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Cold feet once you examine the goods from up close, eh?   

Look out!  Ponch is in high-gear pick-up mode!  Maybe we should all stick together in this very public dance hall, for safety's sake.

I like how Wyz returned my call instead of leaving me to stew for three days, and his moustache appears to be better groomed than that of certain other dancers here.  The offer of elocution lessons was a bit pretentious, though.   Anyway, that's a pretty solid plus two.  But to be fair, I should see what moves some of these other fellas can bust before I commit to anything.

So, on to kconan, who has very helpfully published photos of himself in his sharp orange suit to help me with my decision.  Right now I'm wearing a garment of bright yellow feathers, which makes me afraid that if we're seen in close proximity people might mistakenly get a hallowe'eny-vibe from us.  You have three sentences to set my Fashion-Faux-Pas-O-Meter at ease.  Go!

In the meantime, MiteWiseacreLives continues to creepily try to pick-up Ponch, while Dualnames leaves the dance floor to take a Wyz.

[Ideally, one should never call it in the final release of their baby into the wild (9)]

Ideally, one should never call it in the final release of their baby into the wild (9)

This command should ideally never be called in the final release of a game.

Due to the similarities of the above word clusters, I'm going to go with

Spoiler

AbortGame.  But I still don't see how this is a major real world issue....

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[kconan]

I'm not going to have time to do this over the weekend, so I've read through them all already in order to vote early.

Best Character: kconan for Gertrude.  And Loni.  And Billy.  And Sam.  And Phil.  And Scott.  The boss was a bit flat though... But you easily made up for it with the monkey!   Seriously though, you crammed a world of office archetypes into one little ToilCubeâ,,¢ row and brought them to life.

Best Plot: kconan for running the ToilCubeâ,,¢ gauntlet four times, each in a different state of mind.  I've got to give Stupot+ a point here, too, for his lemon twist at the very end.

Best Atmosphere: kconan, since you could feel the strength of Johnson's changeable emotions each time he passed down the ToilCubeâ,,¢ row.  I'm also going to give Dualnames a point here, for the moody brooding of his character (a pity the piece wasn't finished).

So bad it's good: This one was tough, as there were mind-bogglingly overcomplicated sentences in every piece, but I honestly think for sheer volume of hilarious phrases that kconan deserves the point for this one as well.  His truly was an epic of the purplest hue.  I think my favourite line was the one describing the force of the office door closing as somewhere between a stalwart knight lopping heads mid-battle and that of a brawny King Kong fist-pound after three months of daily high-dosage testosterone injections.  But then I go in for that zany kind of stuff.  So good job!

I don't know how many people read the votes before digging into the stories (I never read the votes before I've come to my own conclusions), but if you're reading this and haven't read the above stories I really would recommend kconan's piece.  Yeah, there's a lot of words, but they are very entertainingly strung together.  So delve in, have fun, and vote!

[release]

Spoiler

I always bicilotti my game before release.

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Spoiler

Game.Font?

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I would have thought they'd play ninja darts in Japan....

Still, cool coding exercise!

You've changed!

Ouch, yeah, still waiting by the phone here Dualnames....  Keepin' the candle lit in the window....  Running out of daisy petals to pick off....  Was it my hair?  It was my hair wasn't it?  I get helmet-head, ok!  Just cause there's a little snow on the roof doesn't mean the furnace ain't roaring, y'know.  Maybe you're just playing hard to get cause you know it drives me wild, but I don't think I could respect myself if I keep letting you toy with my heart like this.  So... you know, I think we should dance with other people.  *GASP!*  Yeah, you heard me.  You take your pulsating Greek hips and jitterbug on over to dance with kconan, while I attempt to tango with Wyz.  MiteWiseacreLives remains in his wallflower position, and Ponch graduates to senile old relative who keeps barking dating pointers out to us young whipper-snappers. 

So Wyz....  I see you pretend to live North Brabant.  I once walked from Eindhoven to Uden because I couldn't speak enough Dutch to figure out how to use a bus.  You have three sentences to paint my stubborn self-defeating xeno-cluelessness in a favourable light of masculine bravado and fearless ingenuity: go!

Hmmmmm.  Eight italicized words and eight non-italicized words.  If I didn't know any better I'd say it's probably a type-o and should be disregarded entirely.

[John of Wode, my good friend and comrade of many years, righteous gentleman, chivalrous knight, brother of the Order of Kinderprinceling Sitting, and fellow companion to the heir of the Purple Velvet Throne, what vile fate hath cast us into such a seething pit of disrepute as this?]

My god, he did type it.  I can spot the type-O's. 

My entry, at the last minute as always:

The King's Spotted Dick


John of Wode, my good friend and comrade of many years, righteous gentleman, chivalrous knight, brother of the Order of Kinderprinceling Sitting, and fellow companion to the heir of the Purple Velvet Throne, what vile fate hath cast us into such a seething pit of disrepute as this?

We follow the prince, to keep him safe.  Do you not recall the Anarchist threat against his life? 

I was speaking figuratively, Sir John.  Of course I know very well how the earthly vessels of our spirits arrived at this exact place and time.  What I am questioning, my good friend, is the cosmic rationality behind the infernal circumstances that compelled us in our loyal agency to sully both health and reputation by patronizing a warren of such filth and villainy as this.  The King's Spotted Dick, a tavern and inn named after a painful genital affliction to cater to the thirsts of beggared beggars and ditched ditch-diggers: the very lowest of the lowest of the low.  Outcasts and downcasts and sub-castes and thieves!   Have you ever seen such a wretched hive of malodorous riffraffery?

I say, Sir Jotham!  Sir Jotham of Haggar!

Oh woe betide the honour of my house, I am recognized!  Quickly, into the crowd before my identity is confirmed and my standing at court brought into permanent and eternal disrepute.  Here, among the teeming rag-mongers and filth-smiths and fart-weavers and burp-orators we should find some sanctuary amid the bawdy din and sweaty haze.  Cover your face, my good man, but hold yourself in an authentically casual stance so as not to beckon the attentions of gossipy eyes.

Is that Sir Henry of Bollingsbum?

One and the same, I'm afraid.  It really pains me to see the scion of such a noble family swoon so low, like a star brought to shooting frenzy only to land in the fetid manure pit of a chronically diarrhoetic cow. 

My, but he's got a lot of lady friends, hasn't he?

Aye, they are verily draped off him, like tattered bandages dangling from a festering wound.  The only one approximating feminine shape has some sort of fungal growth protruding from her nasal organ.  Ghastly creatures!  But pay no more heed, for they are all of them now past like the turds of breakfast, and flushed no doubt to an equally noxious sewer.  Prithee now, my companion, are you able to alight your eyes upon the prince from your stance of vantage?

Aye.  At the table in the far corner, with the red-haired lass.

Oh perfect!  A fiery vixen to scratch and snarl and strafe we keepers of the prince's virtue when the hour of curfew draws nigh.  Do you know I still wince when I step awkwardly on my left ankle due to the last woman the prince encountered....

At the Battle of Tarrowfleet?  That little warrior she-dwarf hardly counts-

-That venomous mink!  Flitting her way through the line of battle like an ermine through stalks of wheat, then setting upon the prince like a squirrel on a territorial rival.  The boy would no longer be spending the currency of his good-looks were I not there to intercept the brunt of her berserker malice!  That piddling imp-woman, foaming at the lips and biting like a mongrel mutt.  She was probably rabid, you know.  I swear the infection is yet within my bones, gnawing away at me from the inside like some insidious tapeworm, sapping me of strength and stamina until some day soon I shall be nothing but a spent husk, devoid of usefulness and value.  Were the wound not sustained in such a valiant act of loyalty, I don't think I could bear the agony of its ravages!

And yet bear it you shall, for many years I don't doubt.  Let the prince have his fun.  We are here to keep him safe, not marm him to exasperation.  Let us get a drink.

Yes.  A beverage most cold and quenching would be duly welcome upon my prattle parched palette.  But none of that cloudy ale from the monasteries: it bloats me like a whale carcass in the hot sun.  You would think that men trained to refine the clarity of their faith could apply such teachings to their secular enterprises.  My god!

'Tis a miracle, you are struck dumb!

Do you not see?  There through the churning throng of vagrants and vermin.  She's like a flower growing up through the dung pile.

What?  The one with the fake breasts?

How dare you, sir?!?  It is merely the perkiness of youth that causes them to defy gravity thusly.  A bust unbroken, as it were, by neither age nor guilt.  Unsullied innocence can lift more that just the soul, so who are we to wonder how something so angelic could float weightlessly through the ether?  Stare a moment, my good man; not to judge, but to marvel!

What'll it be, gov'ners?

Real boobs, my good tavern wench.  Or barring that, real beer.

Blimey!  This is an alehouse, not a meat-market!  The nerve of you gents these days....

Forgive my companion, good wench of politely undetermined years.  Sometimes his manners are as fleeting as the teeth of your smile.  But he bears no ill-will, merely a smouldering ignorance when it comes to the feminine form.  I myself am comfortable with the notion that women's breasts come in all shapes, sizes, and dispositions, whereas my friend insists that they must fit into a narrow definition of regulated conformity.  Obviously, I have bested him in this duel of double-D's, and he is thereby somewhat sore of temper.

Never to hear the end of it....

He's right, you know.  I had an aunt what lived a hundred years what could toss them over 'er shoulder, the more easy to carry them.

Damn my mind's eye, wench!  Do they keep growing like noses, ears and fingernails?  One more reason to stay in the rental market, I say.  Can you imagine the maintenance costs as they compounded over the years if you were the owner of the property?  It would be enough to ruin a man.  What of your uncle, then?  Was his dotage cut short by a mortal blow to the head when his wife turned too fast to face him?  Or did he trip over them when she sat down to her knitting, leaving the damnable things to spread over the floor like runny batter in a tepid pan?  But never mind, the point is proved again and again: exceptional tits are a commonplace, if you but dare to keep your eyes sharp.

Fine.  Breasts can come in all weights and measures, I agree but do not concede.  The point is this: the breast is beholden to its owner.  Thus an old saggy woman would be expected to have old saggy boobs.  A good tavern wench full of life and good humour would be expected to have a full and buxom bust-

-Hold your cup here, gov'ner.  Let me fish the spit out of there for you, on account of those fine words!

To continue: there is, however, no accord whatsoever between that skinny girl and her planet-sized spheres.

There, you concede at least that they are otherworldly.  Now travel with me just a measure farther down this track and I will see you safe and home at last.  Perhaps the young maiden has made visit to the depraved lair of a bewarted occultist well-versed in the black arts of frog-cooking and newt-buggery for an augmentation spell, or maybe she has paid a fine penny to lie on the blood encrusted table of Thomas the Barber and Sometimes Surgeon to help her development along.  But does that make her massive mammary glands any less a part of her?  Is the tumbler's sheath of muscle unnatural because he is not born to it?  Or the singer's perfect pitch, because she has trained at it?  Show me the graduate of Peppersham's Finishing School for Middling Year'd Urchins who claims not to have spent half a semester with a horseshoe tied to the end of his cock and stuffed down a pant leg and I'll show you a liar!  It is in the nature of humanity to yearn to improve oneself, and therefore it is entirely natural that a slender young maiden shall sport the biggest juiciest melons ever grown upon the garden of a woman's chest.

Piss and wind!

You care to refute my carefully constructed case?

Aye.  But I was talking about the beer.  It's like someone dissolved a fart in a keg of urine and served it up to customers at half-a-groat per pint.  I think it tasted better with the spit still in....

Bide yourself half a moment, gov'ner, and I'll fix it up for you presently!

My good phlegmatic tavern wench, would that you had sufficient phlegm.  But I'm afraid I'd need an army of checker-toothed ale-mongers horking around the clock just to make it tolerable.  I'll pass.  Now what's this?

A pamphlet, my good fellow.  The very thin edge of a very long wedge leading straight to popular mass-deluded tyranny, guild-sponsored political obfuscation, and leaders with preternaturally sexy hair.  Would that the clock would seize and stop our ceaseless progress towards perdition!  In my own lifetime I've seen the long slide begin, with the new-thought contraptions of cannon and those powder-fused bombs that let any Billy Anarchist with opposable digits and half a wit to challenge the most highly skilled knight.  Mark my words, as time grinds on we shall see the meek of the earth rise up like so many turds on water, and turn our polity into a crass echo-chamber of the lowest-common denominator.

Hmmm.  'Tis an Anarchist diatribe against the royal house, threatening the use of those very bombs of which you speak against the prince himself unless the council immediately submit to demands for land-redistribution, urban sanitation and something called a “week end” in midsummer.

The very audacity!

The threat is unusually detailed.  It specifies that they'll splatter his brains across half the city by placing two bombs on either side of his head. 

Crazy Anarchist delusions!  They'll never get two bombs within a racing-furlong of the prince with the Brotherhood watching over him as we do.  Our vigilance is as unblinking as our... uh....

Lost your wagon convoy of thought, hmmmm?

No.  I've just had a very nasty bit of fearful free-associative contemplation.

Eh?

The tits, you turtle-noodled dullard!  We've got to stop the tits!

I'm working on something, about 2/3 done.  Will post in the next 24 hours.

Wasn't "it's in the game" the tag-line of EA's sports division back in the day?

Enough of your crazy swinger hipsterisms, P.  Your solution to everything is orgy, orgy, orgy....  I'm not shopping for a casual fling here: I need something resembling a reliable -if extremely truncated - relationship.  Just randomly doing it with whoever "swipes to the left" is about as enlightened a dating strategy as randomly dialling a phone number and trying to do it with whoever picks up.  No, call me hopelessly romantic, but there's gotta be at least a spark to light the tinder.  Something besides just cheep booze and sweaty raunchy animal pheromones.  I haven't deluded myself into believing that I'm going to meet Mr. or Mrs. Right in this process, but I don't think I'm selling myself short by insisting on at least basic compatibility.  I know some folks feel different, and all the power to them, but I gotta think it'd be just a little self-defeating to invest so much lustful effort into trying to ram a square peg into a round hole.  I think all the quick and easy AGSers should migrate over to their own "OROW Speed-Dating Thread" and leave the rest of us old-fashioned types to get on with the serious business right here.

الضابط اللعبة

Wow, talk about a shallow dating pool.... It's kind of like Clan of the Cave Bear in here.   Oh well, I guess I'll start dancing with Dualnames while Wyz & kconan make out in the corner (MiteWiseacreLives watches from the sidelines).  Ponch can be that creepy chaperone that stares just a little too hard over his old-man glasses.

So Dualnames, you've got three sentences to convince me that you could get out of this scenario: You are stuck in an elevator with a ninja, a cowboy and a very hungry grizzly bear.  The ninja has a sword, the cowboy a pistol with six bullets and a holster to carry it, and the bear has the severed arm of his previous victim (with an expensive watch still attached).  You are carrying a road flare, a lighter, spare shoe laces, and some zombie serum that you just stole from Apocalyptical Labs up on the 13th floor.  Oh, and a breath mint, just in case.

Holy spoilers Batman!   Couldn't you just send him the glossy erotically illustrated walk-through like the rest of us?

Bathe Stroll.

Yes, AnasAbdin has clinched it.

Explanation:

Spoiler

Starry daughter - STDs = arry augher
If you make a gun with your left hand and hold it up in the air it makes an "L"
2 x L + arry augher = Larry Laugher
Larry Laugher = Larry Laffer

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Next!

Holy participation Batman!    Did someone shake a nest or something?!?

C'mon, P.  Just cause you get off the trolley doesn't mean it stops.  Ever since you ran off with that floozy armadillo I've been playing the field.  I'm sorry you had to find out this way, but I have needs, P. NEEDS!