Vote for your favorite fake word short story!

You guys are awesome! Thanks to everyone who took part in our fake word short story contest to win a signed copy of Believe it or Not. Who knew we had such creative blog readers here? 

Well, all of us. I'm pretty much just stating the obvious, huh?

I know I said we'd narrow the field to five finalists, but it's my blog and I decided we're going to have six. Don't you like how that works?

Now, it's your turn to pick a winner. Post your vote in the comments by noon PST on Sunday, May 6. If your entry is one of the six finalists shown here, feel free to lobby for votes via Facebook, Twitter, your own blog, or by offering sexual favors to other readers by explaining clearly and professionally why you deserve to win.

I'll tally the votes on Sunday and announce the winner on next Monday's blog. He or she will win a signed copy of Believe it or Not and the admiration of everyone who reads this blog.

So here are the entries . . .  


ENTRY #1

The Pink Slip

By Carrie Crain

1973. THE YEAR OF DISCO. At twenty-eight, I was the first female rookie agent for the FBI in D.C. and when you’re a promptitude cowgirl from Texas who handles a Thompson Machine Gun better than her male counterparts, life at the Bureau wasn’t amazeballs.

Jack Justice squozed a “pink slip” in my hand. Jack had been with the Bureau since the Hoover administration. He knew the routine: let the last one who received a raise go first. FBI referred to it as ‘taking the hit.’

“Sorry, bitchtits. Life sucks,” he said.

I kicked his shin. “Life sucks, douchewaffle,” I said. 


ENTRY #2

The Fictzophrenic Writer
By Joy Keeney

“Ah tweedlefuck, I’ll go wackadoo if I don’t get thingamabob edited.” she said pouring another clup of glomp. She was determined to make this book fantabulous; the gregacious book club would be conversating about it for infinimore yes this book would be amazeballs.

“I’ll show that douchewaffle I can write and what I think of her pompitude.” She said reaching for the bottle…it was her 5th clup this morning. The more she drank the more medimathical she wrote and her typing sounded like kirchkening.

3 hours later…squeeee mudderfugger this story is done!

ENTRY #3

Just for the squeee of it...

By Ashton

“Wait till you get a load of this wtfery. I was sitting there conversating happily with Angie, and snap, in a second, she goes from gregacious to all angstian. She just glomps on to me, and I'm like, you want me to sherpa your emo, bitchtits? Amazeballs. I managed un-squoze myself and got the hell away from her kirchkening.”

“So you were just like, ‘I’ll be over here, being a douchewaffle? I can’t believe you would do that! Angie loves you infinimore! That’s fantabulous, Mudderfugger.”

“Tweedlefuck! You guys are all wackadoo. I’m leaving!"


ENTRY #4

By Louise D.

“Tweedlefuck!” The exclamation didn’t make me feel any better.

I’d been waiting in this totally not-fantabulous weather for Prince Charming, my teeth were kirchening and I’d had enough. As I turned to go, a whatchamathingy arrived. My frozen brain searched... that’s right, limousine. PC stepped out, looking totally amazaballs.

“Sorry I’m late, my sweet fictophrenic, traffic was a mudderfugger.” Oblivious to the weather, his gaze only on me, he added, “I love you infinimore. Will you marry me?”

Qua-Nong!

“Squeeeee!” Nothing like a proposal to make me forget my glomp. “Absomondo, I will.”

The kiss that followed was stupendalicious.


ENTRY #5

SLINKING
By J. Sofie Seamands

Glomp.

Glomp.

Glomp.

Cue-Nong!

His foot hit metal, and the hoe’s handle popped up to meet his third eye.

Holding his head, his vision fogged. His body stiffened as he let out a grunt. After pausing a few seconds to catch his breath, he stepped around the planter boxes.

Granted, slinking out - err - leaving - in the dark wasn’t his best move. But seriously. What’s a guy to do when a “lady’s” so free with fluffs, frequent with the squeeees, and hard with the diangulation?

Girls just don’t get it: if you can’t sleep with ‘em, you’ll never stay over.


ENTRY #6

The Mystery of the Angstian Fictzophrenic Woman
By Phillip Doyle

My gregacious secretary make a loud “Squeeeeee” just before she busted into my office. “Speed! We gotta a new client in da awfice – ain’t that just fantabulous?” “Easy Bitchtits, I gotta meets da mudderfugger whatchamathingy and makes sure they’re not some wackadoo douchewaffle.” “Tweedlefuck!!” I said to myself when she entered. She was not the kind you would toss outta the sack for Diangulating while you left to peepulate. She was a bit pompitude certainly, but the way she had her thingamabobs squoze in that dress they looked like two grunions ripe for the picking! “I’m Speed Walker – Private Medimathical."