Monday, January 28, 2008

New Year's Resolution Contest Winning Entries

Here, for your reading pleasure and lexical edification, are the winning entries of the REDEFiNE iT New Year's Resolution Contest:

The Winner:

Andreae Prozesky

My merrybegot, who may be a moss-child, but who is surely no nuzzle-tripe, wakes herself at night with boo-darby dreams; I, from this snowy droke (which was, not long ago a grassy bawn), I, drung-dweller, city marler, resolve to shive these horrors from her (and to expose them as a yaffle of pishogue and foolishness); there's not much more I can do to toughen her up - though I'm no angashore, I'm leweredly with a waddock and would as soon find myself diving into the blue drop with the guds and bawks as getting up at five in the morning for hockey.

Runners-Up (in alphabetical order):

Don McKay

January 2nd and your head still feels like a waddock that's been bashed up and down the field by size thirteen spaugs, and no wonder, you're after being a slinger randying all Christmas, guzzling the screech and stuffing your gob, telling your old cuffers filled with all that pishogue, how you were forever grassing in the bawn like the rawny merrybegot you are, how you'd marl up the droke with a joke and a bottle and all the girls waiting to kiss you in the drung behind the church hall, way back when you were but a lewardly nuzzle tripe of a angishore before the blue drop got in your blood and you were out jiggering for cod with the bawks and guds whirling overhead, the gillies, turrs and tickleaces skimming the surface, the swiles sculling and diving, now here you are so hung over you can hardly stand to shive the goowiddy off your fousty face, yes my son, you say to the boo in the mirror, you've been a jeezly seeny-sawny long enough, it's time for a whole yaffle of resolutions, if only you could figure out where to start.

Sigurbjörg Þrastardóttir

I promise and lewardly bawn to myself and my whole waddock of friends to yaffle, marl and bawk with more intensity and beauty in 2008 than ever before, in order to shive my angishore and crank up the nuzzle tripe of those around me, be it plainly in the blue drop, out on the drung or high up in the pishogue. This does not, of course, in any way gud my orderly mid-January droke, to stab the merrybegot though the heart with a sleek and slightly bent boo.

Kathleen Winter

By every gud and bawk marling over drung, bawn and blue drop, I resolve to shive four hours off the night and keep writing long past midnight, no matter what lewerdly boo wants to whisper pishogues in my ear or pelt me with guilty waddocks, this angishore is sick of early to bed and early to rise just because she's mothered a brood of merrybegot nuzzle-tripes wailing all day long at her that they're hungry and she's supposed to find a fish in the droke and fry it up for them when what she should be doing is getting her yaffle of stories ready for the next bloody Pulitzer.

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