threewords

Sample film script of the latest action movie.

There are three of these scripts going at the moment. This one is my favourite.

Scene 1-Raging fires are burning out of control in Podunk. Hillbillies crawl under Chevrolets and fire beebe guns at the authorities (firefighters). Smoke drifts across the horizon. A banjo plays in the background. The camera slowly pans out to reveal endless rows of slaves, bending low over cotton singing soulful songs and filling baskets as fire threatens and bullets fly. A woman screams in an outhouse. The Foreign Legion, riding on camels, surrounds the outhouse. They fire into the air to to warn incoming outhouse-bound incontinent folk. All hell breaks for a smoke break as the flames shoot higher. A line forms across the fields, of people with rolls of TP and crossed legs, looking anxious.

Suddenly, one of them runs towards the outhouse, clutching his TP grenade-style and lighting the end-sheet, whooping like a wild-cat on heat, he lobs it with consummate skill towards the door, which explodes. The whole thing goes skyward, exposing the latest and most sought-after movie star, BECKY BOOBSALOT, crouching inelegantly, hillbilly skirt riding fetchingly high. Becky looks for her own TP in the arms of her assistant Hunk Morris, but he's using it to build a different movie set. Grabbing burning sheets of TP, she attempts to use a dance move to disguise her famous features, but the legionnaires recognize her assets and immediately prepare to alert the media.

Helicopters arrive with soldiers and papparazzi. The papparazzi point lasered sniper scoped-rifles in the general direction of Becky's more prominent attractions. Cameras flash, shouts echo, TP flies. The lights go on & off as sounds of gunfire and soldiers' camera-clicks ensue.

A scream.

Another scream-- louder.

A throaty gurgle.

BECKY leaps from a well chosen cliff. Plummeting gracefully yet revealingly into the surf, BECKY reveals her bikini (bottom around ankles).

CUT TO: Interior of nearby fort paved with diamonds. Exiled Prince Vladimir of Arkansas holds his jewels thoughtfully. A string quartet hides behind a large ming vase, playing for his left carbuncle. Quarrels, his pet chimp and bodyguard starts in alarm as the high notes reach a crescendo.

VLADIMIR: Relax, Quarrels. Eet eez only ze violinz.

QUARRELS: [from chandelier] Eeeeeeek!

Suddenly BECKY pops. Her silicone implants are now planted among the coral reefs of Arkansas.

[CUT TO: underwater footage from Tahiti] The mysterious lurking great white shark, named Greg, is lurking mysteriously. BECKY swims along unconcernedly. A rowboat approaches full of dope-smugglers and sex slavers.

SLAVERS: Ahoy, there.

BECKY: I've lost my bikini, sir. My boobs exploded. May I borrow your hankies to fashion a replacement? [REVEALS UGLY FLESH-POCKETS WHERE BOOBS WERE]

SLAVERS [together]: Aaaaaarrrrrggggghhhh! [they attempt to scramble to the safety of a spot hidden from the camera]

BECKY: You men are just silly. [climbs into the boat, picks up oars] Which way's the beach?

[CUT TO: Greg, nuzzling implants]

GREG: Glug-glug. Glug. [Pan to scuba diver, approaching unaware ... 

"Bevis Dunklesmirch; or, The Poltroon's Progress" by Charles Dickens, cont'd

Our hero is has wound up in Chichester, having decided to sort out his life in preparation for returning the Yellow Eye to its original owners ...

Surreptitiously wiping the detritus of marmalade from my mustache, I made my way across the manure strewn thoroughfare to a ramshackle building which appeared to be a tobacconist but twas clearly labeled DENTIST. In the window ominous-looking medical implements set my teeth cringing in their rickety seats, and yet fascination drew me toward the house of horrors. Muffled screams issuing from the innards piqued my morbid curiosity. I tiptoed down the dim-lit dusty corridor which yawned forbiddingly behind the creaking door.

My eyes were gritty from riding on the box on the coach, sore for sights yet unseen, and as I stepped gingerly past the prone bodies of previous patients, I smelled ether seeping sewage, formaldehyde, or opium fumes curling from cracked & crumbling dentures. Peering through the smutty miasma with watering eyes I dimly espied the dentist bending hot metal into tooth-shaped torture instruments which were obviously destined for some Spanish dungeon or perhaps the Chichester Ladies Benevolent Society. "Hallo," I squeaked mouse fashion. I do mouse impressions in pantomimes. One time I actually grew a tail. But I digress.

The dentist emerged from his dismal lair, rubbing his red-rimmed peepers with one grimy fist. In the other he clutched a dripping syringe filled with viscid, green fluid. I shuddered at the sight.

"Come closer," wheezed Mister Pullem as I backed slowly back down the narrow passageway. My over-waxed boots slid easily over the wet, filthy floor as I edged rapidly out of the reach of Pullem's grasping fingers. His foetid breath reminded me strongly of draught horses belching rancid oats; whiffs of undigested breakfast assailed my quivering nostrils as I staggered back with my perfumed handkerchief fluttering wildly.

"I'm terribly sorry," wheezed Pullem. "But I ate late & couldn't brush afterwards."

"No matter my dear sir," I retorted promptly. "I was just leaving."

"But your teeth require immediate attention,"

"A pox on my teeth!" I mumbled through my panic, struggling to push him away. But Pullum clung to my lapels like a burr, his arthritic fingers spasming, the syringe poised ready to stab my exposed and swollen gums. Horrified, I shoved him away and shouted "Sir! Control your oral passions! " Alas-too late. He plunged the hypodermic deep into my scabrous purulent gums. The pain was intense but soon a peculiar numbness began insinuating itself into my skull. I sat and clutched my head and rocked back and forth, wailing and ranting distractedly ...

101 Things You Didn't Know About Turtles

I love the "101 Things You Didn't Know About ... " stories we get going. We used to have a story about turtles when Just Three Words was in existence; we've done penguins and lemurs and Facebook itself.

We haven't got anywhere near 101 yet; these are my favourites so far.

1.Turtles have been much misunderstood creatures ever since they invented surrealist art, upsetting the French impressionists.

2-Turtles are touchy-feely creatures who lurk in bushes late at night waiting to leap affectionately on frogs and engage in games of Scrabble omitting all vowels.

...

5-Turtles live for quite a long time, so they watch daytime TV with thier heads stuck up their partner's shell, companiably. The oldest turtle buys the toffees, and the youngest brings bubble-gum sandwiches.

...

8-Turtles attend pole-dancing classes, but are pretty useless because flat chests aren't admired even among Chelonia. Their legs don't bend much because their corsets are of shell; short reptilian limbs in fishnet stockings are frowned upon.

...

13-Shell-art is practised among religious turtles and heretics alike.

...

15-Some famous turtles are listed in England's telephone books. However, the majority of turtles don't have telephones.

16-Many turtles are secretly tortoises.

...

19-Very few turtles speak Spanish, but they would like to dance flamenco if someone would only teach them. Most speak French after drinking wine and eating slugs.

20-Alfred, Lord Tennyson used to eat seaweed so that he'd smell attractive to aroused turtles and some fish.

...

25-Turtles and penguins don't mix.

26-Rarely, turtles mutate into middleclass English ladies Afgans or Poodles. Even more rarely, they become penguins. Or teenage ninjas.

...

28-Mock turtles often weep because they despise their falsehood. They long to be real.

...

36-Millions of years ago, turtles could fly. Their aerodynamic shells enabled them to glide effortlessly through the primeval Tyrannosaurus rex effluent.

...

38-Turtles who suffer from bipolar disorder can entertain your friends, and annoy your enemies. Though we don't recommend turning turtles into soup when they're depressed, they sometimes volunteer ...

Still Here Despite The Blustery Weather, cont'd.

We continue our tale of the South, with Melanie, Ashley, Scarlett and Mammy ...

His languid manner, his refined drawl, his millions... What belle in belledom could resist? Scarlett's maidenly heart beat strongly within her tightly-constricted bosom which heaved nevertheless, catching Ashley's eye with its rise and fall. He dragged his eyes from the sight and addressed the punchbowl.

"Miss Scarlett," he began, " MissMelanie and I ... Well, we're cousins, y'know. Mothers are sisters, dads are brothers, something like that... Anyway, we are destined to mate and to produce insipid genetically compromised children, as our parents did. Sorry Scarlett, you're just a rejected mare, too highly strung for long distance riding--I love you, but merely as one might love a skittish yearling destined for sale at Shipshewana Auction. I'm sorry MissScarlett, truly. Julep?"

"Fiddle-dee-dee!"

" Jez has faht! " shouted Mammy from the radish patch, inexplicably.

"Double fiddle-dee-dee!" Scarlett was enraged. "How dare you reject & humiliate me, you inbred imbecile! I could snap your spine like a mint sprig. " To prove her point, she snapped a mint sprig. Ashley seemed unimpressed.

"Physical threats won't move me, Scarlett; please refrain from such common behaviour in the future or I'll have to speak to Master Lamond, and we all know what he will make of your shilly shallying, you ! Yes, you MizzScarlett, the shilly-shallingest belle of the barbeque gone burningly berserk!" Ashley's nostrils flared.

Scarlett green eyes filled with tears. "But I-I-I- loooove you like a Yankee loves macaroni! More than! More than ole man river loves catfish! More than-"

"Hesh chile, y'all's embarrassin' yoseff," interposed Mammy. Scarlett turned upon her, hoops rocking backwards and forwards, shaking in anguish ...

 

Trembling Saddles

I have been trying to get the team on 3 Word Story to come up with a Western bodice-ripper (do cowgirls have bodices to rip?) romance tale. At long last, a lovely steamy scene worthy of "Harlequin Historicals" ... well, maybe not.

Prior to this, Megan has turned down two suitors for poor grammar.

"Go courting with me sweet one an the desert Dakota badlands," begged the lovestruck Tex. Megan was thrilled. The thought of his hands touching her secret places made her tingle.

"Tex, I think we need to find a quiet little cabin in the woods and investigate our feelings a little more". Holding hands they strolled towards the nearest cabin, a somewhat ramshackle affair overrun by fleas and worse. They were past caring. They were so smitten, neither stopped to think as they hurled themselves into a lustful grammatically correct embrace, not minding their exposure to fleas, ticks, mosquitoes and public condemnation; their delight in finding each other overwhelmed Tex. He ripped her kidskin gloves off violently, while nibbling her neck not-so-violently. Megan tasted his wet lips, salt and dust, making them irresistible.

He lowered her to a cot which luckily happened to be relatively clean and mounted on convenient castors that made moving it to the mirror's better vantage point. Megan groaned as shivers raced over her body under his weight. His spurs tickled her until she cried for quarter.

Tex paused, puzzled. Was that a quarter doing there? "Tex please don't ride me like a wild mustang with a burr under its saddle," whispered Megan, "ride me like a hot salt-maddened buffalo panting for more." Her camisole slid rapidly south while his hand felt tentatively northward, raising expectations & their temperatures. He penetrated her pedantic defenses and admired her conjunctions. She reveled in ectasy when he eschewed split infinitives. When he dangled his large penis between her thighs, she ululated, ovulated, then combobulated with brazen, unadulterated glee. Ohhhhhhhh the glee! The glee of the final consummation and true love! Their conjugation was pluperfect ...

The Elephant, the Enchantress and the Escritoire, cont'd.

Detective Maxwell somehow has become a part of this story. He's investigating a murder.

Eventually he found an old wardrobe to hide in. It smelled of mothballs and ... Snow? Deja lu! Maxwell with silver hammer knocked on the wardrobe door. "Excuse me, anybody in there" but all he heard was creepy scritchy-scratching within.

Determinedly, Maxwell pushed open the doors. Ohmygod! He breathed as he spied a mouse, knitting placidly, her spectacles glinting in the starlight. "Close the door, my dear Maxwell. You're expected."

Warily, Maxwell complied. Snow blew past him as he took a tentative step mouse-ward, trembling. Where was he? "It's all right, dearie. Come closer." The mouse's kindly squeak encouraged Maxwell, and he relaxed a little as he adjusted to the strange surroundings. This wardrobe was obviously larger than he'd thought.

The mouse put down her knitting, beckoning him into the surprisingly-spacious mouse hole, and sighed. " This is a crucial Inspecor that you are indeed, begorrah!" she cackled, abruptly began again. "Inspector as I was trying to explain its very crucial for Eustace and Lucy to be here in Narnia, together with King Peter. You must understand the importance, and--"

"There is Lucy now, Mama!" squeaked the tiniest mouse from the the little alcove beside the fireplace.

*Poof!* A dusty and bewilldered Lucy tumbled out onto the hearth-rug ...

Eventually he found an old wardrobe to hide in. It smelled of mothballs and ... Snow? Deja lu! Maxwell with silver hammer knocked on the wardrobe door. "Excuse me, anybody in there" but all he heard was creepy scritchy-scratching within.Determinedly, Maxwell pushed open the doors. Ohmygod! He breathed as he spied a mouse, knitting placidly, her spectacles glinting in the starlight. "Close the door, my dear Maxwell. You're expected." Warily, Maxwell complied. Snow blew past him as he took a tentative step mouse-ward, trembling. Where was he? "It's all right, dearie. Come closer." The mouse's kindly squeak encouraged Maxwell, and he relaxed a little as he adjusted to the strange surroundings. This wardrobe was obviously larger than he'd thought.The mouse put down her knitting, beckoning him into the surprisingly-spacious mouse hole, and sighed. " This is a crucial Inspecor that you are indeed, begorrah!" she cackled, abruptly began again. "Inspector as I was trying to explain its very crucial for Eustace and Lucy to be here in Narnia, together with King Peter. You must understand the importance, and--""There is Lucy now, Mama!" squeaked the tiniest mouse from the the little alcove beside the fireplace. *Poof!* A dusty and bewilldered Lucy tumbled out onto the hearth-rug."Your higness" Squeaked the mice excitedly. "Majesty," please let us get it right! "Snarled Lucy, barely-punctuated. She rose from the rug with a small sneeze. Mama Mouse proffered a handkerchief."'Ere! I demand to have an explanation!" demanded Maxwell, looking wildly around for the wardrobe door. No exit! Horrors! "Where am I? Who are you? What about Eustace? Please calm down those creatures!!" He bellowed loudly. "Why... ""Silence! Those 'creatures' are my court! " Lucy drew herself erect and stared regally at the dumbfounded inspector. Giggles rose from the alcove and Mama mouse came forward boldly as Maxwell sputtered indignantly. "Sir, prostrate yourself.

Lord of the Blings, cont'd

This almost sounds as if it could be from a real novel.

Meanwhile, in the land of eternal dimness, Lord Bane sat on the throne of Hanganaill III, considering the prophecy of Shwingnatz the Argumentative, who said: "Look out, idiot. "

Lord Bane immediately snatched up his magic 8-Ball and asked, "What the Sam Hill--or Shamwow-- can I do?

"Pocket me now, Heir of Farfeldreck, " whispered the Bling. From leagues away, Bane didn't hear, but somehow sensed the seductive invitation of Grandalf's necklace-thing. Being eternally dim, Lord Bane's land encouraged dark thoughts, rather like when a 25-watt bulb pops a filament in a closet, the one that you're locked in. "Thy power shall grow, and no-one shall even notice ..."

The Long, Lonely Ride

This one started off well, but was abucted by a troll. Happily, it has gotten started again!

There I was wandering around in my garage when I stumbled across my grandfather's seachest with a map plainly marked "TREASURE". I wondered why Grandpa collected shovels--now the reason crystal clear flashed across my brain. He was planning to dig for treasure! So obviously I regretted pawning grandpa's compass. At least it would've helped to know which direction was up.

I knew I was in trouble very shortly after I read on. This map was the centre of nine individual maps. Somehow I would have to figure this out mathematically....just like IndianaJones! Now, where to find Professor Jones? Connecticut? Or perhaps in Egypt digging up trouble? Hmm. Unfortunately he wasn't actually real so I had to find someone like him ... Or become just as good at... Confound it! Where's Robert Langdon when one needs an ambigram decoded? Even Sherlock Holmes would be of more use than duct tape at this point. Yet I felt within my very bones something mushy moving. It was lava, or my lunch. Chinese food does not agree with me any more.

The map indicated several small islands chock-full of treasure, if only they were near airports covered by major airlines! Unfortunately, they were only accessible by helicopter or Harrier jump jet or secret native canoe routes. I choose to go by air but only as far as checking the baggage, opting instead to seek out my grandfather's last remaining shovel in a nearby native gravesite. Seconds before extracting the shovel I would need some shovel-extracting lubricant-something like glycerine or Vaseline or even some pyroglycerine ointment. But where could such things be obtained nowadays? Especially in the dead of July? These remote islands were mainly inhabited by turtles.

Seeking buried treasure seemed so exciting before the bitter realities set in. Soon after you find yourself stranded on an island populated with unstimulating conversationalists: Limbaugh Island. Where even turtles have only fleeting visits and everyone is a Republican. Talk about complicated! All requests for help must be in the local pidgin language, oh well, try it. Maybe a local tavern will have MSNBC ...

Fractured Fairy Tale #2

There are actually two stories going on 3 Word Story which are named "Fractured Fairy Tale". This is the one I started; the other was started by the lovely Diane.

... My name is Tinsle, and I am a fairy, though not the human, sexual kind. I'm the kind that tells stories that unnerve the general public, but harm no one. Tales involving bears that fly and wicked queens who boil children alive, of seventh sons with seven brides, second sight and sixth sense. Also I am well-versed in epic poems and saucy ballads, legends and folklore.

So my tale draws strands from the best tales of diverse peoples. I begin with the story of the wood-chopper's child.

Deep in the Greenwood lived a widowed axeman and his twin daughters, Wandaful and Joyfalee. Wandaful was a hideous little simpleton; Joyfalee's graceless grumpiness offset her ravishing, smooth, dimpled elbows and ruby red nose.

It was hard to discipline lusty young maidens with headstrong natures, let alone keep them from moral bankruptcy and intellectual atrophy. The backwoods were full of craven, cretinous inbreds wearing fleece leggings and smelling like ferrets. The twins smelled more like vanilla and musk- that is, vanilla extract, they drank it by the barrel, believing it increased their fertility and sexual allure. They were so right! Their aroma subtly wafted throughout the forest, attracting all manner of testosterone-stoked, hairy, drooling ogres and other undesirables. No princes.

Until one day ...

The Ducks Are Everywhere

I really enjoy the way this story has begun, and hope it will get over its writer's block.

Today, two ducks, or more specifically, Harry & Louise Quackenbush, appeared on Jay Leno's "Tonight" show. Quacking well-rehearsed answers, the ducks were more edifying than most election speeches, but still, they enjoy Washington DC's worms and water-features. Jay himself seemed distracted. The audience tittered nervously. Ducks always made him itchy. Jay scratched as discretely as he could.

"So He adjusted his fruit-spanner?" Jay asked Louise.

"AFLAC," replied the duck, incomprehensibly using an unknown insurance-company mascot's refrain. Jay sweated. This was not going according to the plan. He'd been trying his best to salvage NBC by interviewing fauna as his flora-interviews had proved unsuccessful with the viewers: the sunflowers had nodded at everything; the blueberries had burst into tears; the Venus Fly-trap had an upset wasp in her terminal portion, and as for the Giant Sequoias, they couldn't fit in the studio at all-the interview was conducted from a visitor's center at the top of the Space Needle, from which Jay shouted his questions. He'd thought ducks might be interesting. Wrong AGAIN, Jay.