Week 792: Clue Us In


36 Across: Actual clue: Raised, as cattle

New clue: Text-message exhortation sent by Communist recruiters

For the third straight year, we're going to compile a set of funny alternative clues to a crossword penned by Ace Constructor and now Rye, N.Y., City Council member Paula Gamache; this one ran in The Post on Nov. 12. It's more important for the clues to be funny than to fit crossword conventions; for instance, you certainly don't need to signal a pun by ending the clue with a question mark. Still, as for a crossword, the clue needs to match the part of speech; if the word is a singular noun, the clue can't refer to a plural verb. Offer as many clues as you like, but keep the wording concise, because otherwise we won't be able to fit a whole set on the page. Please say which word you're writing the clue for; don't just write "36 Down." Paula will help judge.


Winner gets the Inker, the official Style Invitational trophy. Second place receives -- just in time for Christmas -- one of the most annoying Christmas decorations we've ever seen inflicted upon the world: It's an electric tabletop diorama of Santa playing the piano while a cat watches. When you turn it on, it beeps out (we think) "Jingle Bells," seemingly trying to imitate the broken car horn of a Fiat. Also, Santa's and the cat's heads jerk around creepily.

Other runners-up win a coveted Style Invitational Loser T-shirt. Honorable Mentions get one of the lusted-after Style Invitational Magnets. First Offenders get a smelly tree-shaped air freshener (Fir Stink for their First Ink). 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. 1. Put "Week 792" 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 Dec. 20. No purchase required for entry. Employees of The Washington Post, and their immediate relatives, are not eligible for prizes. Pseudonymous entries will be disqualified. The revised title for next week's results was sent by both Stephen Dudzik and Chris Doyle; this week's Honorable Mentions headline is by Kevin Dopart.

Report from Week 788, in which we asked for a comically badly written ending to a novel, much as the annual Bulwer-Lytton contest asks for the beginning of one.

A number of the hundreds of entries we received were shaggy dog stories -- anecdotes whose punch lines were groaner puns. Others offered alternative endings to existing books. Those aren't what we had in mind for this contest, but hold on to them for future ones.

4. As he left, the captain flashed a smile -- a wide, satisfied grin with lips parted a quarter-inch, the right corner of the mouth raised slightly above the left, and a dry lower lip slightly stuck to the teeth -- that defied description. (Jay Shuck, Minneapolis)

3. Oh, and by the way, Chapters 3, 8, 10 and part of 16 were all dreams, in case you hadn't caught on. (Art Grinath, Takoma Park)

2. the winner of the Booger Boy car antenna ornament:

First the infarction, then the ambulance ride, now going under the knife, he drifted away under anesthesia, humming Celine Dion's tune "My Heart Will Go On." But it didn't. (Larry Miller, Rockville)

And the Winner of the Inker --

As the wail of the nearing sirens shook him awake, Todd rose from the charred remains of Rensfield Manor, wiped the ectoplasm from his brow and, stuffing the Amulet of Valtor inside his shirt, gazed ruefully at the venom-encrusted Sword of Darjan, realizing that this long night wasn't over yet, because he still had a heck of a lot of explaining to do. (LuAnn Bishop, West Haven, Conn.)

The Lost Weak Ends: Honorable Mentions

And Washington ceased to exist in a fireball that churned skyward like the gaseous plea of a whale that had ingested a crate of habanero peppers, red and yellow -- the explosion, not the peppers, though habaneros, which are the world's hottest, can in fact be red or yellow. Not that this mattered to the former residents of Washington, who were now mere dust particles; all they were was dust in the wind.(Jeff Brechlin, Eagan, Minn.)

Over the years, she became for Gary a fuzzy memory, until he had trouble even making out her features, though he was still pretty sure she was female and her name started with a B or R. (Jay Shuck)

He had only 75 words to go on his contractually required novel of 50,000 words. A guy could say a lot in 75 words, like "Pudding is best when it's warm." He wondered whether to count hyphenated words as two words. Strange thoughts come to a fellow at times like these. Should he have written "50,000" as "fifty thousand"? He was close enough to count down: 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2. (Art Grinath)

Not! (Russell Beland, Fairfax)

Henry gazed at the depleted tube of toothpaste on the sink and thought of his life with Gertrude: you know, how the tube gets all wrinkled up and folded, and the cap gets dirty, and you're looking forward to getting a brand-new tube, but the new paste squeezes out too fast, and anyway you're bewildered by all the choices on the store shelves? (Marty McCullen, Gettysburg, Pa.)

In the end, we realized that we didn't really own Dopey: He owned us. And now we had the restrictive spiked collars to prove it. (Beth Morgan, San Francisco)

He had been in a long, slow denouement. He rocked rhythmically on the porch, at once hesitant to turn the next page of his life, yet resolved to face his fate. With a deep sigh and exhalation, he turned the page.

The page was blank. (Dave Prevar, Annapolis)

She slowly tied noose to rafter, and then she slowly loaded six .38-caliber bullets into her revolver, and then she slowly swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills, and, with gas from the unlit kitchen stove slowly flooding the house, she, gun in hand, slowly mounted the creaking chair beneath the dangling noose. Finally, slowly, oh so slowly, she thought, "THIS will teach those meanies at Publishers Clearing House." (Lawrence McGuire, Waldorf)

So, from now on, call me Isabel. (Art Grinath)

Approaching dawn's rosy fingers limned a sweat-stained border around my ponderous flesh on the wafer-thin flophouse mattress that had involuntarily witnessed a thousand loveless assignations. Worse, the tag had been removed. Still, tomorrow held the happy promise that all mankind would act like golden retrievers and I, like they, scratched my ear, chuffed contentedly and resumed my sleep. (George Vary, Bethesda)

And as he watched, the day slowly faded away like the picture on an old black-and-white TV when you turned it off, only this time, there was no little pop of light at the very end. (Andrew Hoenig, Rockville)

Next Week: Doctrine in the House? or Hot Dogmas