The 2007 SJ Anyone-Can-Do-This Summer Novel--Beta Version

Let's try something new, just for fun.

We've had some unbelievably great summer novels, but let's face it, some of those posts take hours to create, and poor BYH can only do so much.We need to get him some help.

So here's a new concept, anyone can do this, fast and easy:

One sentence.

Each contribution must be one sentence long. You can create the longest run-on sentence ever--dashes, ellipses, semicolons, whatever--but you get one sentence to move the story along.

No more saving your place, if someone sentences before you, you need to rewrite.

And your sentence cannot be 'The End.'

And if it sucks, it can't be worse than some our previous efforts. Altho I will cherish Terry and Shanna and that slutty nurse Bianca from the steroid lab forever.

And so.....the 2007 SJ One-Sentence-At-A-Time Summer Novel. Beta Version.

 

'Hello,' he lied, hoping she realized the stains on his pants were the result of sitting on his chocolate chip muffin in the pressbox, and not a horrifying inability to manage the pint of tequila and seventeen jalapeno shooters from the night before.

 

He was so hungover, he was unsure if he would be able to yank himself a boner that night.

 

Across the room, hard by the pretzel bowl, Glenda, the AP photo intern, stroked a long lens thoughtfully, and thought of the night before.

 

Glenda couldn't shake the thoughts of a co-worker engaging in a tawdry act of debauchery: gay bathroom sex.

 

Little did she know that her newspaper's decision to go to unisex bathrooms as part of a broader package of cutbacks would have such titillating--not to mention sticky--results.

 

On top of that, she sat on the toilet and yelled in disgust at the top of her lungs after realizing she sat on a glob of male ejaculation juice.

 

Sorry 21, but this is going to struggle as long as everyone thinks they're more hilarious than they really are.

She smiled, but it was the uneasy, hesitant smile of a cautious, yet hopeful stranger, the kind a church-goer would give before reaching across the pew to join hands in prayer.

 

In reply, across the room, Ranier, the writer whose pants were soiled, could not stop wondering why the bathroom door had suddenly opened without allowing him the proper time to clean up after himself.

 

"Hey, kid," said Walter, the sweaty AP photographer who looked like a walking blob of bacon grease and smelled like downtown Tirana, "toss me those proofs, will ya?"