Week 692: Reinkernation


Breed Blazing Rate to New Joysey Jeff and name the foal Toid Degree Boin

This week marks the third anniversary of the Empress's imperium (the
"Under New Mismanagement" slogan on the back of the Loser T-shirts might
be getting a bit out of date), which is as good an excuse as any to look
back at the past year's contests and do them all over again. This week:
Enter any Style Invitational contest from Week 640 through Week 688.
There is only one restriction: Every entry must include the word "three"
or "third" or a creative variation, as in the example above from Week
656. You may refer to events that have occurred since the contest was
printed; for contests that ask you to use The Post from a certain day or
week, use today's or this week's. You can find all 49 contests (and about
six months more) online at www.washingtonpost.com/styleinvitational,
where the index has been greatly enlarged courtesy of Style Invitational
Post.com Superflunky Treena Simington.

Winner gets the Inker, the official Style Invitational trophy. First
runner-up receives a clear plastic coffin promoting "CSI" (pictured,
below) and forked over by Post TV writer John Maynard. This sizable
tchotchke would make a nice candy dish -- and a tipped-over Inker would
fit right in there. We'll also throw in some plastic bugs.

Other runners-up win a coveted Style Invitational Loser T-shirt.
Honorable Mentions (or whatever they're called that week) get one of the
lusted-after Style Invitational Magnets. One prize per entrant per week.
Send your entries by e-mail to losers@washpost.com or by fax to
202-334-4312. Deadline is Monday, Dec. 18. Put "Week 692" in the subject
line of your e-mail, or it risks being ignored as spam. Include your
name, postal address and phone number with your entry. Contests are
judged on the basis of humor and originality. All entries become the
property of The Washington Post. Entries may be edited for taste or
content. Results will be published Jan. 7. No purchase required for
entry. Employees of The Washington Post, and their immediate relatives,
are not eligible for prizes. Pseudonymous entries will be disqualified.
This week's Honorable Mentions name is by John O'Byrne of Dublin. The
revised title for next week's contest is by Chris Doyle of Ponder, Tex.
The idea for this week's contest is pretty much by Russell Beland of
Springfield; the headline is by Jay Shuck of Minneapolis. The Empress is
learning to delegate.

Two weeks ago, we awarded the World's Ugliest Painting -- given back to
us by Loser Art Grinath of Takoma Park -- to Art himself, who had proved
himself literally too funny for his own good. Now he has re-re-gifted the
Fred Dawson oil, this time to Michael Canty of Yorktown, Va. Michael was
the one who sent in a photo of a painting he'd done himself -- a mirror
image of Fred's, but executed with even less flair -- and said he should
have Fred's painting so he'd have a matched set for his fireplace.

We hope Michael plans to decorate his fireplace with the paintings, not
feed it.

Report From Week 688, in which we sought six-word stories, in the tradition of Hemingway's "For
sale: baby shoes, never worn," but funnier:

This contest drew thousands of entries, which isn't surprising given that
it doesn't take too long to write six words. But lots of them weren't
stories, in any sense of the word, but just epigrams. The best of these
included "Virginia Is for Lovers (restrictions apply)" by Bruce Carlson
of Alexandria; "Fantasy is Dior. Reality is Depends," by Duchess Swift of
California, Md.; and "Liberty University's geology program: 4004 B.C.-"
from J.F. Martin of Naples, Fla. Still, we interpreted the word "story"
pretty broadly -- as one would have to to admit the Hemingway example --
allowing not only the entries that told a whole little tale in six words,
but also those that implied an intriguing back-story (or future-story).

4. She lied. He lied. They lay. (Liz Fuller, Silver Spring)

3. Words failed him. So did she. (Doug Pinkham, Oakton)

2. the winner of the flimsy Living Dead Dolls lunch box:

My wife's suicide note: ungrammatical, naturally. (Tom Witte, Montgomery
Village)

And the Winner of the Inker

They suck, Pete Best consoled himself. (Michael Levy, Silver Spring)

More's the Pithy

For sale: Pine coffin, lightly used. (Stephen Dudzik, Olney)

Bang! (Fourteen billion years later . . .) Me! (Paul VerNooy, Wilmington,
Del.)

Yet the rats never did surrender. (Creigh Richert, Aldie)

See, I told you watermelons talk. (Elise Neuscheler, Washington)

Bernie fell for Claire. Twelve stories. (Jeff Brechlin, Eagan, Minn.)

"Hey, Billy -- pull my finger."
"GRANDmaaaaa . . ." (Brendan Beary, Great Mills)

Last earthling dies . . . what's that laughter? (John Shea, Lansdowne,
Pa.)

Found: Wedding ring on bar stool. (Doug Watson, Arlington)

Snack: Expand. Don't snack: Expand. Snack! (Pie Snelson, Silver Spring)

Gave my husband the wrong finger. (D.M. Searson, Avon, Conn.)

"To continue your life, press 1 . . . " (Mae Scanlan, Washington)

Went. Worked too long. Returned. (Repeated.) (Julius Sanks, Ashburn)

In the beginning I created Myself. (Stephen Dudzik)

"I ate just one."
"Never mind." (Tom Witte)

A Memoir of My Last 16 Relationships:
She liked me, then she didn't. (David Kleinbard, Jersey City)

Shhh. No talking in my head. (Tiairra Jackson, Washington)

Ed wasn't the same without bones. (Jeff Brechlin)

It appears Iraqis don't like liberators. (Dave Rooney, Arlington)

"You were magnificent."
"You were available." (Art Grinath, Takoma Park)

Found real killer: It was me! -- Orenthal J., Hollywood (Seth Brown,
North Adams, Mass.)

The first defenestration was an accident. (Daniel Bahls, Brighton, Mass.)

Mark Foley! Paging Mark Foley! Wait . . . (Roger Dalrymple, Gettysburg,
Pa.)

Sis! Since when were we conjoined? (Jay Shuck, Minneapolis)

"Marry me, Ashley."
"I'm Mary-Kate." (Katherine Duke, Amherst, Mass.)

Giveaway: Labrador, 12 mos. House broken. (Lawrence McGuire, Waldorf)

For sale: Sally Hemings, well used. (Steve Norum, Charlottesville)

Book one: Milk was expensive, bought the cow.
The sequel: Milk went sour, sold the cow.
Last in the trilogy: Bought the farm, cow got half. (Art Grinath)

Next Week: Busted Play, or Stinkertoys