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With the recent disappearances of Amolitor, Derrel, and Unpopular it's lead me to do some investigation of my own. What you're about to read is based on true events.
The air didn't smell right. Kind of like dead fish almost. Something wasn't right. I was at work, on TPF, in my favorite pair of slacks (and only pair) and realized I hadn't seen a sentence ended by an arbitrary comma, lately. So where was Amolitor, I thought?
I could hear the pounding rain on the roof of my building. A cascade of water slid down my office window, almost as though the world was crying a sad melody. The mood suited, so I poured some 12 year old scotch, neat. I closed the door, turned off the light and loosened my suspenders. I ventured over to the Black and White gallery. The weather had me in a somber mood, I needed to see some tonally constricted B&W's to cheer me up; but no luck. So where was Unpopular? He couldn't be gone, too? I was nervous. I sing when I get nervous. I was still singing loudly as I stumbled out to the street .
I hailed a cab. As I waited in the rain I noticed the clouds were particularly dark, menacing almost, like they were mocking me. I waved the bottle in the air and screamed. The wind seemed to whisper chilling things: Amolitorrrrrrr, Popullarrrrrr. I was damp to the bone. What happened to them? I had to know.
No cab would pick me up, probably because my city wasn't large enough to have a cab system. So I walked home in the rain. The torrential downpour. It soaked me, but also hid my tears. The scotch warmed me.
I made it to my flat. I shed my clothes like they were going back into style and sat naked at the PC. The scotch arm was light, and it lifted with ease to my lips. I logged into TPF.
I needed to see a good portrait. Just one good portrait. I knew it would lift my spirits-- it would bring me from this sadness. People Photography. TPF. I was there as fast as you could say Jenny Craig. I opened the first thread I saw. A twinkle in my eye. Like it was Christmas of '72 again because I knew I was getting a Red Ryder. It was a portrait of a nice woman. A nice portrait. But it was shot in horizontal orientation... I peruse the comments, an anticipatory grin across my face. But something was wrong. Very, very wrong. I start breathing heavily (asthma). Comment #30 goes by. Then comment #45. Then comment #47. Where is Derrel? WHERE IS DERREL???
The end.
The air didn't smell right. Kind of like dead fish almost. Something wasn't right. I was at work, on TPF, in my favorite pair of slacks (and only pair) and realized I hadn't seen a sentence ended by an arbitrary comma, lately. So where was Amolitor, I thought?
I could hear the pounding rain on the roof of my building. A cascade of water slid down my office window, almost as though the world was crying a sad melody. The mood suited, so I poured some 12 year old scotch, neat. I closed the door, turned off the light and loosened my suspenders. I ventured over to the Black and White gallery. The weather had me in a somber mood, I needed to see some tonally constricted B&W's to cheer me up; but no luck. So where was Unpopular? He couldn't be gone, too? I was nervous. I sing when I get nervous. I was still singing loudly as I stumbled out to the street .
I hailed a cab. As I waited in the rain I noticed the clouds were particularly dark, menacing almost, like they were mocking me. I waved the bottle in the air and screamed. The wind seemed to whisper chilling things: Amolitorrrrrrr, Popullarrrrrr. I was damp to the bone. What happened to them? I had to know.
No cab would pick me up, probably because my city wasn't large enough to have a cab system. So I walked home in the rain. The torrential downpour. It soaked me, but also hid my tears. The scotch warmed me.
I made it to my flat. I shed my clothes like they were going back into style and sat naked at the PC. The scotch arm was light, and it lifted with ease to my lips. I logged into TPF.
I needed to see a good portrait. Just one good portrait. I knew it would lift my spirits-- it would bring me from this sadness. People Photography. TPF. I was there as fast as you could say Jenny Craig. I opened the first thread I saw. A twinkle in my eye. Like it was Christmas of '72 again because I knew I was getting a Red Ryder. It was a portrait of a nice woman. A nice portrait. But it was shot in horizontal orientation... I peruse the comments, an anticipatory grin across my face. But something was wrong. Very, very wrong. I start breathing heavily (asthma). Comment #30 goes by. Then comment #45. Then comment #47. Where is Derrel? WHERE IS DERREL???
The end.
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