Category Archives: @thatgirlmari

A Witch’s Brew

“Let there be rain!” she declared. To her surprise, it began pouring. Did she really just do that?

She wondered what else her powers could get her. “Let there be shoes,” she cried and there she was, at Manolo Blahnik!

Ellen couldn’t believe it. The correspondence witchcraft course had worked. She’d started it on a whim, but now she had new shoes.

A late night junkie, she was all in after Erik Estrada promised “powers Harry Potter’d be jealous of” between Cosby Show episodes.

It was a wonder she even saw the infomercial. She was working on a thesis about the political meanings of Cosby Show sweaters.

However as she looked around the room at the piles of paper only surpassed by the colors of the sweaters, she felt that she needed

a break, a life, a husband who would fit all these sweaters, she turned to her tv & vanilla frosting when what did she find?

“Claire, is that you?” he exclaimed. “No, I’m not Claire, there’s no more Claire. Only Ellen,” she said as he looked around & saw his sweaters.

Ellen couldn’t believe how well her correspondence witchcraft course worked. First rain. Then Manolo Blahnik. Now Cliff Huxtable?

Cliff went to Ellen’s door and immediately began trying to fix her doorbell. Meanwhile, Ellen wanted to keep testing her powers

“Let there be music!” Immediately, a shortish man in a suit appeared behind her, holding a boombox. It was playing a mix of…

bluegrass and whale songs.

The suited man reached in his trouser pocket and pulled out a small bag that resembled Michael Gross. He handed it to her.

She took the bag and examined its contents: one marble, a Slim Jim, and some weed. “Yep,” she thought, “Michael Gross.”

Not knowing who Michael Gross was she waved her hand & turned the bag to look like the judges on @NBCthevoice @ceelogreen 1st side.

“Crap!” yelled Ellen. She loved Gross, the Family Ties dad, ever since last week’s marathon. Elsewhere, Cliff tested the doorbell.

The sky open and thunder shook Ellen’s windows. Lightening hazed her vision momentarily. Coming to, she realized all was taken away.

Lacking a pure heart, Ellen had only temporary magic. She needed to find the only one who could purify sins: Patty Blagojevich.

Patty was nestled in the corner booth at Harold’s Chicken Shack on East 53rd street, reading palms as usual.

Ellen headed to Ravenswood to track down Patty. She’d certainly be home from her reality show foray by now.

Ellen found a note on the Blagojevich’s door: “Will return by 3. On the south side getting chicken & a weave for Rod.” She sighed.

Ellen stammered as she approached Patti, “I… I just…” The two locked eyes. “It’s fine,” Patti said. “You can touch my bangs.”

Ellen didn’t want to touch the hair but cut it. The crisp hair, the faint scent of AquaNet – perfect for her next potion.

Ellen shook Patty’s hand, remarked how it resembled a man’s hand then left. She only needed two more ingredients for her potion.

With Cliff still at the house messing with the doorbell & entertaining CeeLo & The Voice judges, Ellen was in no rush to get home.

So she continued on her quest to find the other 2 ingredients for her potion. Up next: a blobfish fin.

The blobfish had been known to frequent the Redwood Tap, so that was her first stop.

Ellen, forgetting her witchcraft powers, texted “Redwood Tap Chicago” to G-O-O-G-L-E to find its address. She awaited the response.

Google texted back:

Ellen thought maybe she misheard the bar’s name. But she trekked to Elgin anyway.

Ellen got there, but alas, no blobfish. “Wrightwood Tap, not Redwood,” said a Komondor bellied up to the bar taking whiskey shots.

Not to be out done, ellen asked the bartender for the rest of the bottle of whiskey, and started drinking it like bottled water…

After chugging a bottle of Early Times, Ellen set her sights on the Wrightwood Tap. Drunk, she called Cliff to drive her there.

Cliff was busy testing the doorbell, so when his “Get Low” ringtone went off, he barely heard it over the barrage of ding dongs.

Cliff picked up just in time. “Be there in an hour,” he said. “Nope, haven’t fixed it yet.” He hung up and headed out to get Ellen.

Cliff got to a drunk Ellen right as she and the Komondor started karaoke. “Let’s go find your blobfish,” Cliff said. Ellen burped.

Cliff gave Ellen coffee to sober her up for the drive. Pulling up to the Wrightwood Tap, they saw the slimy fish at the jukebox.

“Hey blobfish,” Ellen slurred when she got inside. “I need your fin.” Meanwhile, Cliff asked the bartender if they had a doorbell.

The blobfish, tired of being harrassed for his bloblike body, acquiesced. Ellen burped again, took his fin and dragged Cliff away.

Onto the 3rd and final ingredient – a lemon. Ellen told Cliff to take her to Jewel. “You don’t need more alcohol,” he said.

They got to Jewel, and Ellen went to the produce aisle. Cliff, however, went to find the manager to ask if they had a doorbell.

Ellen grabbed a ripe lemon, paid for it, then dragged Cliff away again. She needed to get home to look at her Potions 401 syllabus.

They made it home, and Ellen looked at her notes on making a potion. Cliff went back to doorbell, while she got the cauldron out.

She dumped the ingredients in the cauldron – Patty Blagojevich’s bangs, a blobfish fin and a lemon – heated it up and stirred it.

Ellen stirred the mixture until became a frothy liquid. She poured it in an old flower vase because she didn’t have any beakers.

Now, the final exam. If the potion worked, Ellen would receive a certificate of completion from the witchcraft school.

She followed the exam’s directions, which said to pour the potion on a sheet of paper. She had no idea what would happen.

Almost instantly, the paper began smoking. Ellen was riveted. Cliff, not so much. He kept working the doorbell, oblivious.

The paper was now shaking before morphing into a person. But not just anyone – Erik Estrada. “Congratulations,” he said to Ellen.

He handed Ellen a certificate of course completion. She was a certified witch! She jumped for joy, only to be interrupted by Cliff.

“I fixed it,” he said. Ellen had lost her patience. “Abracadabra Alakazam, get rid of this annoying man.” And poof! He was gone.

If only she could find a potion now to stop the doorbell from ringing.

Ellen practiced her witchcraft all night. The only time she stopped was to order the Slap Chop, a Snuggie and Nutrisystem.


This was a fun one. I loved it. And no, it doesn’t have anything to do with me writing about the last 20 tweets. Someone had to get a drunk Ellen home safely. Anyway, there were a lot of great pop culture references in this story, from Cliff Huxtable to Michael Gross (Family Ties’ Mr. Keaton) to Patty Blagojevich’s bangs. Who knew Ellen would need those precious locks?

Thanks for writing, everyone. I’m especially honored that my old co-worker @Pawela04 jumped in. He tweeted four lines, and those four tweets were his first four tweets. EVER. That’s pretty cool. Also, thanks to @BlackDreams for the continuous plugs. It’s always nice to have a more ambassadors. Hopefully she’ll pick up the little nuances the more she contributes. And I could never do this without my reliable stable of writers @kikiandkyle, @hwtibbs, @FeliciaCago, @jimmydoestea and @thatgirlmari – you guys save me and make the stories so good. So thanks for humoring me and writing time and time again. And to @swanieson – you managed to sneak a line in just in time!


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The Gnome Wars

The two friends crouched down slowly. Lamont peeked between the wood slats. “Do you see that?” he asked.

“Yes Lamont, I’m not blind” snapped Gordo. “And I can smell it. What do you think it is?”

Oblivious to Gordo’s tone, Lamont replied, “Well it smells like bacon, but it can’t be. Who has cooked bacon under a deck?”

The lawn gnomes had been plotting an ingenious bacon trap for Lamont and Gordo for some time now. They wanted vengeance on the canines.

Gordo: It’s cooking, but not bacon. I think that damned rabbit nibbled on the porch light wires once too much. Smell burnt fur?

The dogs were unaware that the gnomes dared the rabbit to bite all the way through the live wire. Just one part of a sinister plan.

“It smells like victory. Now I’ve got a craving for bacon flavored rabbit,” said Lamont.

The dogs were tragically unaware of the gnomes’ plot to teach a lesson: Never, ever piss off – or especially ON – a garden gnome.

For years, the gnomes have been pissed on. By birds. By meerkats. By donkeys. By llamas. And of course, by Lamont and Gordo.

One by one, meticulously, the gnomes got their revenge. The birds were tarred. The meerkats skinned. The llamas drugged.

The donkeys? Let’s just say those asses’ll never be heard from again. But Lamont & Gordo? They’re different cats. Cuz they’re dogs.

Bobbing side to side, the great gnome warrior, Metro Gnome, waited for the bait to draw in his unsuspecting prey.

Metro Gnome was ruthless, known to trip children for fun. Paranoid about a coup, he saw Gordo and Lamont as threats to his rule.

Metro lived a solitary life under a patch of mushrooms. He talked to himself by day and developed conspiracy theories by night.

These were the unfortunate effects of the mushrooms being of the Psilocybin variety.

Metro Gnome’s hallucinations often involved magical unicorns. Not surprising, given his brother Gastro’s My Little Pony collection.

There were rumors of a rebellion, but always in hushed tones. Metro once forced a cat to bark as punishment for purring loudly. He

was true definition of a crazed despot. Known to sit quietly for hours, he’d spring into action after wolfing down the mushrooms.

Conspiracy theories too often amplified by Metro’s cousin, Terror Gnome, who is sure someone or something is always out to get us.

“Neil Armstrong, Oscar winner,” Metro was fond of telling Gordo and Lamont. The dogs’ response? A simple leg raise & a lot of piss.

That’s why the Gnomes had beef with Lamont and Gordo. That and Lamont teasing Gastro about the Tourette’s he’s had since he was 6.

That was the last straw. Metro, Terror and Gastro Gnome had a plan. And it involved their other cousin Gee, an electric Gnome.

Shaken from his reverie, Metro saw a sudden movement reflected from the surface of his pinwheel made from the finest Gnomish steel.

It was the white haired fiend and he was approaching quickly!

“Quick!” yelled Metro. “Plug Gee into the socket!” Gordo was bearing down on them. Terror & Gastro got to the outlet just in time.

With 120 volts coursing through Gee Gnome, he began to replicate. Dozens then hundreds of gnome warriors began to appear.

As their ranks swelled, a battle cry went up. “Red Rover, Red Rover, these Dog Days are over!” Gastro twitched with anticipation.

Lamont led the charge, followed closely by Gordo. Poor Gordo was a step behind when it came to everything – sports, girls, school.

They got closer. Metro calmed the troops. “Steady! Steady!” But since their legs were really just painted on, they had no choice.

Lamont & Gordo leapt at the Gnomes. The Gnomes held their ground, as Gnomes do. Sparks flew in the air, as did some fur & plaster.

As the debris settles, Lamont is seen gnawing on fragments of a silver whirligig while Gordo bats about a small red cap.

Lamont & Gordo defeated Metro, Gastro, Terror & Gee Gnome in the Battle of Madison’s Yard. But the war may have just begun.


Ha! Dogs vs. Gnomes. Loved it. Especially the names – Gordo, Lamont, and the Gnome family (Metro, Gastro, Terror and Gee).

Thanks @MadisonZyluk for supplying the photo. Your dogs are pretty cute. And thanks to all the writers – @FeliciaCago @hwtibbs @jimmydoestea @jsetlak @paulmtracy @thatgirlmari. Special shout out to @Paulmtracy, who was writing with us for the first time. Hopefully I’ve got another addict.


Filed under @feliciacago, @hwtibbs, @jimmydoestea, @jsetlak, @MadisonZyluk, @paulmtracy, @thatgirlmari, Dogs, Gnomes, Uncategorized

Sister, Sister and the Mister

Paul was small. Not very tall. He had a date. She was late. So he fixed his hair & climbed in his chair.

His blue sweater had never looked better, but his shirt was showing all the dirt.

Aurora was running late, something she hates. They planned to meet, on the street; the street with curves to eat hors d’oeuvres.

Paul cried & cried, “I can’t believe she lied!” But she stood him up before, & he vowed “No more!” So how could he blame the dame?

The dame, the dame she had a name, a name that ironically was the same

As a city in Illinois. One that Paul remembers with joy. He met Aurora. in Aurora. And that was just after getting dumped by Laura.

Laura oh Laura she was a fan of flora, Aurora now she was a fan of a certain fedora.

His sleeping beauty, she was a cutie, but her penchant for sleeping left poor old Paul seething.

The memories piled on, like love songs that go on too long. He thought to himself, “I need help.” So, he got it from Yelp.

He had a romantic dinner date planned based on Yelper HotDamned. But Aurora’s oversleeping made the reservations not worth keeping.

Paul called Aurora’s phone, wondering if she was home. With no answer, Paul groaned “I know it’s on vibrate.” He was clearly irate.

Paul had a history of anger management issues. Leave it to Aurora’s wireless carrier to light his short fuse.

He thought her inconsiderate. It was enough to leave him in a fit. There was no one around to confide how sad was he was inside.

The smile on his face was because of sheer grace. He was with Verizon. If she didn’t switch carriers, a rift was on the horizon.

Paul drove over to Aurora’s house & knocked on the door. Once, twice & then three more. “Get up Aurora! We’re going to the store!”

Aurora rolled out of bed, wiped her eyes, scratched her head. “Who was there?” she wondered, oblivious to the date she blundered.

Paul appeared at the door, her jaw dropped to the floor. “Oops, I overslept. That’s another date I haven’t kept.”

His shirt blue, his eyes flashing red. He should’ve dated her sister Peoria instead. Caught himself, put that thought on the shelf.

Peoria, now that’s a vixen. But he couldn’t let Aurora know what his mind had been fixin’. If she knew, he and Aurora were through.

“You look beautiful,” lied Paul. “Let’s go. We’ll be late.” “Just like my period,” quipped Aurora, as Paul pinched his own taint.

Aurora reacted with shock and awe. “You disgust me Paul. I’m going to the mall. Have fun staying here, playing with your balls.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Paul fumed. “Sit your ass down. You better behave or I’ll call Craggles the Clown.”

But Aurora wasn’t interested in any more of Paul’s lovin’. It was probably because she had another man’s bun in the oven.

Whatever, thought Paul. He knew better than to take a date to the mall. He would not miss her. Would it be weird with her sister?

Aurora sat & thought, of Jonah, the man she met while on a yacht. A swarthy man of the sea, whose baby she carried surreptitiously.

In certain comparison Paul might pale to some guy who once lived in a whale. Might Aurora’s infidelity earn her a burial at sea?

In this instant Paul couldn’t resist. He took a peak at Aurora’s sis’s digits on the Rolodex. He memorized it. dialed it. Holysh*t.

Aurora has nothing she’s working toward, just playing. Paul was willing to throw her overboard. Just saying.

Peoria picked up more than the call if you know what I mean. She got Paul, after all, not some swarthy marine.

While Peoria and Paul got busy, Aurora was all in a tizzy. Her hormones were all outta whack. She thought she might want Paul back.

It was not meant to be. Paul & Peoria were making whoopee. They were making quite a racket, like UConn after winning the bracket.

Aurora said “I don’t need Paul! He’s a blue sweater boy after all!” She called Peoria to let her know she was over that freak show.

This time Peoria didn’t answer. She knew where neither her phone nor her pants were.

Yet Paul knew her ringtone. A funk song he’d last heard alone. Made him frisky at the time. Twisty was more like it this time.

Paul pushed Peoria away. “How could I do this to Aurora?” he cried in dismay. He ran to the door, leaving Peoria on the floor.

Peoria got up, found her pants, then threw on a tank. She chased after Paul, screaming, “Aurora’s the family skank!”

“If she’s the family skank, where do you rank?” Peoria fired back, “You didn’t seem to give a yack when you were fondling my rack.”

Paul turned around, then sheepishly looked down. “Aurora can have Jonah. It’s obviously only you that gives me a bonah.”

Peoria was confused by Paul’s sudden Boston drawl. But it was only for a bit, because she realized she loved that little nugget.

They kept moving closer, and then they embraced. Her arms around his back, his around her waist. “Marry me,” Paul said confidently.

“Yes!” screamed Peoria in delight. She finally found someone who was her height. You see, Paul wasn’t the only one who was small.

Paul pulled out a ring. Peoria said, “Oh my! Such bling!”

The couple was wed, went on a honeymoon through Club Med. The trip couldn’t be finer. They got discounts for looking like minors.

Peoria and Paul lived happily ever after, their lives filled with laughter. Everything was good. All good in the ‘hood.

‘Cept when Paul thought about his new sister-inlaw. Her not existing was hard to pretend. It was Aurora, his ex-girlfriend.


We did it! We wrote a story that rhymed! And it even kind of made sense! I bet you thought that last sentence was gonna rhyme with the one before it. Sorry – I’m all rhymed out. Anyway, this might be the funniest Once Upon 140 story yet. I don’t know if it’s the rhyming, the classic one-liners or the dirtiness of Paul and his love triangle with Aurora and Peoria. By the way, if those aren’t two stripper names, then I don’t know what is.

Thanks to @nella22, @kikiandkyle, @swanieson, @ArzuBusiness, @elderberryjam, @hwtibbs, @hiaubs, @jsetlak and @foiledcupcakes for helping me pull off an admittedly difficult story. I appreciate the feedback up front, and I’m grateful to all of you for humoring me and playing along.

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He applied the last bit of mascara, the last dab of lipstick, and took a deep breath. Now, he was ready.

How could he not be? He had waited for this moment his entire life. He was finally going to show them. He smiled.

Aviv delicately lifted his gumball jar and stepped outside. Today he would finally claim the record as his own.

He looked around. Flashes were popping off everywhere. And people were screaming, “Aviv! Aviv!” He smiled. But where was Gertrude?

Where was the love of his life on the day he needed her the most? ‘She’ll come.’ he thought. She had to. He couldnt do this w/o her.

Gertrude, though, was glued to the TV. The coverage of the Royal Wedding was so enthralling, she lost all track of time.

She knew Aviv would need her but just this once she wanted 2 live HER life; she was tired of being “Aviv’s GF” never just Gertrude.

Pushing thoughts of Gertie aside, Aviv closed his eyes and put the first gumball in his mouth. The crowd became silent.

At home, Gertrude reflected on their path. They met at Columbia. At the time, she was the “it girl” and he the introverted type.

The last person to attempt the record for most gumballs in mouth at once choked to death. Aviv now tempted a similar fate for fame.

Gertrude suspected Aviv was doing this to prove he could be as “it” as she was when they met – but none of that mattered to her.

Tempting fate with competitive confections consumption seemed somehow so childish to her, she wondered how they would live it down.

And why, she wondered, had he taken to wearing more cosmetics for these gummy stunts? He already ruined her newest lipstick.

Few people knew the stunts had strained the relationship. The role of stuntman’s girlfriend was played with ease, if not pleasure.

She could even overlook the spoiled cosmetics, though it struck her as clownish. It didn’t help that she was unnerved by clowns.

Aviv took the 2nd gumball out of the jar, holding it up to the crowd for dramatic effect. “Put it in!” they chanted. He did. Alone.

W/ a gumball in each cheek, his eyes scanned the crowd, looking for her. With a slow blink, he reached for the third gumball and…

…grimaced as he slipped it in his mouth. Aviv was careful not to smear the lipstick, it may be the closest Gertie would be today.

The record was 13 gumballs. The irony of the death during the previous attempt and the unluckiness of 13 was lost on no one.

Especially not Gertrude. She knew the risks. After all, it was her father, Michael the Magnificent, who held the gumball record.

He’d held the title for most of her life, yet had never talked about it. Not odd, since he was mute after a freak gumball accident.

During the Chicago heat wave of ’95, a gumball machine exploded. Hit in the throat, the doctors couldn’t remove the silencing orb.

It was now a daily reminder of the true dangers of the sport. The gumball: capable of bestowing such fame and such sorrow.

As a bead of sweat slipped down Aviv’s brow, he pressed on toward his goal. 4, 5 and 6 were no problem, but gumball 7…

…proved trickier. He puffed his cheeks out, then slipped it under his lower lip. The crowd gasped, barely able to comprehend this.

But Aviv knew. It was this exact move that, years earlier, transformed little Mikey into Michael the Magnificent.

Gertrude knew too. She and a young Aviv used to watch her father’s exploits on YouTube every day after school. They idolized him.

But after the accident, things changed. Gertrude shut down, but Aviv’s admiration grew stronger. Aviv devoted his life to gumballs.

It was a near obsession to Aviv. He’d loved her since childhood & his drive for a new record would prove it. Little did he know…

that Gertie was home, watching Prince William & Kate exchanging vows..over gumballs! It brought back a flood of memories. Too many.

She turned the TV off and picked up a gumball. Enraged, she whipped it at the ground, but it bounced back up & hit her in the face.

Momentarily shocked, she thought of her father, and her eyes welled up. She got up quickly, dumping the gumballs into the trash.

She pressed her hand to her head and felt a warm, sticky drip….

First, her dad’s gumball accident, & now this? Who was next, Aviv? Gertie couldn’t let that happen. Not w her dad already a mute.

As Gertrude looked at the clock it blinked 11:11. On the other side of town, Aviv was now sweating, on gumball 11.

Picking up the 12th gumball, he quickly scanned the crowd for Gertrude. No luck. Maybe she didn’t care. His hand went to his mouth.

He slowly inserted #12, & the crowd suddenly grew quiet. A young girl’s jaw dropped in disbelief. What was happening to Aviv?

His face was trembling, as he was trying his best to hold on, 12 gumballs stuffed into his mouth. He couldn’t turn back. Not now.

Gertrude was on her way. She knew what this meant to Aviv, but couldn’t shake the weird feeling in the pit of her stomach…

Luckily, she lived less than 11 minutes away. She walked into the dark theater and could see Aviv on stage. Still, a weird feeling.

Aviv didn’t see her. This was to be his moment. He reached for #13 & Gertie cried, “STOP! For the love of all things bubbly!”

But she was too far away and the roar of the crowd was too loud. His forehead was sweaty, his hair oddly tinged green.

Aviv narrowed his eyes & squinted. “Gemewfgfhocxivjkefweiogrfd” He tried to speak. He couldn’t say a word. Gertie ran towards him.

She ran to him. She had seen his reaction and regretted it the moment the words left her mouth.

Throwing her arms around him, Gertie begged Aviv to stop. “You remember what happened to my father, don’t you?!” she pleaded.

Aviv looked at Gertie & held her in his arms. As he put #13 into his mouth, what followed surprised everyone, especially Aviv.

The 13th gumball and all preceeding gumballs burst forth from Aviv’s mouth straight into Gertie’s face.

Aviv paused his chewing for a moment, then, out of nowhere, a bubble started forming from his lips. Gertie watched him, skeptical.

“How do you have more gum?” Gertie asked. “Easy,” said Aviv. “Regurgitation.” He brought up a piece he had swallowed yesterday.

14, 15, 15… 15 – Aviv felt an overwhelming gag reflex he’d never ever felt before. #Huhhhhggggghhhhgnnnughhh

Sixzzz… Nghuh… Teen… He was pushing through…

…Thru the spasms – but there was no air. Just an unyielding bubble. Sealing him off from the world.

The bubble continued to get larger, enveloping Gertrude. Aviv kept going. There was the Bubblicious. And Topps baseball card gum.

Aviv motioned under the bubble for Gertie to get the gum scraper. He didn’t want the same fate as her dad, aka Bubble Boy.

Gertie fought against the bubble’s pull, eventually shaking free. The bubble kept growing, so Gertie didn’t have much time.

Her scraper was never very far, considering both her dad & boyfriend were gumballers. There were plenty of mishaps thru the years.

She went to the car and grabbed it, then came running back. The bubble was even bigger, now that the Big League Chew was out.

She fought her way through the crowd, which was now clamoring for the exits. The bubble was getting bigger by the second, and it…

…knocked over some stage props. This massive bubble of every piece of gum that Aviv ever chewed just kept growing and growing.

Gertie got in position and raised the scraper as the bubble approached her. She needed to save Aviv. And she needed to do it now.

With ferocious might Gertie plunged the scraper into the bubble, popping its contents all over the crowd. But Aviv..

didn’t make it. He had suffocated under the bubble that was congealed over his face.

Gertie rushed to the pink and purple slimed Aviv but resisted the temptation to do CPR. It was just too much.

Gertrude fell to her knees. “Nooooo!” She tried to close his eyelids, but they were already completely sealed by the gum.

After an hour of hearing Gertie’s sobs, the crowd picked up the gum mummy Aviv and carried him to the nearest hill.

A somber ceremony was held while Aviv was buried. However his grave marker would never hold the title of “Gumball Champion.”

It’s now 2021. Gertrude’s son, Aziz, is attempting to break the world gumball record on the exact stage where Aziz died.

Gertrude’s in the 1st row, cheering him on, chewing a mixture of Big League Chew and Bubblicious. Big Aziz would be proud.


Competitive gumballing? Who knew it could be so dangerous? Not me. And definitely not Aziz. But you know who did? Gertrude. What a woman.

Thanks @hiaubs for the photo, and thanks to @vineyardlola, @steeb2er, @melmo3, @nella22, @hiaubs, @hwtibbs, @jsetlak and @thatgirlmari for writing. Good stuff.

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Sticky and Sweet

This is a tale of love. Of resiliency. Of an ordinary chocolate chip pancake looking for her soulmate.

Stella thought to herself, “I hope my soulmate has a whipped cream topping,” as she logged into

She had no nuts & realized by virtue of that fact she was considered inferior.

As she searched, she had an idea: What if she went on a diet and became one of those sexy, french Crepes? Thin, delicate….

But it was not to be. With’s new screening the word “crepe” immediately put her onto the…

…swingers pages. This was unacceptable. She was looking for a soul mate, not a fling. She applied a little syrup & kept perusing.

Suddenly, an IM window opened, beckoning her toward her destiny.

“I like what I see,” said Trevor. His tagline read “Rooty Tootie Fresh and Fruity.” He was a sexy, plump blueberry from Kalamazoo.

“Hi,” Stella typed nervously. She hadnt been in the dating scene since before she met Raul, a two-timing strawberry from Nantucket.

Trevor was a berry, just like Raul. She didn’t know if she wanted to go down that road again. Just as she was about to respond…

“Click here,” the virile blueberry propositioned. “Find juicy fruit like me all over” Stella sighed wearily.

“Ugh.” She remembered the last time she naively clicked a link IM’d to her. It took a lot to get over the fiasco.

Despite 27 syrup flavors of compatibility, was delivering rubbery sides of bacon. Then, a blink! A new…

..IM window opened. “Hey there,” it read. Stella searched her new suitor’s profile. It was Chad, a stick of butter from Toronto.

Mmmhm, butter. I haven’t had me some butter in a long, long time. “Hey darling!” Stella typed lustfully….

She wanted some friendly, socialist Canadian butter. “May I see your pecans?” Chad asked. Stella blushed, embarrassed to be nutless.

Just then, her IM box from Trevor blinked again. “,” he wrote. Stella ignored him as she hesitantly responded to Chad.

“My pecans are being shelled right now, but I’ll show you my bananas,” Stella typed into the box. She paused before hitting ENTER.

She felt a tinge of anxiety. What if Chad changed his mind? She wasn’t invested, but had already imagined them on a plate together.

Boldly, she hit ENTER & waited for Chad to respond. She could see he was typing – and for a long time. Was he writing her a poem?

Her anticipation was interrupted by another ding from Trevor. “,” his IM read. Disgusted, she ALT-TAB’d to Chad’s box.

And lo and behold, Chad was indeed writing an ode to ! No one had ever written a poem to her before.

“Berries are red, Berries are blue. You look delicious. Would love to fill you.”

Chad was one savvy banana. He knew how to distance himself from other fruits. This poem was just one of his ways to be sweet.

An IM window didn’t convey his feelings, though. He was ripe to make Stella feel better than the day she was made.

Yet his poem went on: “Imagine me and you out on a date / I make you appealing while on a plate”

Chad’s prowess at poetry, and his appeal, were slipping. And at that moment another IM window popped before Stella…

“Hi there,” Brad wrote. “I’m a single white bag of powdered sugar from CT.” Stella curiously clicked on Brad’s profile.

She liked what she saw – skier, loved the White Stripes, White Men Can’t Jump. And Chad was playing her, lying about who he was.

“Nice poem,” she wrote Chad. “But I thought you said you were butter.” She continued. “Don’t ever IM me again!”

Chad tried writing back that it was a Freudian slip, but the IM never went thru. Stella blocked him, turning her attention to Brad.

Brad was pretty much ignoring her. He was 29 minutes into his 30 minutes or its free guarantee, hungry and hopeful.

But Trevor? Trevor was relentless. He IM’d again. “,” it read. Stella learned to ignore him. She waited for Brad.

Stella decided she couldn’t wait any longer. She typed, “Moguls?” It bounced back. “User not found,” it read. Brad’s trial expired.

Stella felt like giving up. All the suitors on were either duds or too cheap to pay for a real subscription.

And then just as she was logging out an IM window appeared from Brad.

Stella slammed her laptop shut. “Screw pancakes!” she yelled. It was time to be bad. Time for the forbidden carb: the Waffle.

Oh, waffles. The last time she had indulged in such sinful pleasure was when she went to the Waffle Bar on Armitage. So much syrup.

But it was time to go back. So she got dolled up, spread some apple compote on & headed out. The only problem? Raul was a regular.

She wondered where Chips was, it had been a while since she had seen her. As she picked up the phone to call her, it rang….

She answered. “Hello?” “Uh, hi, Stella. I’m really sorry to call you out of the blue. It’s me, Trevor.” He cleared his throat.

As soon as he finished, the call waiting beeped….it read “Raul: Don’t Pick up!”; Stella of course, did….””Raul..?”

“Behbeh, I meece you,” said Raul in his thick accent. Stella didn’t know what to say. She was flattered but had Trevor on hold.

But hearing Raul’s voice melted the apple butter off of her. Trevor could wait. “Raul…why are you calling me? Where is Mila?”

“Meela has, how you say, leaf trimming,” Raul said. Mila was his latest fling – a lean, orange carrot with long, green leaves.

“Lovely!” she said. But Raul had other thoughts..He needed to get Stella alone. He had unresolved issues. Not so lovely issues…

Stella agreed to see him because her heart needed it. Raul understood that this was his one chance to finally kill her.

Stella clicked back to Trevor, intending to say she was going to see her ex. But Trevor said something so sweet, she reconsidered.

“From the moment I laid eyes on you, I could tell I fit you,” he said. Stella, being the pancake to his blueberry, blushed.

Meanwhile, Raul growing with impatience hired the biggest fork he could find to do the dirty deed he had planned out for so long…

She missed Trevor but he was too busy with work to notice her back then. “Do you want to go for some whipped cream?” she asked.

Trevor was happy Stella didn’t push him away after all these years. “Allons-y!” He whisked her away to Paris on his private jet.

Meanwhile, the fork arrived at Stella’s house. Too late. She was gone. Raul was furious. He sold the fork to a pawn shop for $3.22.

Stella was gazing out at the Atlantic when Trevor returned with a jug of rum syrup. “So, what was with all of those awful links?”

“What links?” he asked. “The ones you sent me on,” she responded. “I haven’t been on that site in years,” he said.

At which point it all became clearer that saving passwords and then selling a computer…

…wasn’t so smart. “I knew I should have sold my Mac to that Indian spice,” said Trevor. The plane started its descent.

As the plane landed, the flight attendant, a bottle of grand marnier, welcomed them to Paris. Trevor nuzzled in Stella’s nook.

Blueberries and a pancake – they really fit together. Trevor and Stella went on to live a fruitful life together


Man. I’m so happy for Trevor! The pervy link sender (we all know it was really him) from Kalamazoo got his pancake!

I’ll be honest, when I tweeted the first line of this story, I thought it might end up being a dud. But I am happy to say I was completely wrong. It is absolutely amazing. So funny. So awesome.

Thanks @nella22 for supplying the photo. And thanks so much to all the writers. We had 13 (including me). Special shout out to new writers @damnfineAD, @swanieson, @marzlet and @lesliestaysup. And to those who’ve written before – @foiledcupcakes, @nella22, @thatgirlmari, @FeliciaCago, @jimmydoestea, @hwtibbs @jsetlak and @rickmurray – you continue to crack me up. Trevor and Stella would thank you too, but they’re busy frolicking abroad.

By the way, Jake (jsetlak) sent me this tweet that makes me laugh every time I read it, so I wanted to share:

“I think “ALT-TAB’d to Chad’s box” needs to become a colloquialism for some weird online sex act.”


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All’s Good in the ‘hood

Forensics had just arrived on the scene. The markings were still fresh. But what did they mean?

They snapped from all angles. Nothing revealed itself at 90 degrees or 270. But at 180…

…Det. Rogers couldn’t believe his eyes. “The W!” he yelled. He pulled a smart phone out of his cardigan pocket & made a call.

“Brisco? Rogers here. It’s the W. But which? You head to City Center, I’ll take the other.” He sped off towards Lake Shore.

He waited for his partner, Det. Sloan, to pickup the phone & kept trying to decipher the code. “W-I….H,” he kept reading. Wish?

His gut instinct was that it was a copycat, picking up on details in the paper. But they hadn’t released info about the graffiti.

Rogers, being old, had narcolepsy and could fall sleep at any time. And when he did, he often dreamed that he was on Law & Order.

Adding to the confusion was the missing third letter. Public and police dept. speculation swirled. Whole word or acronym?

Rogers, who prefers “Mr.” instead of “Det.,” took off his shoes. He didn’t solve hundreds of cases in the neighborhood by accident.

Mr. Rogers sat in his chair & pondered. “Maybe King Friday can solve the 3rd letter mystery,” he thought. He rang for the trolley.

The trolley call startled Det. Daniel Tiger Sloan, who was by the clock tower, scrupulously checking each picture Det. Rogers sent.

They went thru the alphabet 1 by 1 to decipher letter 3. “Let’s start with A, children,” said Rogers. But no children were around.

Across town, Det. Fairchild was undercover. Fairchild AKA “Lady Elaine,” was linking the WI_H crimes to trolley graft & kickbacks.

An informant known only as Donkey Hodie flipped the pic 180°, now seeing TAIM aka The Dragon Reborn:

All the photo flipping made Rogers dizzy. So he & Tiger continued through the alphabet. “N,” said Tiger. Rogers followed with “O.”

“Stop with the letters!” yelled Hodie. “It’s TAIM.” Rogers, who along with his narcolepsy had trouble hearing, kept going. “V.”

Rogers then fell asleep and dreamed of a cold case from 1986 with the same cryptic code- he was on to something whilst asleep.

Hodie woke him up again. “Come here. You’re not gonna believe this.” Mr. Rogers put his shoes on & followed Hodie over to the…

…iPad he opened to the Mazrim Taim Wikipedia page. “We’re searching for a dragon?” asked Det. Daniel Tiger, who was on speaker.

Meanwhile, Lady Elaine followed the trolley paper trail. It eventually led her to one for dragon detailing. “Ok, toots,” she said.

Hodie knew Dragon Detailing was known for being a chopshop, and employing those of ill repute. But this was different…

… that crime scene was as gruesome as it was calculated; extermination with extreme prejudice. The dragon connection worried him.

All that graffiti, Hodie noted, meant that the perpetrators wanted credit. Almost showing off. Maybe that’d be their downfall.

As night approached, Det. Mr. Rogers got a phone call. He pulled his phone out of his cardigan and saw the Caller ID: King Friday.

King Friday was panicked. “Queen Saturday is dead & so is Prince Tuesday! Oh dear!” Det. Rogers’ jaw dropped. Was TAIM responsible?

“TAIM is responsible,” Rogers said to Friday. He conferenced in Lady Elaine. “Got anything?” he asked. Rogers was all business.

“Did Daniel Tiger eat any SPAM! lately?” Elaine asked. Rogers paused for a few seconds before responding, “At lunch on Monday!”

The lightbulb went off. “Is it…?” asked Rogers. “Yep,” said Elaine. “Tigers Against Imitation Meats. They’re behind everything.”

Rogers realized he hadn’t seen Daniel once during this whole investigation. Was he indeed involved?

But since they went thru the alphabet together on the phone before, Rogers just asked Tiger. Tiger hemmed & hawed & hawed & hemmed.

Shy Daniel didn’t know how to respond. “Can you please repeat the question?” whispered Daniel Sloan Tiger into the phone.

“Were you involved?” asked Det. Mr. Rogers. “Yes,” said Tiger, meekly. “I had to prove my TIAM loyalty after we had SPAM! Monday.”

“But you had already pledged loyalty detective squad, Daniel! Which is it? Us or them?” Det. Mr. Rogers interrogated, leaning in.

Daniel Tiger could still smell the SPAM! on Rogers’ breath. “Yum,” said Tiger. Rogers used his breath to keep Tiger from fleeing.

“ANSWER ME!” Rogers demanded, breathing fiery SPAM! flames at Daniel like a dragon. “US OR THEM?!” he demanded.

The evidence was all coming together. The graffiti. The cardigan. The sneakers. The train set. Rogers was the leader of TAIM!

TAIM’s calling card was easy to find: two quotation marks, or “sneaky laces,” as gang members dubbed them. This was Rogers’ work.

Just then, Lady Elaine came running in, screaming. “Get away from Detective Mr. Rogers!” But Rogers took Daniel Tiger hostage.

Rogers gripped Daniel Tiger tightly in his cardigan-enveloped arm. Lady Elaine begged him to stop. Rogers breathed on her.

Daniel smelled the SPAM! on Rogers’ breath and again dreamed of imitation meat. “It smells great,” he thought.

Lady Elaine made eyes at Donkey Hodie, who was behind Rogers & Daniel. When she coughed twice, that was the sign to ambush Rogers.

Hodie had plenty of practice being an ass. He ran straight behind Rogers & kicked him hard. Rogers fell. Daniel flew into the air.

Lady Elaine grabbed Daniel, & Hodie went to see if Rogers was alive. As he got closer, all he heard was snoring. Rogers was asleep.

Donkey said, “I’ll take him to Mr. McFeely’s place so the cops can pick him up.” Lady Elaine smiled and held Daniel Tiger tightly.

As Donkey loaded Rogers in his car, Rogers began speaking in his sleep. “Brisco!” yelled Rogers. “Wait up!” Donkey shook Rogers.

Rogers looked at Donkey, confused. “Where am I?” Was he going to have to explain his sleepwalking behavior in court again? Oh dear.

“You’re in a better place,” said Donkey. “Wait. I’m dead?” asked Rogers. “No – I mean in my car, where you cant start any trouble.”

Hodie looked at Rogers w/pity. “Poor old man doesn’t even know he commits so many crimes in his sleep,” he thought. He drove away.

The cops were waiting at McFeely’s. When Hodie & Rogers arrived, they cuffed Rogers, charging him w/ murder. And bad breath.


Hilarious story. Brought back a lot of memories. Thanks to @LegallyErin for the photo that started it all. And thanks to @thatgirlmari @Chrisa_Hickey @hwtibbs @jsetlak @Siding1IL @foiledcupcakes for helping me relive the good old days when I would take my shoes off, sit in front of the TV and go to the Neighborhood of Make-Believe. And when I say the good old days, I mean last week. Just kidding. Maybe.

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Chicken and BISCUITS

He’d already missed his court date once. It couldn’t happen again. But the memory loss was setting in.

His small apartment was strewn with post it notes to remind him of what he was supposed to do, his new court date among them.

“This worked for the guy in Memento,” thought Jack Bauer. But the memory loss struck again. “What’s up with all these post its?”

The worst was when lapses struck while he was composing a note. On the far wall were half finished notes he couldn’t decipher.

Just then, there was a knock at the door. “Open the door, Jack,” said a woman. Jack was confused. He didn’t recognize her voice.

But he did recognize that smell… Pizza? Tacos? Sushi? What WAS it??

Chloe walked in with a bucket of KFC & coleslaw. She looked familiar to Jack, but couldn’t place her. “Do I know you?” he asked.

“I’m your parole officer, we’ve been through this” she said as Jack grabbed a piece of chicken and thought..parole officer?

“Since I know you won’t remember, I’m also your sister.” She was unshaken, pecking him on the cheek as she went to the kitchen.

Jack kept eating his chicken as he read a post it up on the wall. “I like Extra Tasty Crispy,” he mumbled to himself as a reminder.

And that explained the “Extra Tasty Cris….” that was written on the wall in sharpie next to the phone…

Jack finally got up with a wing in his mouth to open the door. As the door opened, there was a woman who looked…

…like Chloe. She stopped him. “You just opened the door, Jack. Remember?” “No, I don’t,” he said. Chloe was in for a loooong day.

The look on his face made her eyes roll.That or the wing hanging out of his mouth. “Napkin?” She asked, wiping his chin.

Sneaking out the back and knocking again was just one of Chloe’s ways to amuse herself by fucking with him.

She was neither his sister nor his parole officer. If KFC was open already, he must’ve missed his court date by now. Again.

“On second thought,” Chloe admitted, “this mess calls for a Wet-Nap.” She tore one open and the smell of rubbing alcohol hit him.

For 2 seconds, Jack had a flashback to his torture in China. They used wet naps & opium to try & get him to talk. He never did.

Memory issues made the present fuzzy, but the reason for his torture was still clear to him: smuggling art from the Hunan province.

But how could a man with memory loss pull off the biggest art heist since the Thomas Crown Affair? Easy – Chloe.

Before they met, her reputation proceeded her. Her work was clean & quick. The press named ‘La Chat Noir’ in over 32 global thefts.

Interpol had been after her specter for years. Yet, they only had anecdotal leads. He’d known her to put out false stories for fun.

Like the one about her Club Med Couples Escape to Ixtapa. Within minutes, Interpol moved in, only Chloe was nowhere to be found.

Another story Chloe once used? That she’d be hosting an open mic night in Quebec. Interpol swarmed there too but again…nothing.

She needed Jack for her next heist. He was the only one who could navigate the museum & its hundreds of security guards & lasers.

But Jack, still in the throes of memory loss, couldn’t remember where the museum was…let alone Mexico.

Luckily, he didn’t need to remember where Mexico was, since the museum was in China. Too bad he couldn’t remember that either.

Jack woke up mid-flight. Window seat. Nothing but clouds. Story of his life. Wondering, Who’s this woman seated to his left?

He asked her for a drink. “Right away, Jack.” She stood & headed toward the back cabin, glancing briefly at the man seated in 4F.

Suddenly, it hit her. Seamus O’Reilly, the head of Interpol, was in 4F. But he was fast asleep. So for now, Chloe dodged a bullet.

Chloe got a water bottle from the back, then ducked into the lavatory. She unscrewed the sink panel to retrieve a black duffel bag.

Meanwhile, Jack was left alone, waiting for a drink he didn’t even remember asking for. “Man, I wish I wrote it down,” he mumbled.

He reached into his pocket & found an entire stack of post-its. All different colors & messages. “Black duffel bag!” one said.

And why am I married to Adam Sandler?

A purple one said, “Sink panel. Lavatory.” Jack was piecing things together. He went there, passing O’Reilly, who was drooling.

And the next post-it read, “By any means possible, keep the bag out of Chloe’s hands.”

Jack hoped he’d recognize Chloe. He should have drawn her face on a post-it note. He headed to the back of the plane when suddenly,

he saw a woman step out of the lavatory clutching a black duffel bag. He didn’t recognize her, but he knew what he had to do.

He had to pull out another post-it note to remind him. It said, “When you see a woman with a duffel bag, wake up the Irishman.”

Jack wondered how he’d find an Irishman. He looked left & saw nobody. He looked right. And there was O’Reilly, between Lee & Cheng.

Jack suspected this man was Irish by the corncob pipe and top hat over fiery red hair. But the next post-it confirmed it: 4F

Jack reached over Cheng to wake O’Reilly up. “There’s a woman with a duffel bag.” Seamus turned to Lee & said something in Chinese.

Lee nodded. Without hesitation, he grabbed the bucket of KFC stowed under his seat & ran towards the back of the plane.

“No thanks,” Jack said as he patted his stomach. “Had some earlier.” But this was no ordinary KFC bucket. Lee’s gun was inside.

Lee & O’Reilly knew what they had to do-distract Chloe & retrieve the Picasso. Jack could help, but only if he had his memory back.

Lee grabbed the gun but it was covered in grease. Delicious grease. It fell to the floor and discharged one lethal bullet at …

…the goats stowed above the seats in row 24. Chloe heard the gunshot, and she came running out of the lavatory.

Through screams, goat blood, and chaos, she found Jack. She ripped apart his post-it notes. “Biscuits,” she whispered in his ear…

“Biscuits?” he repeated. “No!” she screamed as Lee and O’Reilly handcuffed her. “I said Risk IT!” And suddenly he remembered.

BISCUITS was code for “Beat Interpol STAT. China Understands I Thieve Statues”. But it was too late. Chloe glared at Jack sternly.

Jack’s memory came back fast. “Crap! I missed my court date!” Chloe snickered, and O’Reilly stifled a laugh. Lee openly mocked him.

Jack looked at his watch. “There’s still time!” He pulled a parachute out of his bag and opened the door. “Jaaack!” screamed Chloe.

Jack nodded at Chloe & winked twice. That was their sign. They’d meet at the Peach Pit in 13 days. Without warning, he jumped.

Just like that, Jack was gone. O’Reilly and Lee handcuffed Chloe to seat 4A, while Cheng cleaned up the goat’s blood.


Wow – this was awesome! 13 writers (including me) contributed on this one. Thanks @AgentLuke for supplying the photo. And thanks to @ParkRidgeDDS @hwtibbs @LundieP @foiledcupcakes @nella22 @brianpinkley @Chrisa_Hickey @jsetlak @thatgirlmari @FeliciaCago @kikiandkyle @jimmydoestea for writing.

We may have just written Season 8 of 24.



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Justin Time

She cleaned the pool, mixed drinks & waited for her guests. The party was going to be off the hook.

Melania was starting to wonder if Donald had finally lost the plot with his latest design for Trump Copehagen.

“Have you finally lost the plot with your design for Trump Copenhagen?” Melania asked. He was combing his hair and didn’t hear.

Trump had bigger things on his mind: how to get rid of Melania, once and for all? He needed to call an expert, someone discreet…

Just then Ivanka stormed in. “Did you take my hair straightener again? That toupee will fall off once you jump in the pool anyhow!”

Donald nodded. Ivanka’s tirade was code for “I loosened the hinges on the diving board.” Melania wouldn’t be a problem much longer.

And thus something was indeed rotten in the state of Denmark. Poor Melania wouldn’t have long to enjoy her own party. But why?

Melania, a former Slovenian Olympic diver, was doing some ballistic stretches in the house. This would be her shining moment.

As guests arrived, Donald & Ivanka continued speaking in code. They couldn’t let Melania out Donald for being a Justin Bieber fan.

“Ut-bay I-hay ant-way ustin-Jay ieber-Bay o-tay e-bay y-may ool-pay oy-bay!!” Melania screamed into the phone while stretching.

Melania had been wanting Bieber for herself, and it floored her to see Donald fawn over him. But who was she talking to?

Suddenly, Melania heard a crash, followed by a deathly scream! She rushed downstairs and grew dizzy when she saw…

…Ivanka holding a bottle of Ambien. “Tired yet, Melania?” Ivanka asked. Donald laughed while fanning Justin Bieber on Facebook.

She did feel the need, and her guests still hadn’t arrived.”Sure, gimme two!” and as Ivanka slipped her two “Ambien”,some1 knocked.

Ivanka opened the door to find Justin Bieber’s mom holding a boom box. “I’m a little early, but I’m here to party!” she exclaimed.

As she threw back the pills with a swig of Trump Water, Ivanka shreiked “That wasn’t Ambien, and there are no guests because…”

“…Mrs. Bieber told them to go home so you can dive.” Melania was confused, but Donald didn’t care. He kept grooving to “Baby.”

“But I just put out the crudités & mojitos!” Melania said desperately to Ivanka. She started to panic, but just then…

Mrs. Bieber changed the boombox to “Never Let You Go.” Donald, Ivanka & Melania had a dance party. “Love this song!” yelled Donald.

mrs. bieber headed towards the pool. the others followed. ivanka said to melania, “you should show us your skills!” donald agreed.

Melania got on the diving board & started her approach. She leapt once, but the board buckled just like Ivanka and Donald planned.

Melania fell into the pool, screaming at Donald to help. He looked at Mrs. Bieber. “I don’t want to get my hair wet,” he shrugged.

The back gate opened. Justin Bieber came running in, and he dove in to save Melania. Donald squealed like a little girl. “Justin!”

Donald watched Justin, a former lifeguard, save Melania. His heart softened. He knew he could no longer go through with his plan.

He sat the Biebers in his boardroom. “Biebers – what you did today changed everything. Well, except how much I love your music.”

“I’ll always love your music. I want it around all the time. Melania doesn’t know yet, but we’d like to adopt you.” Donald smiled.

“Mom – can I?” Justin asked. She nodded yes, with a line he knew pretty well. “Baby, baby, baby, oh. Thought you’d always be mine.”

Justin leapt into Donald’s arms, still soaking wet from Melania’s rescue. Donald was happier than Ivanka when she got her 1st BMW.

Donald still couldn’t believe it. He mouthed to Melania, “Justin Bieber, our new son. Oh my god! Oh my god! OH MY GOD!!”


Thanks to @danielzarick for supplying the photo. And thanks to all the writers on this story. It was a good group – @kikiandkyle, @nella22, @foiledcupcakes, @jsetlak, @thatgirlmari and @FeliciaCago. Who knew the Trumps were such big Bieber fans?

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I Ain’t Afraid of No Coasts

The signature was illegible, and the investigation had come to a complete standstill.

Detective Cupper knew this could be the murder of the century…if only they knew what the signature read.

Cupper needed a break in the case. He took the shirt to forensics to have it, and the signature, analyzed. It wasn’t looking good.

Forensics held the jersey under UV light. What they found shocked everyone: it was entirely covered w/scrawl in invisible ink!

Cupper knew of two street gangs that used this ink: the B.Co and the Trops. Now they needed an insider in each gang…He called…

Ghostbusters, knowing that they would be able to channel Tupac & Biggie from the beyond. They were notorious B.Co & Trops experts.

Peter, Raymond & Egon got to work. They started playing “Mo Money Mo Problems” & “California Love.” Forwards 1st, then backwards.

The Ghostbusters heard nothing when the tracks played forwards. But backwards? Venkman heard what could be Cupper’s big break.

Was that his gf’s voice on the track? He’d know that voice anywhere! What was she whispering…?

He slowed it down. “Go down to the pier,” his girlfriend’s voice said. “Go down to the pier?” Venkman asked. “What does that mean?”

He knew of only one pier within 100 miles: the rickety one on her parents’ estate. He wondered what she wanted him to find there.

Venkman got to the pier, but he saw nothing. Then a lightbulb went off. “The invisible ink!” he yelled. “Just like on the jersey!”

But the only way to see the ink was complete darkness and a black light; there was only one way. As he started to smash the bulbs…

..he heard a man’s voice. “Detective Cupper?” Venkman asked. “Is that you?” He couldn’t see a thing, so he turned the blacklight on.

the pier became eerily quiet and dark. Out of nowhere, a voice bellowed from behind him: “I have what you came for.”

From the shadows emerged a face, but not his gf’s. His foster dad, the one that abandoned him on Highway 59.But who was behind him?

Next to Venkman’s foster dad stood Shonn Green himself, wearing the very jersey Cupper had brought to forensics. How on earth…

…did he get onto the pier sitting in this wheelchair? And why were both legs in casts? Venkman turned the light to the casts and

gasped! Written on the casts in invisible ink was the name of the murderer, written in plain cyrillic: Дана Барретт. Venkman looked

…at the Cyrillic to English dictionary app on his smart phone, and he couldn’t believe his eyes. “Dana Barrett? Noooo!” he cried.

Venkman knew he didn’t have much time. Running past his foster dad, he wished a quick “get well” to Shonn, & he was on his way.

Venkman rushed over to Barrett’s apt, which he knew from his days busting ghosts. While on his way, he dm’d the address to Cupper.

Cupper had passed out at the forensics lab. His phone buzzed in his pocket & startled him. “How long was I asleep?” he wondered.

He missed the entire investigation. He wiped drool from his face and hopped in the car to go to Dana Barrett’s Central Park apt.

Cupper DMd Venkman back. “Biggie & Tupac can RIP now that we solved the case! The East/West coast rivalry is over! Good job!”

Venkman’s phone wasn’t on vibrate, so it rang when the DM came thru. From inside, Dana heard it & tried to escape out the window.

(Which was surprising, considering Dana lived on the UES of NYC. Apparently ring tones are louder than city traffic and sirens.)

Dana had tapped into Venkman’s phone, which is why she could hear it. The alert gave her time to flee, but her windows were stuck.

Venkman arrived at Dana’s UES apartment, armed w/his proton pack. Cupper ran in with his chiming smartphone. They apprehended Dana.

Dana fell to her knees. “I did it!” she cried. “Why?” asked Venkman. Her demeanor changed. “Dirrrty South fa eva” she said.


Thanks to @foiledcupcakes for the Shonn Greene photo that started all this off. And to @nella22, @foiledcupcakes @thatgirlmari and @feliciacago for helping me write this one. So strange. So funny.

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Filed under @feliciacago, @foiledcupcakes, @nella22, @thatgirlmari, Biggie, Ghost Busters, Jets, Shonn Greene, Tupac

TGIF (Thank God It’s Fixed)

Time was of the essence. If someone didn’t disarm the mainframe, the country of Jimmer would be doomed.

“I have to think fast. I got it! I need to get to Steve Urkel’s house. He’ll know what to do. I just hope he’s not Stephan.”

Steve had more knowledge about mainframes than anyone. Stephan, not so much. The fate of Jimmer rested on a set of suspenders.

Balki headed to the Winslows. His cabbie wanted to take the Edens. Balki knew better. “Don’t be ridiculous! No time!” he screamed.

The cabbie said, “Oh! The WINSLOWS! I thought you wanted to go to the Appleton’s in WI!” With that, he swerved over to the Kennedy.

Balki texted Eddie Winslow from the cab. “Mainframe not doing gr8. Need 2 talk 2 Steve. U kno where is he?” He hoped he made sense.

Eddie texted back. “Huh?” Balki’s fear was confirmed. Eddie was not the brightest, but luckily his sister happened to be there too.

Laura slapped eddie on the head. “stop acting like waldo geraldo fardo! we need to take this to dad – STAT.” off to CPD they went.

At the station, they found Carl and told him about the mainframe. “Balki’s stuck in traffic, and we can’t find Steve,” cried Laura.

Carl called Harriet to see if Cousin Larry Appleton had ridden her elevator today. He knew more about mainframes than even Urkel.

She said he was on vacay. “He was going to Swimmer.” “Swimmer?” Carl wondered. Then it dawned on him. Larry was already on Jimmer!

Could it be that Cousin Larry was responsible for the mainframe? Carl had to do something. “Who’s coming to Jimmer with me?”

Out of nowhere, Steve texted back. “Stuck at Rachel’s Diner w/Stephan. U2 can borrow my suspenders if U need 4 trip 2 Jimmer.”

Carl, Laura and Eddie hopped in the squad car, went to Steve’s house, got the suspenders and headed to Jimmer. They meant business.

Pulling into Jimmer was an art:the dark alley was narrow & u wouldn’t want to run over a current transaction”Is Phillipe here yet?”

At Jimmer, they found Steve dancing with Cousin Larry. Balki was nowhere to be found. “He’s probably stuck in traffic,” said Larry.

Carl gave Steve his suspenders & he disarmed the mainframe. Jimmer was saved! As they celebrated, Balki finally showed up.


Thanks to @arzubusiness, @foiledcupcakes, @thatgirlmari and @nella22 for helping me write this one.

And to every BYU fan, sorry for jinxing Jimmer. But since we got to hear from the Family Matters and Perfect Strangers casts, it all evens out.


Filed under @arzubusiness, @foiledcupcakes, @nella22, @thatgirlmari, Family Matters, Jimmer, Perfect Strangers