Everyone Write A Paragragh To Make The Worst Fanfiction Ever

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suddenly Bluto and Popeye both burst in!! ! poopee was wearing a large super hero cape, and both had on steel toed bootz! But, strangest of all, they were holding hands as they looked upon the scene with anger and disgust!!!11!

And Sonic woke up in an empty void. It was all a bad dream.

Star Wars Episode uh... 6.2.

Meanwhile, in 1983, at The Legion of Doom, Lex Luther initiated Darth Vader into his super group, simply because the Hall of Doom looked like Darth's helmet. Lex didn't want to get sued for copyright, so he bribed Vader $25 Billion towards his third Death Star (which still has a hole in the middle of it for some reason again!!). Later that night, Darth Vader was killed by his son. The end.

Edit: Reading back some, I think I may have derailed this thread. Feel free to step over this and continue with your sonic thingamabob if you want

Sonic woke up again but then next to his real lover, Darth Vader.
Darth caressed Sonic spines and they smooched eachother very dirty.
But suddenly there was Koolaid Man! he felt betrayed by Sonic for not choosing him.

Sonic was dreaming again. He just wanted to be alone, with nothing insane happening at all.
END of Sonic's story.

Meanwhile, a flower grows.

{Note to OP: I hate fan-fiction, but this thread is ridiculously funny! }

...began to engage in an exercise known as the chicken dance.

Meanwhile, across the pond, a bald middle-aged man sits on the porch of his home eating cheese, his dog at his side. Suddenly, a black car pulls up to the driveway of his home. The car has a purple shield with a large "S" in the center. In a black uniform, a woman with short dark hair approaches the porch.

"Mr. Wallace, I'm Agent Maria Hill of S-H-I-E-L-D. I've been sent by Director Fury to give you this letter. Director Fury understands that you express eccentric behavior and he knows you're an inventor."

Wallace opens the letter, which read...

Dearest Frodo, thou pot of toss:

We have got utterly sick and billious of you midgetly lot pollocking and billocking around Middle Earth, wandering with unfettered abandon, while we keep the whole show going. Do you hear me? Sick! Sick! S i c k!

Who fills the meadcups? Who drains the barrel? And who fecks the balls with howls of bolly, whilst having high adventures beyond compare?

But do we ever get any credit? Nay, chance would be costumed as a capon. And that's not surprising, since Tolkien edited us out of history, because we do not belong in a critique of the balance of power in WW2 Europe. We are the inconvenient ones, like toilet breaks on a crosscountry motorcyclette trip.

Well, today is the day when we strike a blow 'gainst editorial ethnic cleansings.

So we've decided to pi... clear off to Isengard. Don't be taken here, and make sure you rename your dodgy rave songs, or we'll sue. See if you can manage without us now! You foolhardy simpletons.

Grammi Gummi, High Priestess of the Gummi Bears

ps Give my love to Legolas, he can have a rifle through my woods anyday

But, unknown to any of them, a few of Shelob's hungry children lurked in the Dark Woods, awaiting nightfall.

Hungrily waiting.

And Watching.

Sylkat

The doorbell rang, startling her out of her reverie. She put down her toys and stood up, stretching languorously. Then she strode to the door slowly and opened it just as the doorbell rang again. A tanned young man stood there, smiling as he took in her curvacious figure.

"Pizza delivery, ma'am", he drawled.

Back in Chicago, a bespectacled brown-haired college student named Arnold walks across the campus of his college, while trying to avoid the stares of his fellow students. His cell phone buzzes and he answers it.

"Whoever you are, please tell me I should have stayed home today!" he seemingly shouts at a tree.

"Mr. Pearlstein, please look behind the tree you just shouted at." says a deep, polite voice back.

Arnold obliges, seeing a middle-aged man in a dark suit standing behind the tree with several younger people.

"Mr. Pearlstein, I'm Agent Phil Coulson of S-H-I-E-L-D. Please come with us and we'll explain to you what we want from you once we arrive at S-H-I-E-L-D headquaters in New York City." says Coulson.

"NO WAY! MY LIFE HAS BEEN RUINED ENOUGH ALREADY!" shouts Arnold.

"Mr. Pearlstein, if you do not oblige with my request, my team will forcibly take you with
us to New York City."

"OK you win. I know about what happened in New York City, but what does that have to do with me?"

In New York City, a hooded Arnold is escorted to what appears to be a large warehouse. The hood is slowly removed from his head as he shouts...

"I knew I should have stayed home today!"

A pretty brunette with a thick Australian accent slowly approaches him and says "Arnold?"

"Phoebe?"

Both look at each other, shocked. Coulson looks at the two of them and says...

"Mother is calling us. We must go to Mother."

"Mother?"

"Yes. It is time for the - reunion."

Suddenly, before Arnold XXV and Phoebe XIX could react to this unexpected turn of developments, the door swung open and in strode: Cloud Strife, blonde hair spiking, buster sword waving like a great metal scarf that had been left in the arctic cold, and thus been rendered stiff and rigid as.

"Take that and that and that and - off arg thwack".

The three lay dead, in a triangle of deadly death. Kind of like a isoceles affair of arrested awareness.

Cloud wiped the blood from his sword, on the virgin white curtains that had been put in by Mabel, a local interior decorator, and not even forty-eight hours before. As well as being a dab hand at sorting out large warehouse space and giving it that homely touch so sadly lacking in urban industrial areas, she also could bake a mean lasagne, and never ever washed spiders down the plughole.

"Now, where's Sephiroth?"

He left his boots at the door and walked on the moon.

The spaceship was on Mars at the time but this mattered not one jot.

It was the long legs of the law that chased the day away from the night, and the angel spat at the lord above the trophy cabinet.

Since spitting is not acceptable behavior, the expectorating angel was immediately zapped, and Martha Stewart, perusing the etiquette book she always carries in her purse, murmured:

"So appropriate".



Sylkat