I woke late on Sunday morning in an empty bed. I’d been dreaming of a little–how can I say it–Sunday morning fun. A vile aroma drifting through the house told me there would be no chance for that.
I staggered to the bathroom, grabbed coffee in the kitchen, and went to the garage. Sam leaned over a battered desk in the slanting sun of early morning pouring in the open door, scraping at the gooey paint stripper that covered the desk top.
Please leave a comment with your first 50 words on the topic “stripper.”
It is still difficult to believe this.
A young girl who grew up with my daughter. I thought of them still as children
Beautiful girl
Looked older then her young teen years.
A few years later
A trip to the big city.
Looking through ads.
There she was.
A stripper.
You know what the bloody hell you are.
I own a company that’s run by value-based management, built from 360-degree feedback. On my watch, we have the ambition to deliver world-class financial performance and be acknowledged as a value exemplar.
Bollocks, that just means you are an old-fashioned asset stripper.
I posted 50 words on “stripper” and they must have been stripped away because I can’t post them again. It says they are already posted but where? Stripper, striper must have followed the pied piper, or Mary’s little lamb simply went wham, as whey and curds wasted in 50 words.
Granny Annie, I don’t know what to tell you about this. I don’t have any comments waiting for moderation, so I can’t imagine what became of it. Sorry it didn’t work.
Thanks. Don’t count these words, I’m trying to fake out the system. Here’s my 50.
The tuxedo caught the job interviewer off guard. The applicant was over dressed. Before the interviewer could begin the questions, the applicant made one quick movement, shed his breakaway tuxedo and began to gyrate in his Speedo.
“No” the interviewer yelled, “We need a highway line striper not a stripper!”