[Susan d.S.]

Go Roger! If anything it's too well-written. Enjoyed, Susan

[Gail White]

IRRELEVANT BUT URGENT MESSAGE: Jayne, I need you to send me your mailing address. Check your PMs.
-Gail

[R. S. Gwynn]

While it may be true that our story has had no middle, one may choose its beginning point and ending point with some exactitude, yet both have grown so extenuated as to preclude the existence of that part which should connect them, in the way, say, that a single strand of spaghetti may be engaged upon and nicely finished up, with only a long passage of embarrassment and social uncertainty in between, dripping sauce on one’s chin and shirt front and leaving no doubt, amongst the gathered dinner partners (who did not, mercifully, appear in the intervening chapters) that the object of their approbation was, in fact, you; thus, I must conclude this unsatisfactory narrative with the bald information the Geoffrey did successfully prevail upon Madge to relinquish the hair-clasp that was assumed to have been stolen but was, happily, only misplaced and recovered in the barest nick of time.

[John Whitworth]

Yeah, I've often found him a royal pain in the arse, I must say. Go in and win, O Master.

Once, long ago, I was serving in a Christian coffee shop in Edinburgh when a man came in with a thick Scottish accent. He told me he did a labouring job and it made him very tired, but also that he had discovered an author, new to him, who was the greatest writer of novels ever born. 'That Henry James is a f***ing genius, man,' he told me, his eyes burning with sincerity.

So there you go.

[R. S. Gwynn]

No accounting for taste . . .

[Roger Slater]

Thanks, Ann. Sorry I've been away from this thread for a bit. And thanks Susan. Here's one more:

I got in my car and headed to the church, and the same dog that had been chasing my car for the last seven years came running around the corner and started chasing me once more. I pressed on the gas, easily pulling away. But then I had a revelation! This dirty old cur had chased me as I traveled to both my prior weddings. Both marriages ended in disaster. Could it be that this pesky mongrel was a messenger God sent to warn me? Was this ungainly, flea-bitten hound actually a guardian angel I had been foolishly ignoring at my peril? It was all so clear! I pressed on the brakes and pulled to the side of the road. Huffing and puffing, the dog finally reached my car. I rolled down my window expectantly. "Yes?" I inquired. “Yes?” He lifted a leg and peed on my hubcap.

[Donna English]

You guys are cracking me up! Here's a lame one in comparison.



Her hour was up. It was then I knew why she’d remained in a slump, she was dead of a broken heart, despite being treated by me, the world’s most gifted psychologist. I'd failed her. What she'd needed all along was glasses and the cardiologist one door down.

[Terese Coe]

Originally Posted by R. S. Gwynn

While it may be true that our story has had no middle, one may choose its beginning point and ending point with some exactitude, yet both have grown so extenuated as to preclude the existence of that part which should connect them, in the way, say, that a single strand of spaghetti may be engaged upon and nicely finished up, with a only long passage of embarrassment and social uncertainty in between, dripping sauce on one’s chin and shirt front and leaving no doubt, amongst the gathered dinner partners (who did not, mercifully, appear in the intervening chapters) that the object of their approbation was, in fact, you; thus, I must conclude this unsatisfactory narrative with the bald information the Geoffrey did successfully prevail upon Madge to relinquish the hair-clasp that was assumed to have been stolen but was, happily, only misplaced and recovered in the barest nick of time.

Sam, the laughter poured out of me at your parenthetical! Sheer genius.

BTW, that last phrase, from Larkin's Required Writing, was stolen at a writer's forum without the slightest attempt at credit to him (in answer to the same type of question--How do you do it?--Larkin had answered with it) by a highly celebrated American memoirist--two nights ago in Manhattan, let the record show. [I add this since the subject of stealing from the best came up in a nearby thread.] Oh well. I suppose she might have thought of it herself.

[George Simmers]

“We come now,” said the dapper Belgian, his bald head gleaming with its usual aplomb, “to the questions that must be certainly resolved if the perpetrator of this terrible crime is to be unmasked. Firstly, how was the strychnine introduced into Colonel Marchmain's egg before it was boiled? Second, why did the mysterious woman use ketchup to smear that dramatic warning on the bedsheets? And most crucial of all, mon cher Hastings, we must ask why the kitchen clock was turned back by precisely one hour and twenty-seven minutes. Those indeed are the questions that require an answer.” The great detective paused here, giving a shrug that seemed uncharacteristic, yet still decidedly continental. “And I must confess that for once I have not – how you say? - the foggiest. Ah well, you win some and you lose some.”