Asscrabble.

Kwyjibo

eas81: quizzical

/38
//plus the triple word score.


That blank you had to use for the second Z doesn't have any point value.

It's probably still in the box underneath the old score sheets.

Sybarite: eas81: quizzical

/38
//plus the triple word score.


That blank you had to use for the second Z doesn't have any point value.

True, but bonus for using all the letters.

The sad thing is some of the Asian champs don't speak English and have no idea what the words are that they're spelling.

theknuckler_33: [daviderl.com image 600x428]

To this day whenever I find myself playing Scrabble, which is unfortunately rare, I still find myself repeating "All I've got is consonants".

Can you really be considered the "world champion" when there was only like ten people at the competition?

apiarist: The better article on that page was the fellow who's suing the speed camera cops.

[www.shortlist.com image 615x330]

And was it his wife? Survey says:



"Stopping short? I got a lot of problems with you people!"

It was raining since 1918 and the streets were flooded with water and cars but mostly water since that's what rain seems to be mostly. I was on my second Gin looking forward to a third and a forth and then possibly skipping five and going straight to six. Outside my office, I heard the soft footsteps of someone approaching. I figured it was the landlord looking for back rent. "Beat it, Fleabag," I yelled. "I don't have two nickels to rub together."

But instead of the landlord, in walked a beautiful tall blonde. She was 7 foot 2 with beautiful long blonde tresses arranged neatly in each armpit. She looked at me coolly "It's a sad day with the number one detective in Marshalltown Iowa doesn't have two nickels."

"Well, I keep meaning to go down to the drugstore and break this hundred dollar bill" I said. "But I've been busy. These bathroom tiles won't re-grout themselves."

"Funny you should mention tiles." she said. "I need you to find a tile for me. A special tile."

The rain blasted against the window as she told me her tale of woe. Woe and woefullness. It seems there was a Scrabble tournament in town. It was Marshalltown's moment to shine on the world stage and scandal had come with it. In fact, I had planned to see Scandal just to hear that Warrior number. I'm sure they still play it at all their concerts, but I had decided not to go near the downtown. Not with all the Scrabble Nuts hanging around.

All was not well in the Scrabble Tournament. The final match had run and the winner was a head by 2 points. To the victor go the spoil but the loser was demanding a tile count. Perhaps, you can get away with that at the amateur level. Maybe even at the second tier state tournament level but to pull a tile count at the World Scrabble Tournament in Marshalltown Iowa, one has to be out of ones gourd, medically speaking.

The blonde said that unless the missing tile was found and no fraud was proven to be perpetrated, the World Scrabble Tournament would never be allowed back to Marshalltown. This had the mayor and his minions in an uproar. A 1973 Plymouth Uproar driving around town looking for the piece.

I agreed to take the case of beer from her in payment for my services. She left but the air still hung heavy with that sweet perfume of hers. It was a delightful mix of summer flowers, Ben Gay and Astroglide. A guy could get used to that smell.

I picked up my gun from the gun cleaners and hit the street looking for clues. I hadn't gotten very far when I caught another wiff. This one wasn't nearly as appealing as summer flowers, Ben Gay and/or Astroglide. This was the scent of a man no one wanted to smell: Little Frankie von Weasel.

I turned as peered down the darken alleyway. "Come on out, weasel." I said. I can smell you three ways from Thursday. His shadowy visage appeared but I knew he always preferred the dark. "Oh detective," says he. "I wasn't following you. I'm doing a spec piece for Better Alleys and Hovels."

"Come clean," I said. "Better Alleys and Hovels won't accept unsolicited manuscripts!" And with that, I was at his throat. I wanted to strangle him to death and beyond but the little weasel knew something and I had to get that out of him first. In past experiences, trying to get information out of a person after you've killed him never worked.

"Please detective. I'm no good to you dead. Well, I would make a decent lawn jockey for your front yard but that's about it. I have some clients who seek to keep a missing tile missing. You see, detective, if the tile were to be declared missing, the winner will have to abdicate. Our contestant will win. There is much money to be won should our man win the World Scrabble Tournament. My benefactors will be very generous. Perhaps, the detective would like to join forces. The reward for such an act of loyalty is social fulfillment and getting invited to Hooters on a Friday night. Perchance the detective needs friends and hot wings?"

I cast the slimy weasel back in to the alley. I should have killed him in the second grade when I had the chance. A detective like me has all the friends he could use: Frank at the barber shop who thinks I'm an ASP programmer for Emerson. That's a true friend.

I got down to the convention center just as the Scandal concert was letting out. Everyone was singing "I am the warrior" badly and out of tune just like the band does. For a moment, I wished I could be with them, but being a detective means doing detective things.

The great hall was filled with Scrabble fans and nuts. It was hard to tell them apart. They were demanding the judges award the prize and lines had clearly formed. Half the crowd wanted the winner to get the blue ribbon. The other half was screaming for justice. In the corner, I could see the weasel's monied men. They became anxious at my arrival.

Just then, the Mayor burst in to the room in his Uproar. He saw me and yelled "Detective settle this once and for all. Your city demands it! I walked up to the table where the final match had been. Everything was as it should be. I was surprised to see the judges had allowed "Punkie" . I thought those kinds of nouns were not allowed.

Then the air became saturated with the smell of summer flowers, Ben Gay and Astroglide. I looked out through the crowd and there I saw her: Pinned against the back wall stealing coffee cups from the catering service. My heart wanted to fly to her but it only had valves no wings. Also, if it were to leave me chest, I would surely die. It's something I learned in detective school. Heart plus body = good. Heart - body = no good.

I raised my hand and a hush fell over the crowd crushing several. I said "When I used to play this game, before I got a life, I would cheat by using the blank side of a tile as the wild tile. This game obviously has two wild tiles. The judges rushed to the board. How could they have missed such a thing? One judge shot himself in the head in disgrace. I brushed the blood and brain bits off of me and continued: "Just which tile is the real blank and which one is the fake?"

Someone suggested that I turn both tiles over. I would have arrived at the same conclusion eventually. In a flash, both tiles were turned and there was the missing "G".

The blonde dropped her coffee cups and rushed towards me. Several people were trampled but it was their fault for getting in the way of love. The weasel's money men screamed and fled the building. The Mayor gave me a thumbs up. It was one of the happiest moment in my life.

Weeks later, the tall blonde and I were on a private yacht in a country that doesn't show up on poor peoples maps. She wore a leopard print bikini like that girl in that movie and coyly played with her long blonde pit hair. "Detective, what happened after you discovered the missing tile seems like a blur to me. Who won?"

"The winner was declared the winner and the second winner was declared a loser." I said trying to untie the quarter half hitch knot of her bikini top. "The guy played it just where a G would have gone. He just put it wrong side down wrong. A rookie mistake."

She laughed and the air was filled her sweet sweet smell. "Take me, Detective. Take me like extra coupons at the laundromat."

And I took her like Free Dry and Free Soap Day were one and the same.

Harry Freakstorm: It was raining since 1918 and the streets were flooded with water and cars but mostly water since that's what rain seems to be mostly. I was on my second Gin looking forward to a third and a forth and then possibly skipping five and going straight to six. Outside my office, I heard the soft footsteps of someone approaching. I figured it was the landlord looking for back rent. "Beat it, Fleabag," I yelled. "I don't have two nickels to rub together."

But instead of the landlord, in walked a beautiful tall blonde. She was 7 foot 2 with beautiful long blonde tresses arranged neatly in each armpit. She looked at me coolly "It's a sad day with the number one detective in Marshalltown Iowa doesn't have two nickels."

"Well, I keep meaning to go down to the drugstore and break this hundred dollar bill" I said. "But I've been busy. These bathroom tiles won't re-grout themselves."

"Funny you should mention tiles." she said. "I need you to find a tile for me. A special tile."

The rain blasted against the window as she told me her tale of woe. Woe and woefullness. It seems there was a Scrabble tournament in town. It was Marshalltown's moment to shine on the world stage and scandal had come with it. In fact, I had planned to see Scandal just to hear that Warrior number. I'm sure they still play it at all their concerts, but I had decided not to go near the downtown. Not with all the Scrabble Nuts hanging around.

All was not well in the Scrabble Tournament. The final match had run and the winner was a head by 2 points. To the victor go the spoil but the loser was demanding a tile count. Perhaps, you can get away with that at the amateur level. Maybe even at the second tier state tournament level but to pull a tile count at the World Scrabble Tournament in Marshalltown Iowa, one has to be out of ones gourd, medically speaking.

The blonde said that unless the missing tile was found and no fraud was proven to be perpetrated, the World Scrabble Tournament would never be allowed back to Marshalltown. This had the mayor and his minions in an uproar. A 1973 Plymouth Uproar driving around town looking for the piece.

I agreed to take the case of beer from her in payment for my services. She left but the air still hung heavy with that sweet perfume of hers. It was a delightful mix of summer flowers, Ben Gay and Astroglide. A guy could get used to that smell.

I picked up my gun from the gun cleaners and hit the street looking for clues. I hadn't gotten very far when I caught another wiff. This one wasn't nearly as appealing as summer flowers, Ben Gay and/or Astroglide. This was the scent of a man no one wanted to smell: Little Frankie von Weasel.

I turned as peered down the darken alleyway. "Come on out, weasel." I said. I can smell you three ways from Thursday. His shadowy visage appeared but I knew he always preferred the dark. "Oh detective," says he. "I wasn't following you. I'm doing a spec piece for Better Alleys and Hovels."

"Come clean," I said. "Better Alleys and Hovels won't accept unsolicited manuscripts!" And with that, I was at his throat. I wanted to strangle him to death and beyond but the little weasel knew something and I had to get that out of him first. In past experiences, trying to get information out of a person after you've killed him never worked.

"Please detective. I'm no good to you dead. Well, I would make a decent lawn jockey for your front yard but that's about it. I have some clients who seek to keep a missing tile missing. You see, detective, if the tile were to be declared missing, the winner will have to abdicate. Our contestant will win. There is much money to be won should our man win the World Scrabble Tournament. My benefactors will be very generous. Perhaps, the detective would like to join forces. The reward for such an act of loyalty is social fulfillment and getting invited to Hooters on a Friday night. Perchance the detective needs friends and hot wings?"

I cast the slimy weasel back in to the alley. I should have killed him in the second g ...

*manly tears*

Aidan
Harry Freakstorm: And I took her like Free Dry and Free Soap Day were one and the same.

What the FARK did I just read?

Sorry. It was either that or try and research why some Win2k servers reboot when McAfee 8.7 tries to update. I regret nothing. Except, now the boss wants to know why a stupid Win2k PDC is rebooting.