Posted by celiapleete in WTF, adverts, poppets | Comments
Makes Children As Fat As Pigs.
…so does a sedentary lifestyle and processed foods!
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Weigh-In.
“Yes, that’s lovely, Mr. Wright. Just throw her in some of that nice pineapple marinade your wife made, and wrap her up in butcher’s paper.”
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Flower Girl
Emily sat there, staring, for three straight solid hours. She clutched the bouquet of chrysanthemums to her face, feeling their delicate petals against her equally delicate skin. So fragile. So very much like Mother would be by sundown.
She remembered last night’s heated exchange. Mother had ordered her to finish her meatloaf and peas. Emily refused. Emily was put to bed without supper as a result. How Mother laughed!
Mother would pay. Now…where to find chloroform to douse upon Mother’s tatted lace hankerchief?
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Helping Johnny Remember
Posted by celiapleete in poppets, rippingyarns | Comments
I Tawt I Taw A Sweater.
Troy’s smug face would soon be obliterated when Elmer Fudd decided to use that musket once and for all.
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From Beyond.
When Bradley retold the story later in the hospital, the bride (his sister Joyce) emphatically said that she had not invited twin girls to the wedding.
“I don’t even know twin girls,” she said, confused, and chalking it up to the terror he’d experienced after falling into the river next to the outdoors nuptials. (Secretly she was furious that her big brother’s clumsy accident had upstaged her big day, but at least the cake had been saved.)
“Twin girls, you say?” said the victim’s rescuer, Old Man Withers, who was sitting in the corner, wishing hospitals still allowed pipe smoking. “There was twin girls – the Swindon sisters, who drowned ‘aught 60 years ago to this day – I believe it was during the Sunday school Decoration Day pick-a-nick. Yes, that’s right. I was a spritely lad of twenty-five, sweet on their sister Adelaide. Some say they come back once a year to tempt another victim to the grave with them. To play. You’re a lucky man, Bradley. A lucky man indeed.
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