Predict the Death of the Previous Poster

Miscellaneous and Personal Stuff I Must Share
461

pervert and Blaster were playing a friendly game of cribbage one day, amiably dealing, discarding, pegging and counting hands. But Blaster started to wonder after a while: how did pervert always seem to anticipate what cards he was likely to play? Blaster’s hands weren’t that bad, but pervert was whipping the tar out of him on pegging, and if the tide didn’t turn soon, Blaster was going to get skunked!

Blaster began to lose his concentration as he puzzled over this, and blew a couple of hands with bad discards, which flustered him even more. He was just about to suggest they call it a game when he noticed that pervert was glancing at a spot just over Blaster’s left shoulder. This happened again… and again. Blaster pretended he had to scratch his left lower cheek, as an excuse to rise up a bit and swivel leftward.

AHA!!! So that was why pervert had offered him that particular chair – there was a mirror behind it, angled just enough so that pervert could see his opponent’s hand! Blaster roared with outrage, leaped to his feet, and drew his Colt .45. In his haste, his gun-holding hand smacked into the table, overturning it. His trigger finger jerked at the impact, firing a bullet that smashed into the metal base of the table.

By one of those amazing coincidences that seem to happen with uncanny frequency on the SDMB, the bullet hit the edge of the metal base as it was midway through its falling-over arc. The sharp edge of the base split the bullet in half lengthwise, and the two halves ricocheted upward – one into pervert’s evil heart, and the other into Blaster’s hot head.

A few minutes later, Ale entered the room to find the two opponents dead in a welter of blood. " :eek: " he shrieked – “That’s my new carpet you’ve bled all over!” He ran toward the kitchen to get something to blot up the worst of the gore, slipped in a bloodspatter on the tiles, and slid headfirst into the refrigerator, which toppled over on him, crushing him to death.

462

EddyTeddyFreddy took one last glance at her house as she drove off to work on February 19,2005.

“I really must clean those gutters soon,” she thought. Arriving at the office, her evil manager bellowed out: “ETF! Where is that proposal? It was due 2 minutes ago!”

ETF paused briefly and considered the situation. Death by security guards/satisfaction from imbedding letter opener into upper management idiot’s neck OR clean the gutters.

All of ETF’s critters attended her funeral, and were most appreciative of the $10 million life insurance policy.

463

Blonde dies at the age of 97 in the arms of her great-granddaughter´s personal trainer, Armando.

464

Ale was walking in the woods one cool Autumn day when he came upon a interesting and unusual cave at the base of his most favorite mountain. He’d climbed the towering giant many a time, as he was wont to do for the sheer exhilarating joy of it, never before noticing that the mountainside had a cave.

Now this cave was something he just HAD to explore since he’d never tried spelunking and Ale figured himself to be a man of many talents. This could not go untried! He was a manly man and this was what manly men did. He didn’t have the proper gear handy but he wasn’t too concerned. He’d stop before he got into a tight spot, oh, yes he would.

He gazed into the entrance, squatting down as he did, and seeing nothing to block his way, shuffled inside. He hunched over a bit because the cave’s ceiling wasn’t tall enough for him to stand but he wasn’t too concerned. He was a manly man, after all. He surveyed his surroundings with a keen eye. In a small crevice, he spied a rotting bag of some unknown hide, tied with a frayed rope. He shuffled over to it slowly and that it looked quite old. The bag was decaying and as soon as he touched it, the hide fell apart revealing a hefty pile of gold. GOLD! He had found gold!

Ale wanted to jump for joy! He couldn’t do it without hitting his head on the low ceiling of the cave so in his mind, he jumped and skipped like a little girl on holiday! GOLD! He could now buy the house of his dreams, he could now buy the five ferraris he had wanted ever since he’d turned 16! he could now do anything he wanted! He was R-I-C-H! He sang and beamed, and skuttled about in the cave so happily. He scooted out of the cave on his butt, holding the gold in his shirt, laughing like a drunken fool. GOLD!

Ale stood squinting in the bright sunlight and grinned. What to do first? He pondered a moment then headed back down the trail to where he’d parked his truck. He began running in his excitement and as he rounded a bend, he tripped on a tree root and the gold went flying! OH NO! He got to his hands and knees and gathered up the gold, trying not to lose any of it, cursing the root that had almost broken a bone or two. He found every last piece of his treasure and tried to stand but cried out as a terrible pain shot through his ankle. FUDGE! That hurt!

Ale sat back down to think about his predicament. Here he had all this gold and he couldn’t walk. He couldn’t make it to his truck or call for help because no one knew he had gone walking in the forest. Shoot! What was he going to do? He eyed the shining bounty nestled in the makeshift net of his untucked shirt and frowned. He was NOT going to leave this gold! NO way in hell! This would make all his dreams come true, darn it all. He though he’d take a few moments and rest, maybe his ankle wouldn’t hurt in a little while and he could resume the hike to his vehicle.

He waited and waited. He tried standing again and the pain was worse! He sat back down and frowned even more. H was NOT leaving this gold! He waited and waited some more. The afternoon grew long shadows and the chill was starting to settle into his body but he couldn’t walk. Ale sat and sat, waited and waited, and after an hour tried his ankle again. The pain ripped through his poor ankle like knives! He whimpered and plopped down again.

The afternoon was fading fast and it was getting cold. He thought about crawling down the trail and tried to gather up his shirt so he could use his hands and knees but some of the gold fell out and he snatched it up with a frenzy! This wasn’t going to work and he became angry. Shoot! FUDGE! DARN IT ALL! He’d have to stay the night where he was and try again in the morning. At least he had a long-sleeved shirt on and some thick jeans to ward off the worst of the cold. He settled back against a tree and went to sleep.

The sun rose early, the light waking Ale as soon as it touched the tips of the trees. He shivered and tried to stretch but his muscles were too cold. He ended up renewing all of the pain in his ankle and MORE when he tried to stand again. It was no use. He’d have to wait some more, let his ankle heal.

This went on for several days. Chilly days and cold nights, with no food or water, slumped against the very tree that had tripped him (stupid tree!) and caused this whole mess. He was getting weaker by the hour but whenever he tried to stand, his ankle would scream out its misery throughout his leg and he’d fall down again in agony. He was so hungry, so thirsty but he would not give up his gold! He’d be able to buy a FEAST as soon as he got to his truck and got back into town, darn it all. He just had to wait a little longer for his ankle to heal.

He waited and waited, the nights growing colder with the coming of winter, his body getting weaker and weaker as he waited but he still had his gold. One morning, Ale was too tired to even open his eyes. He felt the weight of his treasure in his lap and all was good. He. Still. Had. His. Gold…

The snows fell heavy that year, the forest was a winter wonderland of pure white. The trails were marked closed because the snows had been so heavy, much to the dismay of the townsfolk who wanted to cut down their very own Christmas trees for the merriest of seasons. And so, the forest remained untouched, the winter stayed long… but Ale still had his gold.

465

Tries to swallow but the salive stucks on his windpipe

:eek:

466

SanguineSpider was obsessed with Ale. He was all she could think about. Day after day, night after night (oh, the nights…) she dreamed of being wrapped in his manly arms, his tender kisses, his sweet caresses…

At last, she couldn’t stand being apart from him any longer. Not that she’d ever met him, of course, except on the SDMB, but the ideal Ale that dominated her every waking hour was worth throwing over her whole life for. So SanguineSpider sold everything she owned and booked passage on the next flight to Montevideo.

Meanwhile, Ale, oblivious to the determined huntress winging her way toward him, found himself at the airport, seeing off an old friend who’d come to visit from Paraguay. He waved goodbye as his friend boarded the plane, then headed back to his car for the trip home.

SanguineSpider peered out the window of the plane as it circled the airport, then dropped its landing gear and began its descent. She was so excited she didn’t notice at first the shuddering of the plane, or the suddenly erratic sound of an engine. It was the captain’s voice on the intercom, warning the passengers to brace for an emergency landing, that brought her thudding back to reality – that and the sound of all the engines on one side of the plane abruptly falling silent.

SanguineSpider gripped the armrest of her seat in terror as the plane wavered, banked, and veered off from its course toward the rurnway. She and the other passengers began to shriek as the pilots lost their struggle to control the mighty aircraft, and it rolled over to its side and plummeted down, down, down!

With a horrific crash, the plane slammed into the airport parking lot and burst into flames. Some of the passengers, though badly injured, were able to struggle free of the wreckage and stagger away from the plane. Among them was SanguineSpider, who lurched away from the disaster just as the fuel still in the plane’s tanks exploded into flames that began to snake along the rivulets of fuel spreading over what was left of the parking lot.

Dazed, confused, in terrible pain from two broken arms, SanguineSpider felt a tiny flicker of hope. She’d survived! She’d live to see her love Ale after all! She took a few more steps toward the rescue workers rushing toward her, then – WHAM!!! was run over by Ale’s car as he attempted to flee the flames spreading through the parking lot.

The collision with SanguineSpider stopped Ale’s car dead. Ale was flung into the windshield and knocked unconscious. The rescue workers tried to reach his vehicle, but the flaming trail of fuel reached it first, and the car burst into flames, immolating Ale and SanguineSpider. Never together in life, they became ashes together in death.

467

EddyTeddyFreddy once tried to reopen a three-year-old thread.

The Moderators tore her into no fewer than 672 pieces, according to the inquiry held shortly thereafter.

468

Governor Quinn will be walking along a favorite biking/walking/rollerblading path near the river, enjoying a beautiful summer day. Suddenly, Governor Quinn will spot a Coca Cola dispensing machine. After spending at least two minutes trying to determine just which soda will hit the spot at that moment, Governor Quinn decides to partake in the ever-so-classic and utterly refreshing Coca-Cola.

Lo and behold, upon checking pockets (a little-too-quickly), an ever-present fanny-pack, and the nearby ground, Governor Quinn finds that there is no change to be had which will allow the purchase of a can of that oh-so-sweet nectar. Ignoring the sticker on the machine that announces

TIPPING OR ROCKING MAY CAUSE INJURY OR DEATH

Governor Quinn decides that said sticker is merely a poor attempt by The Coca-Cola Company to ward off those who are “in the know” about the tactics of getting free cans of cola, Governor Quinn decides that a good Tipping or Rocking is exactly what the machine needs, an activity that is presumed to result in the dispensing of one cool, refreshing cola beverage.

After placing the fingers of each hand on an appropriate location of the machine that will allow for maximum leverage, Governor Quinn begins to Tip and Rock, eagerly awaiting one Coca-Cola (Wheaties be damned, we all know C-C is the real breakfast of champions). At the very moment that the machine leans forward and Governor Quinn believes that the fluid gem, surrounded by aluminum painted the color of a deep, earthly sapphire is about to be liberated, the apparatus lets out a horrific groan. Governor Quinn, realizing that the inertia has carried the machine a little farther forward than intended, struggles to break free of its hold. Indeed, the promise of one free can of Coca-Cola has a greater grip upon the Tipper and Rocker than the Tipper and Rocker has upon the machine.

The machine, at the mercy of that bitch we know as gravity, leans forward, as though struggling to hear Governor Quinn whisper, “oh, shit” ever so quietly. Newton’s discovery takes its hold and the monstrosity that belches out that liquid sugar and acid succumbs, like it ever had any choice.

It is ten minutes before passers-by realize that the limbs poking out from the sides of the machine are not of the same variety as those jokingly placed ones of fabric and stuffing which sometimes stick out from the trunk lids of the more macabre of our society-mates.

The paramedics, upon their arrival, while able to move the machine lying atop Governor Quinn like a 900-pound lover resting after a monstrous climax, are not able to revive Governor Quinn. They are, however, blessed with $1.00 in quarters, knocked from deep within Governor Quinn’s left, front pocket, hidden below that old gum wrapper and a grocery-shopping list. The paramedics plug the change into the re-righted mechanism, and choose a cool, refreshing Coca-Cola to quench their thirst as they mourn the passing of another potential recipient of the ever-coveted Darwin Awards.

469

Standup Karmic dies a horrible death, shredded into an unrecognizable pile of human spaghetti by the helplessly flailing claws of a tri-cat hysterical with laughter at Governor Quinn’s masterly demise.

470

ETF, realizing that she has predicted so many deaths there are no more left, and everyone is dead, (except me, because I’m the one writing this, and also I have a pretty good-sized bag of raw carrots and whole-wheat bread here on the offchance that i get locked in an Italian pastry shop,) decides she has no other purpose in life and subsequently commits suicide in a non-accident involving three rogue aardvarks and a band saw.

471

BellaDellaItalia was overjoyed at the inventiveness and creativity her “Death” thread was promoting within the ranks of her fellow Dopers but her tummy could not handle the stresses she was putting on it by all her guffawing and hardy-har-har-ing and so the poor, little thing expired, thusly taking her with it into the gloomy depths of death.

We all will surely miss the originator of one of the better and long-lasting threads around the boards! Who’d have ever thought that such a dreary thread would “live” so long?

472

SanguineSpider died laughing at the “Vomit” thread as she was posting. Her death was messy and short but full of good humor, as a thread about vomit should be. You see? Not all her posts are about SEX…

473

SanguineSpider had a date with imminent disaster,

In a grocery store, someone else’s cart, came hurtling a’past her.

She turned to clout, the stupid lout, that let it roam so free,

But she turned too quick, and then she slipped, and opened her skull on a hardened brie.

474

Standup Karmic thought that he could cheat the railroads by riding on top of a train.

As was inevitable, he lost his grip once the train reached speed, and fell underneath the wheels.

475

Governor Quinn was at a Caribbean resoirt, enjoying all the delights of his escape from winter. He decided to try out parasailing one fine sunny day. He’d never done it before, but what the heck? It looked easy enough. So off he went to the beach where the parasailing towboats were, paid their price, got hooked up, and… up, up, UP!!!

What a fabulous feeling, to soar so high over the beach and shore, looking down on all the tiny boats and people and cabanas! It was so wonderful, Governor Quinn never even noticed the water spout that reared up out of nowhere – not until it slammed into him and swirled him down the drain into a watery grave.

476

ETF was sitting on her couch watching Friends when her little sister walked in, sobbing.

“What’s wrong, JerryBerryCarry?” she asked.

The girl sat down on the couch and began to tell a sniffle-filled story about how she broke up with her boyfriend last month, and then told him she wanted to go back out, and he said yes, and she said to wait a week, and he said okay, and she said okay, and then he made out with 5 girls, and she broke down crying at the school dance.

ETF felt an adrenaline rush that you only get when your little sister’s heart is crushed into bite-sized pieces, then put through a sawmill, then put into a berlap sack and blown up by a suicide bomber.

She wanted to—no, had to—do something. So, after comforting JBC, she said she knew exactly what to do. “First, we’re going to the Godiva warehouse,” said ETF, “And then, we’re going to dump a truckload of gravel in his driveway!”

JBC smiled, knowing her sister was fully serious. If there was two things ETF would never kid about, they were chocolate and gravel. Oh yeah, and JBC. Can’t forget JBC.

So that’s exactly what they did, and after eating twelve times their body weight in chocolate truffles, and renting the dump truck from the guy in the orange jumpsuit, I’m pleased to report JerryBerryCarry was feeling much better.

“You’re the best, ETF,” she said, her eyes shining as they rolled down Route 31 in the truck, now devoid of gravel. “Thanks, sis. I do have experience with renting dump trucks from inmates.”

It was at that moment they noticed they were surrounded by helicopters and police cars, their lights flashing wildly like a disco reunion gone horribly wrong.

ETF drowned trying to escape from jail with an inflatable raft in a crocodile moat.

477

BellaDellaItalia probably should have picked an shorter and easier-to-say user name.

When she went into the Secret Lair of Cecil Adams (located inside the offices of the Chicago Reader), she was ordered to identify herself by the guard, Ed Zotti.

She panicked, and got tongue-tied.

As a result of this, Zotti terminated her with extreme prejudice.

478

Governor Quinn was so excited about the capture of Saddam that he ran outside and started firing his gun straight up in the air. Alas, one of the bullets came straight back down and straight through his skull …

479

…Which was still a better fate than that of Ponder Stibbons, who celebrated by lighting firecrackers. Alas and alack, those firecrackers were in fact sticks of dynomite, and Ponder went out with a bang.

480

Governor Quinn was captured by invading Aliens. They did the usual experiments, but while escaping the UFO, he forgot it flew 11 miles high. He felt to death and the farmer who saw him making a hole in his farmland said: “Naah, not another one”