza, where Kramer won by a show of hands of 14 to 7, the entire force was late getting out onto the streets and back into the squad room.

The message, rather cryptic, had left no clues as to who stole the seventy fives cases of bike locks from the Outspokin' Bicycle Shop and Livestock Feed Store.

A gravelly and throaty sounding voice had said: “I just stole seventy-five cases of bike locks from the Outspokin' Bicycle Shop and Livestock Feed Store, two blocks from the Bus Station.” 

Less Mature had listened to the gravelly and throaty sounding message more than twelve times; he had taken copious notes, and completed four Google literature searches, all in less than six hours. He got out his pocket calculator and punched in the numbers: 75 cases x 213 locks per case = 15, 975 total locks absconded by the unsub. (That’s police jargon for: unknown subject). Less cleared the calculator and punched in the total times the price of each lock plus tax. 15,975 x $1.67 = $26, 678.25. He rounded the number off to the next dollar. $26, 677. He had been taught to always round down and not up.

He got out the stations heist journal to see how this caper compared to previous ones over the last eight decades. Turns out, it was the 2nd biggest heist in the cities history. The number one heist was back in 1976 when Smilin’ Deaf Eddy had been caught crossing the state line with 112,000, ¼-20 bolts of various lengths. 112,000 x .25 cents =$28,000.
Since the deaf man crossed over state line, he was subject to the Reco Act (Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations) and was convicted and sentenced to 40 years in solitary confinement at Leavenworth Federal Prison.

Detective Chris P. Bacon rode up to the Outspokin' Bicycle Shop and Livestock Feed Store, rang the tiny bell on the handlebars twice before jumping off his late model purple with gold stripes, Schwiin 3-speed bicycle. It wasn't a real Schwinn brand bicycle, but a cheap knock-off reverse engineered and manufactured by the local high school metal shop, on the Q/T (secretive manner)of course.

The bike continued going and Chris called out, “Whoa nelly.” 

His voice activated the automatic brakes and came screeching to a stop. Before the bike could fall to the ground, he called out, “Activate kickstands.” There was one on each side of his bike because he never knew which way the bike was going to fall. It all depended on a list of variables, the least of which was the direction and speed of the prevailing winds. This time, there was no wind, it was dead still, and so there was a 50/50 chance of falling each way.

The bike was wobbling upright when Sergeant Less Mature ran up to the detective and shouted. “I call the right side.”

Chris was left to gamble his dollar away, their usual wager, and hoped the bike fell over to the left. For what seemed like seconds, two seconds to be exact, the bike leaned to the left, began tilting, causing Chris to smile and think of ways he would spend his dollar. Just then, a pebble on the asphalt hit the front tire, swinging the wheel to the left causing the bike to right itself before making a second attempt to fall over. The detective exchanged he smile with sergeant in return for a scowl. The bike had made its final decision and fell to the right landing perfectly on the outstretched kickstand.

Chris reached into his bill fold his grandmother had made for him out of cow leather and horse gut and slipped out a well used dollar bill and handed Less his winnings.

“Thank you Detective, I already know what I’m buying with my share of the winnings.”

“And what might that be, Mr. Mature.”

“Tomorrow is Ophelia’ s birthday, she will be eighteen, I think I told you, we’re now going steady. I’m going to get her something special from the 99 Cent Store.”

“My gosh man, I’m sure she’ll be thrilled, are you going to give her the penny change?”

“I hadn’t thought that far ahead, Sir, but I think to make it a fun evening, we’ll flip for it.”

“Tell me sergeant, have you kissed Ophelia yet, because until tomorrow, she is still under age for a grown man like yourself to be dating.”

“No problem sir, we aren't even at the hand holding stage. To use a common baseball metaphor, I haven’t made it to first base, in fact the game hasn’t started, actually the season is still four months away from the first game so I think I’m safe for now.”

“Good thinking sergeant now tell me about the second largest heist in our towns history.”

“Yes Sir, the unsub left a message on our voice mail . . . . “

“Excuse me, tell me again what unsub stands for?”

“Of course sir, my fault, it stands for unknown subject, they use it all the time on my favorite TV show, Criminal Minds. They say it at least four times a show, that’s over forty times a season.”

“Sergeant, I’ve never watched that show, in fact I’ve never heard of it because I don’t own a TV.”

“Sorry sir, I didn’t know that, I won’t mention that particular show again, now as I was saying Sir, the unsub left a message on our voice mail. I researched the message most of yesterday before I called you.”

“What evidence did you discover?”

“Actually, quite a bit, Sir. Even though the unsub was trying to disguise his voice by holding a used handkerchief over the part of the phone you talk into, I could detect a slight southern accent but then he pronounced outspoken, outspoken, so I would say, our perp is from the northern parts of Wisconsin down to the Gulf of Mexico, but definitely not California. Those people have no accent, they just talk using this fancy-dancy slang.”

“Sergeant, there’s a problem with you identifying the unsub, your talking about at least eighty million people, understand? Now what other evidence did you find; like a broken door lock or busted window or a hole in the roof?”

“Sir I found all those things plus the door to the loading dock was left wide open and since they don’t have a night watchman that wants to work for lees than minimum wage, the building was left wide open.”

“So you’re saying, anybody driving by or riding by on their bike or even a horse could just sashay in, take anything and then ride off.”

“I suppose so Sir, but seventy five boxes is a lot of boxes to carry on a bicycle or even a horse unless the horse was pulling a wagon.”

“There you go Sergeant, you just cracked another case wide open.”

“Well thank you sir but how did I crack this case wide open, are we talking literally about the cases of bike locks or perhaps, metaphorically.”

“Both actually, and so now all we have to do is find a big strong horse pulling a wagon with 15, 975 bike locks and we will find our unsub who will be most likely the driver of the wagon.”

“Sir, there may be one problem with that scenario, Sir, what if the unsub used more than one big strong horse to pull off the heist, wouldn’t that change who and what we’re looking for?”

“Nope. You see sergeant; it’s a matter of economics. Would you rather have to feed and water and pick up the poops for two horses or one horse?”

“I’ve never owned a horse Sir, but I guess the best answer is, the unsub has one horse.”

“Right, and I bet if we look inside the feed store, we’ll find that a bag of horse feed was also stolen. A bag big enough to feed only one horse, now lets go find the horse and wagon so that you can get to the 99 cent store before they close.”

“Very kind of you sir, I can’t wait to see Ophelia tomorrow, it’s the only day she gets to work twelve hours rather than her normal eighteen hours. It’s not a bad job for her sir, it’s just too bad the snack bar is located across the tracks in the bad side of town, but of course, that’s where the Bus Station is located.









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Written by Yankeedoodle30

Losers & Winners

The thirteen-year-old girl had been watching the 2017 Academy Awards Ceremony when Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway were about to announce the Oscar winner for Best Picture of the Year. 

For some unknown reason, her parents watched as their daughter jumped up from the couch, stuck two fingers in her ears and began singing, “La La La La La La La” at the top of her lungs. 

She ran out the back door and while standing in the back yard, illuminated by the Moonlight, she stopped singing, “La La La La La La La”, because she wasn't in La La Land anymore.

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Written by Yankeedoodle30
Losers & Winners
The thirteen-year-old girl had been watching the 2017 Academy Awards Ceremony when Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway were about to announce the Oscar winner for Best Picture of the Year. 

For some unknown reason, her parents watched as their daughter jumped up from the couch, stuck two fingers in her ears and began singing, “La La La La La La La” at the top of her lungs. 

She ran out the back door and while standing in the back yard, illuminated by the Moonlight, she stopped singing, “La La La La La La La”, because she wasn't in La La Land anymore.
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A Tiny Window. Write about it. 15-200 words only. In short, I challenge you to write a vignette about a vignette.
Written by Yankeedoodle30

> > > > C R A S H < < < <

Isaac Newton once postulated: “An object in motion will stay in motion unless it runs into something humongous."

When the seventy-five thousand dollar, four thousand pound 2017 Mercedes C300 sedan, collided with the concrete traffic barrier at 80 MPH, the $65,000 vehicle went from pristine show room condition to total destruction in the blink of an eye.

Within .03 seconds, a sensor detected the impact and triggered a burst of hot nitrogen gas that activated a nylon fabric bag to erupt from the steering wheel. The air bag slammed into the driver’s body causing it to stop immediately, but sadly, the body’s internal organs continued to move and colliding with each other adding insult to injury.

The Mercedes front end crushed like an accordion and absorbed only a portion of the savage impact energy. The friction generated, released as heat, also emitted a death defying noise that instantly died out.

Electrolyte fluid ejected from dual exploding batteries mixing with 300° radiator steam a ruptured fuel tank caused twenty-two gallons of supreme gas to ionize and exploded.

Even though no one died in this horrendous crash, if the crash-test-dummy been a real person, the driver would have been killed instantly.

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A Tiny Window. Write about it. 15-200 words only. In short, I challenge you to write a vignette about a vignette.
Written by Yankeedoodle30
> > > > C R A S H < < < <
Isaac Newton once postulated: “An object in motion will stay in motion unless it runs into something humongous."

When the seventy-five thousand dollar, four thousand pound 2017 Mercedes C300 sedan, collided with the concrete traffic barrier at 80 MPH, the $65,000 vehicle went from pristine show room condition to total destruction in the blink of an eye.

Within .03 seconds, a sensor detected the impact and triggered a burst of hot nitrogen gas that activated a nylon fabric bag to erupt from the steering wheel. The air bag slammed into the driver’s body causing it to stop immediately, but sadly, the body’s internal organs continued to move and colliding with each other adding insult to injury.

The Mercedes front end crushed like an accordion and absorbed only a portion of the savage impact energy. The friction generated, released as heat, also emitted a death defying noise that instantly died out.

Electrolyte fluid ejected from dual exploding batteries mixing with 300° radiator steam a ruptured fuel tank caused twenty-two gallons of supreme gas to ionize and exploded.

Even though no one died in this horrendous crash, if the crash-test-dummy been a real person, the driver would have been killed instantly.

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Juice
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