Last year, I wrote this post using alliteration as the grammar style for telling a fictional holiday party story. Here is this year's alliterative offering.
As Astrid sat askew in her Aston-Martin, she noticed Belinda bobbing along the boardwalk looking catty and coy. Curious, she crept from her car and divulged to the doorman at the department store that she was egregiously erroneous in her earlier efforts to find out what kind of fiddle-faddle Belinda had going on with Fiona. Or was it Frank? "Oh folly," she thought as she found herself standing in front of Friedman's Finery and Fedoras for the Feminine and fought to forget the gorgeous gown their gal pal Georgina had glimmered and glammed in at that gathering of godly whores handing out horehounds to homeless hobos and henchmen at the corner of Islington and Eye Streets in Inglewood over the Ides of Isis.
Justifiably jocular and jovial jurists in jaunty jacquard jackets keep careening into kiosks of candles and condiments meant for moments of mirth and merrymaking. Astrid nudged around them, narrowly kneeing the nincompoops in the nuts. Over on Olmstead, Belinda poked and prodded among posh products with prices positively quoted and quantifiable only to the well-coiffed. Inquiring was considered "quaint" and she resisted. Returning to swanky Ralstonshire Row with its richly-appointed rowhouses, redundant rose redoubts, and upscale-retail-resalers, she saw Astrid sneaking not-so-stealthily between shops of stargazer lilies and mannequins in sweater sets.
Taking a turn toward Tewkesbury, Belinda ran smack on into the arms of Fiona (or was it Frank? She could never tell), tossing all her taciturn and tawdry seasonal sentiments and sappiness straight out the side street with a scream. Fiona Frank yelled, "Darlink! You look mahvelous!" Belinda exhaled and expeditiously exclaimed, "Excellent! Hail Zeus!" Yielding to yuletide yearnings of yore, Astrid broke off pursuit only to be zapped by a zephyr and denuded to reveal a zippy zebra ensemble fit for a zoologist.
The End.
Eh. I think last year's was definitely better...
* * * * *
As Astrid sat askew in her Aston-Martin, she noticed Belinda bobbing along the boardwalk looking catty and coy. Curious, she crept from her car and divulged to the doorman at the department store that she was egregiously erroneous in her earlier efforts to find out what kind of fiddle-faddle Belinda had going on with Fiona. Or was it Frank? "Oh folly," she thought as she found herself standing in front of Friedman's Finery and Fedoras for the Feminine and fought to forget the gorgeous gown their gal pal Georgina had glimmered and glammed in at that gathering of godly whores handing out horehounds to homeless hobos and henchmen at the corner of Islington and Eye Streets in Inglewood over the Ides of Isis.
Justifiably jocular and jovial jurists in jaunty jacquard jackets keep careening into kiosks of candles and condiments meant for moments of mirth and merrymaking. Astrid nudged around them, narrowly kneeing the nincompoops in the nuts. Over on Olmstead, Belinda poked and prodded among posh products with prices positively quoted and quantifiable only to the well-coiffed. Inquiring was considered "quaint" and she resisted. Returning to swanky Ralstonshire Row with its richly-appointed rowhouses, redundant rose redoubts, and upscale-retail-resalers, she saw Astrid sneaking not-so-stealthily between shops of stargazer lilies and mannequins in sweater sets.
Taking a turn toward Tewkesbury, Belinda ran smack on into the arms of Fiona (or was it Frank? She could never tell), tossing all her taciturn and tawdry seasonal sentiments and sappiness straight out the side street with a scream. Fiona Frank yelled, "Darlink! You look mahvelous!" Belinda exhaled and expeditiously exclaimed, "Excellent! Hail Zeus!" Yielding to yuletide yearnings of yore, Astrid broke off pursuit only to be zapped by a zephyr and denuded to reveal a zippy zebra ensemble fit for a zoologist.
The End.
* * * * *
Eh. I think last year's was definitely better...
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