TBogg

Substitute teacher night

It’s been a busy day at work and on the domestic front (Mrs. tbogg’s unnatural needs, don’cha know) so I thought I would share a little something from the ever popular Club Top 5, just to get you in the holiday spirit. If you don’t already have a membership, well, you really ought to get one.

Anyway, here are some of the submissions for The Top 20 Excerpts from Badly Written Holiday Stories:

The first of the Wise Men spoke: “Who is this most divine child?” “He must be the Son of God!” exclaimed the second. “And he shall be the King of Kings, as the Lord intended,” said the third. But then the Supreme Court got involved.

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Mrs. Claus trembled at the sight of Binky’s swelling elfhood. “I may be short, Mrs. C.,” he said huskily, “But I stand tall where it matters most.”

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“You sold your chocolate to buy me peanut butter!” he moaned. She responded with a shocked, “You sold your peanut butter to buy me chocolate!”

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When little Billy saw on his globe that there is no land at the North Pole, he knew that Santa couldn’t possibly have a workshop there. It was then that Billy realized that everything good in a child’s life is a hollow lie intended to curb curiosity, and adults are wretched vermin who thrive in their authority — authority based only in the filth and squalor of empty falsehoods. Through a haze fraught with ennui, angst and unbridled umbrage, Billy finished his cookie and drifted off to sleep.

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Mark my words, the Lakers will be back or I’m not Larry King… Jesus Christ: class act… Eggnog tastes just as good in July… Remember this name: Jack Black… Last time I hung an ornament was ’76… I finally saw Smallville, and it’s one smart show….

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And he vowed on that cold Christmas Day that he would do everything in his power, given the limits of his impaired depth perception, to get even with the Daisy Air Rifle Company.

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It was a dark winter night at the North Pole. I was after a poacher with a big-bore gun and a taste for venison. Naughty or nice, it doesn’t matter to me — a criminal is a criminal, and it’s my job to bring them in. The name is Boxie, and I’m the senior elf in homicide division.

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Rudolph was hurt bad and knew it. Lurching forward one yard at time, he fought to stay awake. It was the only way he could control his nose. Step by painful step, the plucky reindeer ploughed forward, but it was hopeless; he had lost too much blood. As he slipped into unconsciousness, he felt his nose glowing like a lighthouse beacon. His last mortal sight was the circle of grinning Ewoks, spears held aloft, closing in.

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Santa never knew what hit him. A .22-caliber hollow-point double tap to the back of the head ended forever this semi-religious demagogue’s heretical revolution of gifts for free. Sam Walton could finally rest in peace.

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The children used coal for its eyes, and a button for its nose. Then little Johnny placed the magic surgical mask upon its mouth and the eerily white snowman came to life! “Jacko the Snowman, at your service!” he said. “You kids ready to play?”

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TBogg

TBogg

Yeah. Like I would tell you....