There once was an alien prophet. He regretted being an alien bastard. He regretted coming to earth. And he most definitely regret that the corps just blew up his raggedy ass fleet!!

Oh, there once was a hero named Ragnar the Red, who came riding to Whiterun from old Rorikstead...

A day before his 15th birthday, the son of a wealthy family was asked by his father, "Well my son, what would you like for your birthday?" The son hesitated a moment and his father's thoughts leapt ahead to a new computer and similar things. However, his son had had a new computer only recently and could have a new one any time he wished. Finally, the son said, "Father, I have everything a boy could wish for, but there is one thing I would really like. I would love to have a pink ping pong ball." The father was rather astonished at this wish, but said, "If it is a pink ping pong ball that you want, a pink ping pong ball you shall have." And so, the next day, the son was given as his birthday present a pink ping pong ball. The boy took the ball to his room and the next morning the pink ping pong ball was gone. The father was mildly surprised but decided not to say anything. The pink ping pong ball, however, was never seen again. The next year, a day before his 16th birthday, the father asked his son what he would like for his birthday. "Father," replied the son, "I have everything a boy could possibly wish for, but there is one thing I would really, really like. I would love to have a tenpack of pink ping pong balls." The father was more surprised than the year before, but kept his curiosity at bay, for he knew that his son had a right for privacy. he said therefore, "If it is a tenpack of pink ping pong balls that you want, a tenpack of pink ping pong balls you shall have." And so, the next day, the son was given as his birthday present a tenpack of pink ping pong balls. The boy took the tenpack of balls to his room and the next morning, not a single ball remained, merely the empty husk of the tenpack. The father wondered where ten pink ping pong balls might disappear to, but decided not to say anything. The pink ping pong balls, however, were never seen again. The next year, a day before his 17th birthday, the son was asked by his father what he would like for his birthday. "Father," said the son to this, "I have everything a boy could wish for, but one thing would make my happiness complete. I would dearly want a carton of pink ping pong balls." The father was beyond surprise, but decided to make sure he had not misheard. "A carton of pink ping pong balls?" "A carton of pink ping pong balls," the boy confirmed. "I can't understand your fascination with pink ping pong balls," said the father, "but if it is a carton of pink ping pong balls that you want, it is a carton of pink ping pong balls that you shall have." And so, the next day, the boy was given as his birthday present a carton of pink ping pong balls. The boy was delighted and took the carton to his room. The next day, miraculously (as if by magic, even) the pink ping pong balls had all disappeared. "Dear son," said the father, "I must ask now, what do you do with all those pink ping pong balls?" The son, however, was reluctant to tell him. "Please humor me, dear father." The carton of pink ping pong balls, however, was never seen again. The next year, it was clear that the son would get a car, but the father felt that, perhaps, his son also had some other wish apart from the obvious. So, one day before the son's 18th birthday, the father asked him whether he had a special wish for his birthday. "Dearest father," the son started, "I have everything a young man could possibly want, but there is one craving in me. I would, more than anything, want a warehouse full of pink ping pong balls." One of these years, his father thought, I should get to the bottom of this. However, he decided to humor his son's wish. At least he had been wise enough to buy shares in a pink ping pong ball factory. The next day, the son was given the address of a warehouse where all his new pink ping pong balls were stored. The son was delighted and decided to spend the next night in the warehouse rather than at home. The following morning, the son stepped out of the warehouse, but it seemed to be empty otherwise. The father had a closer look and indeed, apart from empty cardboard boxes, nothing was left inside the warehouse. No pink ping pong balls were left. The following year, one day before the son's 19th birthday, the father braced himself for another warehouse of pink ping pong balls. He asked his son what his deepest desire was and he had not been entirely wrong. "Father, you have made me very happy these last years and this year I ask of you a shipload of pink ping pong balls if at all possible." It was possible, if only because the father had by now bought each and every factory of pink ping pong balls in the country. The next day, the father took his son to the harbor and showed him a huge tanker and told his son that there were millions, billions, trillions of pink ping pong balls in there. "Father," the son said, "You've made me very happy yet again." That night, the son spent on board the tanker. The next morning, not a single of the pink ping pong balls could be found, but the son was happy. A few days before his 20th birthday, however, the son had a terrible road accident and was taken to the hospital. His father visited the young man in hospital. "My dear son! Can I bring you anything to make you feel better?" Weakly, the son sat up in bed. "Father, dearest father, grant me this wish; just one tenpack of pink ping pong balls." The father held his son's hand tightly. "Whatever you wish my son, but I have to give you one condition. Even if it may be embarrassing, I must know what you did with all those pink ping pong balls." "Very well, father, but please indulge me first. I will tell you whatever you wish to know after you have given me the ten pink ping pong balls." The father thought that was fair enough and the next day brought his son the ten asked for pink ping pong balls. The son smiled weakly but seemed too weak to talk. "Son, I leave these pink ping pong balls with you and shall come back tomorrow to ask of you what you have done with all those pink ping pong balls." The son nodded weakly. The next day, less than surprisingly, no pink ping pong balls could be found in the son's hospital room. "Now, my dearest son, apple of my eye, treasure of my life, please tell me what you did with all those pink ping pong balls," the father requested. The son nodded and the father gripped his hand tighter. "I-" the son started and sat up a bit, swallowing with a dry mouth. "I- I-“ Then he died.

John Stalvern waited. The lights above him blinked and sparked out of the air. There were demons in the base. He didn't see them, but had expected them now for years. His warnings to Cernel Joson were not listenend to and now it was too late. Far too late for now, anyway. John was a space marine for fourteen years. When he was young he watched the spaceships and he said to dad "I want to be on the ships daddy." Dad said "No! You will BE KILL BY DEMONS" There was a time when he believed him. Then as he got oldered he stopped. But now in the space station base of the UAC he knew there were demons. "This is Joson" the radio crackered. "You must fight the demons!" So John gotted his palsma rifle and blew up the wall. "HE GOING TO KILL US" said the demons "I will shoot at him" said the cyberdemon and he fired the rocket missiles. John plasmaed at him and tried to blew him up. But then the ceiling fell and they were trapped and not able to kill. "No! I must kill the demons" he shouted The radio said "No, John. You are the demons" And then John was a zombie.

Once there was an ugly barnacle. He was so ugly, that everyone died. The end.

The ugly barnacle

Ok, there once was a camel who fell off a cliff [spoiler]the end[/spoiler]

She breezed into my office one cold September morning. I'd been enjoying a hot cup of Starbuck's finest and surfing the web for local news. The famous lexical semanticist Professor Edgar Nettleston had been found dead, a gunshot wound to the head. The police verdict was suicide. She held out an elegant hand as she floated towards me and I glimpsed a wedding band with a stone the size of a peanut M&M. "I'm Edith Nettleston." "Sorry about the old man." "I'm not. He loved me, but he loved words more. I'll be brief. My husband was working on a paper that will rock the very foundation of lexical semantics. It's worth a fortune in lecture tours, but nobody can find it. I believe his suicide note is a clue to its whereabouts." She removed a scrap of paper from her blouse. "edith. i'm not going to whine, i've had a good life. i've found wealth and happiness as a teacher, a seller of knowledge. but i find myself depressed beyond hope ... and so i'm choosing the hour and manner of my own demise. i have treated you badly. i demanded you dyed your brown curls blonde. i thought i could buy you when i should have won your love. i called you a witch. i'd complain: where's the woman i married? i said you ate too much. if i wanted change, i could have used a carrot rather than a stick. you probably wanted to wring my neck. forgive me. farewell." "It's all written in lower case. My husband was a stickler for correct grammar. I refuse to believe it doesn't mean something." "Mrs. Nettleston, I think I can help you. There's a couple of odd things about this letter. Firstly, as you say, it's written entirely in lower case. Mr. Nettleston was a world-renowned lexical semanticist, not a teenager texting his BFFs." "Secondly, it has a more than usual number of homophones, words where there is another word with the same sound but different spelling and meaning. When dealing with a lexical semanticist, that's surely no accident." < 2 > "If we read those homophones in order, we have: whine, seller, hour, manner. And translating to their homophones: Wine cellar our manor." Several hours later, we arrived at the Nettlestons' country house and immediately headed for the basement. A flip of a light switch revealed tunnels filled with rows of dark bottles. "Where is it? It would take years to search this place." "Not so fast, Mrs. Nettleston. First I have to ask you something: your wedding ring diamond, how large is it? "It's eight carats. Edgar wouldn't stop talking about it." "That's what I feared." I pulled out my trusty revolver. "How you must have hated him and his lexical semantics! You figured you'd kill him and keep the money from the paper yourself. You forced him to write that suicide note, thinking you knew where it was. But he was suspicious and he'd already hidden it. And he had another surprise for you: the rest of the note, it doesn't reveal where the paper is, it reveals his killer. The final homophones: dyed buy won witch where's ate carrot wring. That is: died by one which wears eight carat ring." As the cops left with Mrs. Nettleston I took a quick trip round the maze of tunnels. It didn't take me long to find it. Most of the wine lay unpacked on racks but in one corner two cases sat stacked, one on top of each other. Carefully, I opened the lower one.

ur ghey

Go -blam!- yourself, the end.