Annika and Charlene tie for second place, and Sunflowerfairy comes in a close third! Prizes will be arriving by mail, so never mind that funny ticking sound you hear coming from the box.
Archive for Contest
First, I would like to say THANK YOU! to all who participated in the Fuckling Contest. Each and every one of you is now my best friend. We should totally have a slumber party and paint each other’s nails. And you would all fit in my tiny house, too, because there aren’t that many of you.
Here are the entries, in the order received.
Fuckling—it’s what’s for dinner
By Laurie Ann
“Fuckling” is a dish one would make for a special occasion. It’s definitely not a meal you’d want to eat every day, but for those romantic evenings with your special guy, nothing beats a tender, juicy fuckling.
Sadly, single gals don’t have occasion to enjoy this meal very often. Finding a good fuckling can be time-consuming and preparation is exhausting. Fortunately, Stuffer’s understands.
Introducing Stuffer’s Tender Roasted Fuckling–now available in a single, yet generous, serving size. Check your grocer’s freezer today!
The Story of a Fuckling
I had grand plans for this fuckling’s introduction.
MAKE WAY FOR FUCKLINGS
A pilot downed in the Sahara and confronted by a small boy who appears out of nowhere and demands,
“If you please, draw me a fuckling.”
But in the end, this fuckling’s history is not nearly so literary.
Rather, (s)he was born of a sleepless night and an afternoon’s delight, mothered by Lamb’s Pride and fathered by a crochet hook, size f.
[This Fuckwad came without a biography, but I think we all know its history. – ed.]
Fuckling is the urban slang term for a cupling – Get it? “Coupling” = cupling? This fuckling is Mistress Whatsherbutt. She’s very forgetful and a little messy, but she’s very generous with the tea in her teacup. She, by the way, would like you to come over for a tea party tomorrow. Please RSVP.
Fire Truckling was born in Conflagration, Ohio. Rumors began to spread immediately.
Hello! My name is Yoshik Fucklinovich, and I am coming to you live today from the home of Uccellina, where the minutes are ticking away until the midnight deadline for all Fuckling Contest entries. The tension is thick in the air here, as entrants scramble frantically to finish their projects and send them in.
With me here is Gawain DePounce. Mr. DePounce, do you have any comment on this contest? Mr. DePounce? Comment?
Mr. DePounce, please don’t bite me. Sir. Please.
Excuse me, Mr. DePounce, but that is not – hey – hey, stop! What are you – Auggh! No! Not the face! Bad cat! Bad!
Back to you in the studio, Uccellina.
Thanks, Yoshik. This has been a brief reminder of the upcoming deadline for Fuckling Contest entries, which is midnight tonight.
Unless, of course, you get them to me by tomorrow afternoon. Say around three.
As you’ve probably noticed, this is a light blogging week due to massive piles of actual work. Please forgive.
ONE DAY LEFT TO SEND IN YOUR FUCKLINGS.
Peppermint foot lotion smells like catnip. Who knew? What you can’t see in a still photo is the frantic scrabbling and digging going on under that blanket.
One more week to get your fucklings in!
(Älso älso: L’Shana Tovah! Have some apples and honey, on me.)
How are the fucklings coming along? I’ve had one vote to extend the deadline to the 29th – do y’all concur? You are all making fucklings, aren’t you? Aren’t you?
There is a blog out there, which I will neither name nor link here, because what I am about to say is maybe not so nice. The guy who writes it is somewhat notorious in local knitting circles for having a wide streak of The Crazy. He showed up not long ago and immediately started his own knitting group (fine), which he advertised heavily (fine) in poor English (okay) with four million seven thousand nine hundred and eighty-nine exclamation points after every sentence (arghh! See? One is plenty).
His blog is similarly bedecked with a surfeit of punctuation:
Iam going to wear with my new “Option-G” T-shirt i brought it online!!!!! It will be great match!! Dont you think? OLIVE with GRAY!!!
And so on.
I check this scourge of syntax occasionally, partly because he actually seems to be a good knitter and dyer-of-yarn, but also because I derive a sort of There-But-For-The-Grace thrill from watching the language tortured so cruelly. Occasionally, my perusal yields unexpected fruit.
Also i was really hard time with this stitch..I was sooo fucking confuse this stitch..What is this fuckling this mean?
And that, with a little inspiration from the ever-parsing Laurie Ann, brings us to our contest.
What is this fuckling? Is it an ugly fuckling? An Easter fuckling? Does it swim? Does it fly? What does it look like?
Make me a fuckling. Draw it, knit it, carve it out of squash, whatever you will. But make me a fuckling. Then take a picture, and send it to me with a short (100 words or less) biography of your creation: uccellina at pacbell dot net.
I give you until the new moon – Friday, September 22, at midnight. Winners will be chosen, and prizes will be sent.
You have your mission. Now go.