Jim was cold, not cold like the ah-choo I’m dying cold they show you in those Nyquil ads (though if he stayed out in the drizzly wetness much longer, he could play the role of the suffering guy who has to get up in the morning but can’t sleep until his wife gets him some sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever so you can rest medicine), but the kind of cold that only standing out in the street in your pajamas looking for your cat in the rain of a dark and stormy night can bring.
I have to remember to enter this thing next year.
I spent about 30 minutes reading the 2003 winning entries for the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest to Whiny and the Mrs. We were rolling on the floor. They’re much funnier when read aloud. Perhaps I’ll record a couple for you. Perhaps not.
Here’s a Lyttony of Grand Prize Winners for you to groan along with at home.