Wednesday Match Game Story: "Wild Tim took his trash to the curb, and _______ it."

[Rabrrrrrr]

Please fill in the blank using ten or more words to make a story.

Preferably gruesome. :D

[Dr. Strange]

1. Okay

Wild Tim took his trash to the curb, and stretched it out over the ground. He then removed his clothes and started to slather his cold naked body with the rotting food. A crowd gathered, holding their nose, and wondering what Tim was up to today. They asked several times before he responded with, "I'm bathing in my garbage."
Needless to say, his neighbors were confused. They prodded him for an explanation, but he simply continued rubbing filth onto his body.
Within minutes, the garbage truck came by. The sanitation workers grabbed Tim and threw him into the back of the truck. Everyone departed, bewildered at what had become of Wild Tim.
At the end of the street, the compressor on the truck was activated. The Tim-infested garbage was mashed into a cube. As the walls crunched the garbage, they could hear Tim screaming, "Threepio, shut down the garbage smashers on the detention level!" They laughed. He's such a Star Wars geek, they thought.
The trick drove off, leaving a pool of garbage-ridden blood at the end of the street, which would stay in the neighborhood for many years, because no one knew how to get rid of it.

[Rabrrrrrr]

2. Splendid!!

:applause:

:rofl:

Love the garbage smashers reference. Brilliant!

[DS1]

6. Threepio

:rofl:

[SteppingRazor]

3. Mine:

"Wild Tim took his trash to the curb and waited patiently for the garbageman. Today would finally be the day, the culmination of weeks upon weeks of the voice banging the inside of his skull with the ball-pean hammer of its words. He had resisted at first, but he had come to accept the truth, now. It had only taken just a little while, a little simple, lucid reasoning, and Tim figured that he had never thought more clearly. It was not his fault that Jennifer was dead. The crack binge was her idea, and they didn't call him Wild Tim for nothing. She was still alive when he stuffed her into the garbage can. She hadn't struggled much, of course -- it had been the downturn of a serious bender, after all. But he hadn't killed her. Oh, no. It was that garbageman. He's the one who didn't look. He's the one who pulled the lever. He's the one who watched and waited while the hydraulics of the trash truck did their dirty work. He had spent weeks denying it, but now, the trash truck was coming down the road toward his house, and justice. The garbage man had killed Jennifer, not Tim. Never Tim. He felt through the loose denim of his pocket, his hand brushing against the outline of the butcher knife concealed there. Justice would be done. The voice would be quieted only when it was satisfied. And it was up to Tim to do it."


How's that? Gruesome enough?

[Rabrrrrrr]

4. Fantastic!!

Exactly what we're looking for.

:applause:

[Rabrrrrrr]

5. Wild Tim took his trash to the curb, and then shot a cool unemotional 400,000 rounds into the house

across the street. The stupid sonofabitch who lived there had it coming. For weeks, he had been coming out of his house in the morning to pick up the newspaper, but without having his pajama top tucked in. He would often have his dinner jacket on early in the afternoon, and on many occasions would flagrantly flaunt the fact that, though he clearly had the proper glasses, he would drink his Lillet out of a Sherry glass. "The Philistine has to be annihilated", thought Wild Tim on many a late, reeling in gin- and whisky-fueled anger, usually a 50 year old Laphroig or occasionally a 75 year old Macallan, "I can't live in a neighborhood that tolerates such tasteless boorishness." And so he decided - the next trash day, the neighbor would die. But not in some kind of murderous uncreativity of the trailer trash or other poorly uneducated subhuman swine. No, the neighbor would die in a total over-reaching, completely insane, hundreds-of-billions-of-eyes-for-an-eye total warfare response. Wild Tim remembered he has a 400mm canon he stole off a Japanese battleship one night on an ecstasy induced prank. He also remembered that Wild Brad, his friend, and totally out of the blue had recently filled Wild Tim's basement with pallet after pallet of ammunition for a 400 mm canon. Wild Tim never asked Wild Brad where the ammo came from, but he never got around to it, and as he accidentally slaughtered Wild Brad with a in a recent argument over the exegetical faithfulness of Form Criticism, he never would have an answer. "But who cares", mulled Wild Tim, "Stupid fucker couldn't parse a hithpael verb to save his ass anyway and the day that... wait a minute, I was thinking about ammo. That's right, there's tens of thousands - maybe hundreds of thousands - of rounds downstairs!" He ran downstairs, unfortunately spilling his glass, about $600 worth of Suntory 1928 whisky, and caressed the pallets of ammunition, and eventually the sexual thrill overcame him and he managed to rape one pallet in ways that I will not describe. He brought the ammo upstairs, got the canon ready, and waited until daybreak when he could cover his actions with taking out the trash. "No one will know!" thought Wild Tim. Though Wild Tim was certainly wild, he was not very intelligent. "They'll all think I was just taking out the trash, and they'll never realize that it was I, Wild Tim, who shot hundreds of thousands of rounds into that sonofabitch's house!" At his trial, as the verdict came in and he was hauled off to jail, Wild Tim muttered over and over, "I just don't understand how they figured out that I did it."

[The Velveteen Ocelot]

7. "Wild Tim took his trash to the curb,

and as he opened the lid of the large black garbage bin to throw the sacks of garbage into it, he glimpsed a flicker of light at the bottom of the bin; his curiosity aroused, he leaned over the bin, and suddenly he fell -- no, he was drawn into the bin by an unseen force, and the lid slammed shut above him and the glimmering thing that had caught his eye disappeared, and at the very instant he expected to fall on his face on the bottom of the foul-smelling trash bin he realized that it had no bottom and he continued to fall and fall and fall through a featureless, soundless void for what seemed like hours but without accelerating, and finally he landed, not very hard, face down and spread-eagled, on what felt strangely like shag carpeting. He didn't move at all -- he wasn't sure if he could -- while he wondered whether he had just had a stroke or had gone mad; and after a little while he realized that there was a faint light in whatever place he had landed in, so he turned his head to the side and opened his eyes one at a time and saw that he had, in fact, landed on shag carpeting and that it was a sort of '70s avocado green. He thought he might have a bit of rug burn on his cheek but otherwise he felt no pain. Still, not knowing where he was or how he got there, he remained prone and motionless until he heard a strange far away sound. At first he didn't recognize it as music, but then he realized that it was music, after a fashion -- an eerie, deep, crackling voice was singing. It was singing "Love Me Tender." How odd, Tim thought. Apparently I am lying face down on green shag carpeting and a walrus with tonsillitis is singing an Elvis song...I really shouldn't mix absinthe with blotter acid. The voice became louder, as if the singer were approaching, and now Tim heard a shuffling sound, exactly the sound that a legless mutant would make as it dragged itself across shag carpeting. Tim began to be afraid. Slowly, carefully, he rolled over. Now he could see the same bilious green carpeting on the walls and ceiling, and in the corner of the room was a small fake waterfall. The room looked oddly familiar. The voice and the shuffling grew louder; then it stopped. Tim realized someone was in the room with him. A man -- or something -- was standing at the bottom of a carpet-covered stairway. He, or it, was dressed in a spangled white suit with a high collar, a gold belt and a cape, but it just barely had the shape of a man, bloated and gelatinous; worse, where his head should have been there was nothing but a writhing mass of tentacles above a toothless mouth. The mouth began to move again, and now it was singing "Burning Love." The thing reached for Tim with an arm that looked like a leprous elephant's trunk, and started singing, raspily like the rustling of dead bones, "Take my hand, take my whole life, too, 'cause I can't help wanting to ASSIMILATE YOOOOOUUU!" As the thing stuffed Tim feet first into its mouth with its alien elephant arms, sucking him down into its vast, slimy maw, Tim at last recognized his surroundings: the Jungle Room at Graceland! His final thought as the last of him disappeared into the huge mouth was, I'm being eaten by dead Elvis; I can't fucking believe it."

[nuxvomica]

8. ..stood there, eyeing a half-eaten slice of pizza and a mouldy...

orange peel. Wild Tim had worked very hard for many years to fight off his desire for garbage. He had been raised that way was all -- a poor abandaned baby that a pack of raccoons nurtured and taught until his 40th birthday when scientists filming "Biblical Mysteries of Bigfoot" for the History Channel discovered him during an Outward-Bound team-building exercise away from the studio. That was the most important lesson, they told him, that he was to learn. "Half the people in this country," noted one of the scientists, "are considered civilized entirely on the basis of that one personal discipline alone."
And so he had fought the trash hunger, sometimes failing, like that dreadful night behind the Piggly Wiggly.
But finally came the day that he refused the scientists' offer to screen a Robert Zemekis movie starring Renee Zellwegger and they knew that no amount of garbage could ever entice him again. He was set free from his protective imprisonment at History Channel studios and allowed to live among other people. Though he was unable to read or write, bereft of most social skills and easily frightened by sudden loud noises, the scientists were able to set Wild Tim up with a job as a policy analyst for a Republican senator. With his newfound self-sufficiency he purchased a home in the suburbs, and he signed up for curbside trash-hauling service. Yes he did.
Wild Tim was thinking about getting his name changed as he carried the trash to the curb that night. He was thinking he might finally fit in with people. He had lost any desire to return to the raccoons who had raised him. "That was then," he thought, "and this is now."
But the allure of that mouldy orange peel, the way the colors green and brown and gray and black and even some orange played on it's shriveled but somehow oozing surface was too much for him to resist. So he ate...

[Rhiannon12866]

10. LOL! Very clever...

And it's "its"... ;)

[crimsonblue]

9. Wild Tim took his trash to the curb...

and made love to it. THE END.

[WilmywoodNCparalegal]

11. Here's mine

Wild Tim took his trash to the curb, and he whacked it. Yes, he whacked it right off. He was tired of paying for child support, sixteen mouths to feed in all. Of course, the thought of having a vasectomy had crossed his mind, but where would Wild Tim get his money? His dancing days at Wild Hogz were all but over, after that dreadful Magic Bullet incident. The locals still talk about that one, though a few details are now myth. And the flab around his midsection added to his insecurities. Who can forget the memorable G string incident of last week, as well. Wild Tim, his hips swaying to Kenny G, as men with dirty fingers and unquestionably dingy fingernails searched his hairy body for the G string, mindlessly depositing frayed dollar bills and then, just as the sweet notes of Kenny G's alto sax wailed through Wild Hogz, the sound of a rip, almost like an automatic weapon on overdrive. Who could forget Wild Tim, his eyes an inch away from their sockets, unaware of the dollar bills escaping his torn G string to the tune of Kenny G. He knew that morning, as he had awakened in his hotel room next to a roach and a caterpillar, that it was time for the culprit of all his miseries to be gone. As he stood on top of the commode, urinating freely without a care in the world, targeting various insects on the wall and filling the air with the odor of stale beer reeking in the urine, he looked at it. It almost had a smile, almost belittling him and his failures, almost laughing at his misery... that wretched wrinkly appendage. He looked over to the sink: a bar of soap a few years old, hardly used; a toothbrush; a foggy mirror; and a rusty knife. Today would be the day he'd clean up his life. Yes, Wild Tim, today we are ending all that was bad! He grabbed an old Wal-Mart bag, thinking back to that day long ago when his life had changed forever after witnessing a woman breastfeeding while smoking at the local Olive Garden. He laughed at the irony of it all. It was time for his penis to die. He collected a few old bottles of malt liquor, a few cigarette butts and a Republican party flier, tossing them all in the Wal-Mart bag. Wild Tim took his trash to the curb, and he whacked it... really hard.

[The Velveteen Ocelot]

12. How do you come up with your topics?

[Rabrrrrrr]

13. I get them from Dick Cheney - the same guy I report the responders to.

:evilgrin:

No, seriously, I just make them up. I sit and think for a few seconds, and they come to me.

Do you like 'em?