Bored. Bored bored bored bored bored!
I can hear you all becoming a bit nervous by that. A bored Owen is a dangerous Owen.
“What will he do,” you might wonder. “Will he invent some horrible new toothbrushing device that irradiates plaque while it leaves your breath minty fresh?”
“Or perhaps he shall subject us to a literary analysis of Vogon poetry! We all know that he has been in strange adventures. It would not surprise us if he has met real Vogons and has samples of their work for just an occasion.”
“Or maybe he will show us a video of himself riding a unicycle while playing the William Tell Overture on the harmonica … actually that could be quite amusing! I hope that he does that one!”
Nope. Sorry. None of these are the case, although I will keep them in mind for the future. No, today my boredom has encouraged me to enter the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest. I have already written an entry and sent it in! Would you like to see it? No? Well, too bad. Here it is anyway!
Bertha flounced and flolloped, all flash and flare, as she twinkled prettily into her father’s eyes and daintily floated into his lap in a manner that a two hundred fifty-seven pound transvestite would find difficult to reproduce without the use of heavy machinery, wires, and years of training as she cooed sweetly and coquetishly into his cauliflower ears, “where did the dog get that femur, Papa.”