Deep and hidden, it bided unbidden, in its strange amusement park lair ridden with lice, mice, gnats, bats and other scummy kinds of crap.
The Grunch screeched and it hooted, it retched and it pooted, in triumphant gloom it gloated, all had gone to plan. It's long-bore, twice-sworn, hell-storm of a vengeance against all things 'Cute' and 'Funny' had struck critical success, by perverting contest, leaving all involved distressed, just as plotted. A kind benefactor, an unknown cunny detractor, had meddled and muddled, the befuddled growing ruddy as riddled, as their best attempts to kid diddle, were reduced to a piddle of pining for prompts with premature princesses and lads.
Now that the Grunch's grim hunch, that it's personal grudge against the whole bunch, could be clutched with no fuss, it cackled and huffed. The Grunch's eternal war against youth and innocence, playful, carefree, young-bodied sinfulness, had caused the crumple of Cunnymas due to its influence, it gloated. How could the cheer of youth endure, under the perjure of war, the crucible were all childishness perished?
Now all that remained, for the green, gangling, malformed, intersex, goblin-thing, was to flood the field with his follies and fanciful fictions. Verdant, velour, covered claw pawed numbly at a sprawl, of half-baked and droll, poorly-written and dull, over-hyphenated and bawd, voraciously, salaciously, it scrawled, context-carnivorously, its sentences sprawled, foul forces involved, until no longer could it stall. The Grunch hunched on its paunch, it punched at the launch, of yet another story prompt successfully botched.
Its first tawdry, bawdry, ignoble and strangely smelling-of-bad-laundry writing went thus:"