‘Huh,’ thought Mahmoud. ‘If I somehow managed to put one over there in the corner. Let me just try to make my way round the sofa here… no, it’s too narrow.’ Not that he was fat or anything. Quite to the contrary, Mahmoud was a tiny man whose shoulders seemed to shrink into his stomach, and his khaki shorts looked like a tent looming over his matchstick-sized legs.

He abandoned his project for a bit — he was trying to find a spot for one of the 450+ 40-inch domino blocks he had ordered a couple of months back — and he started jumping up and down the sofa, trying to think clearer. He had this notion that if he was moving around, his brain cells would be more active and subsequently he would make better judgments, which was very important. Not just to him, mind you. After all, he was the head of state, and anything he could do to keep his mind sharp was required, even if it looked kind of funny. He used to remove light bulbs from lamps and stick his finger in the bulb hole for the same purpose, but he had to stop doing that after a couple of unfortunate experiences.

A couple of minutes later he had forgotten all about what he was supposed to think about, and he went into the kitchen to relieve himself and to have a bite of lettuce.

(A text based on a writing exercise generated by WriteThis -20.06.2009 12:46:25)

The judge sat back in his deep leather chair and took a deep breath. He was confused. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t bring himself to understand what the hell this was all about. He wasn’t a technical person. He and his TIVO weren’t on talking terms. He didn’t know how to program his alarm clock. In fact, he didn’t even know how to pay his bills on the internet — his wife took care of all that stuff. ‘I couldn’t even tell a Goggle from a freakin’ torrent,’ he thought to himself, laughing at what he realised was probably a ridiculous comparison, surely complete and utter nonsense. He shook his head silently. Let’s go over this thing once more.

‘So,’ he thought,  ‘the industry claims that this lady has cost them millions of dollars by giving other people access to her music by uploading files to the internet.’ He didn’t really get a grip on the nature of this “uploading” business, and he was too embarrassed to ask anyone about it, but in his mind he assumed it meant that the defendant had created a “hyperbolelink” on her computer so that other people could gain access to her machine and copy music to their machines. ‘Kinda like givin’ away the keys to your house, inviting anyone to come and go as they please,’ he reckoned. ‘Dumb, but hardly illegal. For fuck’s sake — I don’t think IKEA would ever sue you for giving thugs access to your living room furniture. Not that IKEA chairs reproduce themselves by human touch… Nah don’t matter, you can leave your stuff wherever you want to, even if it’s links on the interwebs. Nothin’ wrong with that. She bought the links… no…. the files, and she can do whatever she wants with ‘em.’ Or could she?

(A text based on a writing exercise generated by WriteThis - 20.06.2009 01:55:21)

I looked at the worn piece of paper lying in front of her. I knew it was kind of silly to hold on to a stupid ticket because of events that took place almost 15 years ago, but there it was. I had kept it in my wallet throughout most of my adult life, and now, finally, it was lying in front of the woman who once inspired me to save it.

I wish I could say that she was touched by my everlasting devotion to our long lost love affair, but she looked terrified and ready to run at a moment’s notice. I didn’t understand her reaction then, but in retrospect I have to admit that it was probably an odd thing to do on my part. After all, we hadn’t seen each other in a very long time and, in addition to showing every sign of being a desperate, lonely stalker,  I acted as if we had never been apart and immediately went into the defensive state of a perpetually forlorn lover and started asking all kinds of aggressive questions about things which she had long forgotten.

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 18.06.2009 09:35:49)

Yup, it’s now a writer’s blog. Just another way to keep up on my English, I guess. Or boredom.

I didn’t exactly have high expectations when I went to the party that evening. I had met mr. Lindell on several occasions before and I didn’t look forward to seeing him again.

He was an awful person. A greedy and ruthless man with very little on his mind besides himself, money, and suspiciously well-shaped 25-year-old girls. If you couldn’t assist him in some of these aspects, you were basically air to the mighty mr. Lindell.

This meant that to get his attention, you either had to lick his ass shamelessly and give him promises you ultimately wouldn’t be able to keep, or you could confront him bluntly — that is, threaten to take something away from him.

At precisely eight o’clock, the usher rang his bell and people got seated. I ended up sitting next to a 60-year old former beauty queen who apparently had some serious issues with her facial expressions.

(Based on an exercise generated by WriteThis - 17.06.2009 22:45:40)

Yup, it’s now a writer’s blog. Just another way to keep up on my English, I guess. Or boredom.