In a manner pertaining to or particularly resembling President Obama.
I just brushed the dirt off my shoulders, obambastically.
An evening out in Tunbridge Wells, beginning with a comfortable meal folowed by a few quiet drinks and genteel mocking of the locals
DOB took everyone out for a sophisticated evening. They rejected this, got drunk on many shots from Weatherspoons, chased all the people from New Beacon around trying to smash box. Lauara let them all off because it doesn't count if it happens on a night out, DOB brushed any accusations of old age off like a solid turd and tried to smash a teenager.
NAM and Clayton decided to double team some granny from the kebab shop, and Clayton now has to wear an eyepatch due to friendly fire from NAM who has had too many protien shakes.
Sophisticated - we know the real meaning!
|80.||Travelling Shovel Of Death|
Some say it thirsts for blood; others say it is an innocent implement forced to do the bidding of murderous fiends. A disturbingly recurrent murder weapon, the Travelling Shovel Of Death appears in multiple different mediums (Usually novels), wherin it is featured murdering an innocent victim.
Henry knew his street well, but he didn't like it. The parameters stretched; the shadows hid secrets; the wind, ever restless, tossed the cloaks of strangers who glared from street corners. But he was sure in his safety. He knew the number of steps to his doorway. He knew where to lift his feet a little higher to avoid tripping on sidewalk cracks hidden in the dark. He knew who to avoid - at least he thought he did, in his naiveté.more...
A cat was waiting on his doorstep, that night. Dark, soft fur, long legs and a thrumming purr, yellow eyes glinting with reflections of far-off streetlights.
It smiled, sharp, glistening teeth ever white against the shadow of its fur.
In 42 years, Henry had never once seen a cat smile. Perhaps a trick of the light, or an illusion, he thought. Or maybe not. He knelt, looking the cat in the eyes.
It smiled at him, wider.
A shadow moved; soft leather brushed against carpet, and a coat loosened its folds. "You're drunk again," said the voice. "Do you know, Henry, how much I dislike drunks?"
The cat hadn't moved; Henry glanced to the side, and caught a glance of soft brown shoes.
"Mr Woon," he slurred. "Ian. Mate. I just..."
Mr Woon smiled at him; a slow, langorious smile, not unlike that of his cat.
Then slowly, deliberately, he rested the shovel's tip on Henry's neck.
"I dislike drunks very much, Henry," he whispered.
Then he put his foot on the travelling shovel of death, and pushed down.
A woman that exhibits all the outward characteristics of a lesbian, such as short hair, curt speech and masculine clothing, but is actually heterosexual.
Hey dude, see that carpet muncher over there? She just brushed me off.
No man, that's no carpet muncher, she's a dyke-alike. Looks like a dyke on the outside, hetero on the inside.