A variation of the Sporktastic Sporking Thread.
Ever reread an old fic of yours, just to relive a few nice memories, when you come across a particularly bizarre/horrible/atrocious sentence/scene/etc that you just have to stop and think, 'What the hell was I thinking?'
No? Well, then, have you ever wanted to publicly acknowledge that yes, your work was crap; yes, you know it; and no, you don't mind making fun of it because you know you weren't half the writer back then that you are now?
Oh, you feel that way even less frequently than the first one? ... Well. Uhm. Here this thread is just in case anyone changes their minds. Even if I am the only one using it.
After all, making fun of something is the biggest form of flattery. I think. Maybe I made that up.
Keeping the author's name anonymous isn't really an issue here, so it doesn't really matter if you mention it or not... Story titles, on the other hand, you are free to censor. If it makes you feel better.
So, yeah. Happy sporking!1/25/2009 #1
Oh Great idea, I have all my old God awful fics on my laptop, once I get it back I WILL definetly do this!5/31/2009 #2
Dear lord, I have so much old rubbish... Should I post the weird cyberpunk disaster I wrote at age eight, or the even worse fantasy/steampunk/screwball/insanity mess from when I was eleven? So many choices!
The fantasy one doesn't have childish innocence to excuse its horrors, so I think I'll spork it. The general idea was that there was this world place, with these elf thingies called Terif, who rode on giant wolves cleverly named Volves. It also featured an evil warlord from space, his horde of orc knockoffs in space ships, a cybernetic assasin guy, and a plot which sounded a lot like that of Eragon, except Eragon hadn't been invented yet. There is also a special resistance against the warlord called the Ryll, and a pile of dippy prophesies which rhyme cornily and talk about a sentient mountain. Fun.
This particularly painful excerpt is from after the assassin guy, DarkEcho (wince), poisons all the giant wolves by command of the evil space warlord. The main character is a dork named Barek, whose best friend Irdic is a first-rate ass. Enjoy the sporkage.
Barek sat with his head in his hands, desperately hung-over. He had been informed of the Volves death. His future was dim and blank thanks to a dearth of more varied sentence opener types. Without the Volves, the Terif warriors were nothing but lame chaff before the winds. (Don't you love pitiful attempts at LotR eloquence? I call them PALEs.
Irdic had not come out of the closet that day. He was quick to accuse and use choppy sentences. He decided that if Barek had not let himself be knocked out like a wuss, that the Volves would still be living. Barek tried to reason. Because the tall, dark stranger was departing when he finally got out of his bed and went out to investigate, the foul deed (PALE number 2) was already done. Irdic would not hear of it. He just stared coldly at his former friend, and stalked off into his nondescript elfin-sounding hut or into the orchard. Bladeslash (this is Barek's Mandatory Comedy Relief Sidekick Guy) was not sure whose side to be on, so the winged creature avoided both and went to a nightclub instead.
Also, Irdic had his seventeenth Closet Anniversary birthday, and was now two years older than Barek, making him a veritable greybeard when one considers how young fantasy-novel protagonists come these days. Barek’s thread of patience with Irdic’s girly, snobbish ways finally snapped, when Irdic strode out of his father’s hut. He sneered, but nobody knew who the 'he' applied to. Barek’s eyes widened when he saw all the parsley stuck in his sort-of-friend's teeth. Irdic wore an old necklace of Volf teeth, which had spinach stuck in them. The Terif was a vegetarian! warrior.
Irdic’s mocking laughter seemed strangely familiar to that of the huge shadowy beast of Barek’s dreams. This was because of awkward, heavy-handed forshadowing. He spat an insult, but again nobody knew who the 'he' applied to. Barek gritted his teeth, hoping there weren't any collard greens in them. He marched over nondescript terrain to his father’s armor chest. Throwing back the lid, he withdrew a narrow-minded bladed battlesword.
Irdic snarled. Barek hefted the sword like all true untested adolescents who feel the fire of DESTINY in their DESTINY-FILLED veins. Of DESTINY. “Irdic, you get your fathers sword. This is getting settled fo' sho, mo'f***a!. If I go down, it was my fault, because I'm really smart to challenge someone older and more skilled than me. If I succeed, it's because the Law of Untested Adolescents of DESTINY is on my side, and by the way your mom's fat and you are a coward.”
To Barek’s melodramatic shock, Irdic drew a sword of his own, a giant five-foot-long disaster. “Barek, you will meet the wrath of a warrior.” PALE number 3!
Their swords crashed together. A number of Terif realized what had happened, and ran outside to watch, not bothering to break up the fight or do anything reasonable like that. Irdic had lots of training, much more than Barek, but we know it'll be useless because he's not the main character. But Barek was fueled by DESTINY!!! and ferocity and a wish to clear his name. Irdic slammed his steel around in an innuendo-laden fashion, jarring Barek’s fingers. The latter retaliated viciously, hacking at Irdic’s blade. Irdic thrust with his weapon, summoning the power of unintentional double meanings and knocking Barek’s sword to the ground.
Barek suddenly had a vision. It was the tall, gorgeous, absolutely smexy human. He said but three words: "That thing's huge!" “For your destiny!” As Irdic was about to declare himself victor, Barek shouted, "OMG! You're missing Gilmore Girls again!" Taking advantage of Irdic's horrified shock, He snatched his sword from where it lay. He smashed his weapon against Irdic’s. Irdic stared at the fractured remains of his swordblade, and decided that he would never again fight with a crummy Final Fantasy replica off of Craigslist. He gradually provoked his eyes with a cattle prod to meet Barek’s.
“I am no coward.” Irdic swung the wrecked sword at his adversary. It glanced off Barek’s swordblade, and clattered to the soil. In a fit of rage, yearning to be Barek’s comrade, and honor, (oh, and DESTINY. We can't forget the DESTINY!) Irdic began to sprint, abandoning AT&T forever. He ran faster than he had ever gone before. Barek sheathed the sword, knowing that Irdic would require to be left alone. (PALE 4) He walked dynamically into the shade of a large tree, and sat down to wait for Irdic to come apologize, having started a sword-fight instead of reconciling earlier. Oh dear. That was worse than I remember. I should find some more, that was entertaining in an embarrasing sort of way...6/1/2009 . Edited 6/1/2009 #3
Bumping to push down newly locked threads.12/25/2009 #4
|The Pirate on Wheels
Dimi, stop spamming.1/1/2010 #5
Live, self-depreciation, thread! LIIIVE!
How about my not-so-old DP OCfic, eh? She's pretty much The Scrappy, someone needs to poke fun at her...
"Explain the purpose of this trip to me again." Oh wow, Phanny, what a start.
Danny Fenton's head thumped against the bus window ouch. Been there, his dull eyes showing how tired he was, and how enthusiastic he was about the latest Casper High field trip. Mind you, enthusiastic is a term used very loosely here. NO BREAKING THE FOURTH WALL.
"Apparently we're buddying up with eighth graders from Spectral Middle School, creative name -- hurp durp!, because both Lancer and some other teacher booked this museum trip at the same time," Sam Manson, one of Danny's closest confidants, also sounded annoyed at the arrangement, "instead of one them just moving their trip, they made this oh so wonderful compromise." Which is...the plot!
"Man, this is gonna suck," Tucker Foley chimed in, finally looking away from the game he was playing on his PDA, "remember eighth grade? These kids are gonna be brats." Yaaay optimism!
"Tucker, you shouldn't just assume stuff like that," Sam began to chastise him before he cut her off. Because you know what assuming does hurr hurr
"Remember how we were in eighth grade?" No.
Danny and Sam shared a glance, and Danny let his head fall against the window again. Ouch, masochism ftw
"These kids are gonna be brats." He moaned. Moooooan!
"Hey, Danny you got it the hardest," Tucker told him, "if a ghost shows up, how're you going to ditch a kid without getting caught on Lancer radar?" He might be able to...but where would the plot be???
"I always get past Lancer," Danny looked puzzled, "what're you worried about?"
"Now you've got a thirteen year old who'll rat on you if you disappear." Because these kids are gonna be brats.
Danny's eyes widened, "you're really not making this trip very appealing for me."
"You three sound excited," all three students nearly jumped out of their bus seats at the sound of Mr. Lancer's voice.
"Oh, well-we were just-"
"You all should be honored," Lancer was now talking to the whole bus full of students, who snickered when the bus his typo! a bump and he lost his balance, "this is a chance to give a young, high-school bound tween a glimpse into the life of a sophomore. Think of this as a gentle nudge into the world of higher education, and when you realize what a favor you have done these children, you will feel the pride your own teachers feel when their students walk through doors of high school with the knowledge to ensure a fruitful future." Four score and seven years ago...
Lancer's heartfelt speech was met with silent stares and an awkward cough from one of the back seats. *HACKHACKHACKWHEEEEZE*
Danny, Sam, and Tucker exchanged a glance. blink blink
"He could really use a hobby," Sam decided. The boys had to keep from laughing. Well, Phanny, that was a cliche line eh?
When the bus from Casper High arrived at the museum, the Spectral Middle school bus had already gotten there a few minutes before.
The eighth graders stared at their tenth grade partners, and vice versa. Needless to say, this was very awkward. FOURTH WAAAALLL *mouth foaming*
"I'm pretty sure they don't want to be here either," Tucker muttered, and Danny merely nodded. Sam nodded too, but before she could say anything Mr. Lancer and the middle school teacher addressed the kids.
"When Ms. Graysee and I call your names, you will come forward and meet your partner for the day. Ms. Graysee will call her students and I will call mine." Lather, rinse, repeat.
"Well, duh," Someone from the eighth grade group muttered, just loud enough to hear. Ms. Graysee gave a brunette girl a hard stare before turning back to her clipboard. Yaaay vague!
"Zachary Kimble," Yaaaay using someone's real (first only) name shamelessly! The aged cheese woman adjusted her glasses as a young boy with dirty blond hair came forward, and before Lancer could speak she held out her hand to the boy. Zachary cheekily gave her a high five. "Gum, Mr. Kimble," Graysee told him sternly, not at all amused. Amused she is not.
Once the boy had thrown away his gum, Lancer called Dash Baxter out to meet him. Well, there was one pair taken care of.
Danny sort of zoned out as the names were read off, exhausted from a late night of work as Danny Phantom, the town's ghostly superhero. Because people who don't know that are probably reading this.
"Danny Fenton," the boy started when he heard his name and sluggishly came forward to meet his partner. It was the brunette girl who had received a rebuke earlier. She stared up at him silently, her curious eyes as green as the star on her black shirt. With a jolt he realized that he should have listened for her name. Shame on you!
As soon as the left to join the other pairs, the silence he had been graced with when he first met his partner was gone in a flash.
"So yeah, my name's Riley, and you're name is Danny right? That's cool. I have a cousin named Danny, except he's not like you because he had his fingers blown off by a firecracker that one time he was showing me how to safely use them. Some irony, huh? Anyway, if you ever think about using firecrackers I suggest you don't because you might lose a finger. I figure that must suck." Blah blah blah blah...who are you, Ke$ha?
"Uh…" Danny didn't recall ever meeting someone who could talk that much without stopping for air. What about Tucker?
"Oh hey, I even got a pic of his hand without his finger. It's on my phone, you wanna see?" Riley reached into the pocket of her cargo pants and pulled out a beat up cell phone, and Danny held his hands up to stop her.
"No, uh, that's okay." He'd seen some pretty nasty wounds in his life as a superhero, but he wouldn't want to look at them if he had a choice.
"Oh, well, yeah I guess it's pretty depressing. He should've lost his pinky instead, because without that one finger he can't flip people off no more." How clever this dialogue is :|
Danny desperately waited for Sam and Tucker to get over to where he was. Maybe they would rescue him, or their partners would be people she would want to talk to instead.
"Hey, you okay? You're lookin' kinda twitchy there, dude."
"Yeah, I'm fine." He assured her, casting a glance at Sam and Tucker, who were two of the last few people to be assigned.
'Help me.' he thought. No help for you! We need a plot!
"All right, all pairs get into groups of three and grab a clipboard," Lancer said as a tour guide handed out worksheets. The entirety of the group groaned. "This is a school sanctioned trip, did you really think you were going to get out of doing some work?"
"We hoped!" Sam's partner, a girl named Emily, called. Yay for using BFF's (first only) name due to lack of creativity!
"Ms. Parker," Ms. Graysee chastised. Danny never knew one's name could sound so threatening. Only now do I realize how incredibly often I've used this lame line.
"As I was saying," Mr. Lancer continued, "each pair get into a group with two others, and Ms. Allen here will assign you to a certain section of the museum. You will rotate every thirty minutes, so don't dawdle. These worksheets must be completed before the end of the trip, and any copying is prohibited. Every section of The Amity Park Museum of Natural History is something to be experienced first hand. forget end quotation marks, Phanny?
"In other words, every section museum will bore us to tears in its own special way," Danny remarked dryly. And both his friends and their partners snickered, as well as his own. ...it was funnier when I wrote it.
The tour guide standing next to Mr. Lancer now spoke, "all right, everyone into groups? Good. Let's see…These groups," Mrs. Allen pointed to the group Dash, Kwan and Paulina had formed, along with Danny, Sam and Tucker. Danny inwardly groaned at the thought, "will go to the first floor west wing, which is over to the left, just follow the signs." It took about 15 minutes until all the groups had been assigned to their areas. Fifteen fucking minutes? Really?
"All right, you've all got until 4:00. So off with you." Ms. Graysee said, waving them off. Leave, Simba, and never return...AHAHAHA
As soon as her teacher spoke, Riley dashed off, leaving the others in her dust, and Danny groaning.
"Does she always do that?" Sam asked, and Emily spoke from next to her.
"Yeah," she said solemnly, "you get used to it." Solemnly...she said it solemnly...
"Well go get her, Fen-Toad. I ain't getting an F because you can't control a little psycho eighth grader." Dash snarled, and Danny shuddered, remembering points would be counted off if a group split up. Lancer made some pretty weird rules. For the sake of the damn plot.
"I'm going, I'm going…" He groaned, not at all looking forward to chasing the girl. How was he going to get through the day dealing with this kid? If a ghost came around he'd be screwed, not only because he could cost himself a grade if he left to fight it, but also for the fact that his partner might just destroy the museum if left to her own devices.
There was no time to think about it now, though. Now he had to hunt down an ADD little girl. Yay assumptions of mental health!
He wondered if he should be getting paid for this. ...Lame. Hmph.
I dunno. I like this story, but there's just so many things about it that bug me.8/4/2010 #6
For some reason, 12-year-old Mix thought it would be an amazing idea to write a military space drama thing with next to no knowledge of how the hell ranks work outside of Wikipedia. To make an extremely short story shorter, it's about this guy named Seth Volkorsk who leads a crack squad of super-troopers (complete with one necessary female, who to make up for her inherent XX-chromosome lameness was raised by cool aliens who then proceeded to die, leaving her as sole survivor and first in the line of the 'Shadow Slayer' who would stave off an incredible impending evil). The woman, named Aria, is supposed to marry Seth, but instead falls for the Evil Bad Guy whose name is, I kid you not, Akenakin Arnaq. Seth then becomes the father of the actual Shadow Slayer, and that son and Aria's inevitable daughter meet each other in the sequel, and totally fall in love, but romance is gross so they just have a big fight with the evil monsert instead and she's passing as male in her armor suit like a poor man's Samus Aran in order to hang out with mercenaries and because girls are LAME in stories all they do is scream and need rescuing and break their nails so instead she dresses up like a boy because THAT'S ORIGINAL and because Young Mix had never watched anime and then she gets eaten by monsters and the Shadow Slayer dude is like WTF SAMUS IS A GIRL and then she's like BUT VASQUEZ ALWAYS DIES and then she dies and he is sad and honorable and flies away to be awesome and shit but that's in the sequel dude WALL OF TEXT AHOY.
Plot aside and judging only the characters, I could say Halo: Reach is ripping off my creations. We have Carter = Seth, that big guy with with the gatling gun = Samuel Geloth, Kat = Really Butch Aria, and Jun = Gabriel Kairo. Is it good or bad that Bungie is writing the same sorts of characters dreamed up by a bored 12-year-old who thought s0ldierz wuz kewl? Then again, I've never followed Halo canon or played the games, so I'm just going by trailer material and articles here.
In this scene, Seth's spaceship the Nagasaki comes out of Hyperspace/Slipstream/The Outside/Riftspace and is promptly attacked by the eeeeeeeeevil aliens the Zardesians, who later end up being led by Akenakin to steal some virus thing the aliens who raised Aria hid away somewhere, and then take over the world and leave the protagonist of the sequel as the sole survivor of a horrible blah blahb alhb albhal;bj;alshdfka SPORK.
The Nagasaki screamed out of Riftspace through a warped scarlet rent in the dimension. Not exactly a bad intro. Good job, Pre-Teen Fusionmix. Seth unbuckled the safety harness and drifted upwards. "Dang this bucket of bolts." No bad words here! Despite there being rape and brutality later on! (seriously. Implied rape, but rape. I was a freaky little bugger)
The artificial gravity had just given out. He picked up the intercom, wondering where all the compound sentences had suddenly gone. "Petty Officer, Lieutenant, Ensign, report to the bridge. We need to figure out which of your ranks sounded coolest when it was blindly plucked from Wikipedia."
A pair of acknowledgement lights twinkled at him from a display. There was a pause, and then the third flashed briefly, because Aria was way too cool to actually answer her CO right away. Either that or she wasn't using a Mac.
They drifted out of the turbolift (ELEVATORS ARE NOT FUTURISTIC ENOUGH!) and froze at attention in a smart mid-air line, defying physics for sake of respect. Aria wrinkled her nose at the perpetual burning smell; as soon as Seth gave the order to relax she scrubbed at her nose to disperse the odor. I remember being proud of how 'atmospheric' that line was. Yeah.
Commander Volkorsk gestured them into their command stations. He couldn't help but smile slightly as Aria slid into the weapons control chair, because it's always reassuring when you have a PMS-afflicted female behind the controls of a... (wait for the name). "All weapon systems go, Commander. Fission Assault Gun charge at twenty percent, climbing ten percent a minute. Five percent engine power diverted to FAG (THERE WE GO. OH DEAR GOD). Both HECATE missile pods armed and ready. Pulse laser turret operational."
Seth grunted because that was the MANLY thing to do. "Good. Lieutenant?"
Samuel scanned the navigation panel. "On course to Draco III, Commander."
"Excellent. We can stop by Harry Zeta and get some slash going. Ensign?"
Gabriel tapped at a blinking dot on his tracking screen. "I'm not sure you'll believe this, Commander, but it looks like something coming in fast from point five three three zero zero insertrandomnumbershere."
Seth's eyes narrowed and he barked, "Main screen turn on! Onscreen."
The three-dimensional holographic image blinked to life, displaying a small, unidentified fighter. "Looks like a Zardesian, if you don't object, sir." Aria piped up.
Trust Aria Savar to notice pirates. "Correct, Petty Officer. You're winner! Accelerate Fission Assault Gun charge rate to twenty-five percent."
Aria typed furiously at her station, since we all know ship terminals still use DOS commands. "Diverting twenty-five percent engine functions to the gun." The Fission Assault Gun, or FAG, was the most deadly weapon in the Galactic Confederation arsenal. It fired a dense projectile of superheated man juice atoms that detonated as explosively on impact as a miniature atomic bomb fired by Ron Jeremy. The nuclear energy was enough to disintegrate most ships on contact with the force of its deviance, some vessels took two or more. The Nagasaki sported an older, smaller model.
Aria suddenly tensed and shouted, "Disable everything, turn off the lights, and kill the engines! Let's move it!"
Seth gasped at her. "Are you having another vision of the future with accuracy rivaling that of Hino Rei's pyromancy???…" he began. Then he noticed a large destroyer and two more fighters as they rumbled out of Riftspace on the screen. WHOA SHITTACO! Sailor Mars is out of work! He began the order—too late.
The destroyer turned with all the grace of Mass Effect's landing craft and the pulse laser turrets on it glowed as it built up a charge. Seth roared, "Evasive maneuvers, push engines to a hundred fifty percent, Geloth! Savar, is that FAG ready yet or not?"
"FAG hot at one hundred percent." This sporks itself. Srsly.
"Fire on my mark. Five…four…three…two…one…"
Aria held her breath.
"Mark!" LUKE AND JOHN! ACTS AND THE LETTERTOTHEROMANS! FIRSTANDSECOND, CORINTHIANS! GALATIANS AND EPHESIANS! Come on, did nobody ever learn that song? Ever? *crickets* I'm such a Fission Assault Gun...
The superheated FAG round tore through space, impacting on the turrets of the destroyer. The guns vaporized along with a sizable chunk of the bridge as the homophobic alien crew began screaming.
The Commander gripped the edge of his chair. Two loads of missiles and then they would have to rely on the lasers and the FAG, the latter being ineffective on small ships. "Synchronize HECATE missiles to impact with the FAG round."
"Commander—FAG at sixty percent charge." HOW MANY TIMES CAN WE PUT THIS IN WRITING HMMMMM...
"Good, Petty Officer."
Two thumps. Sixty missiles streaked towards their targets. Another, larger recoil jolted the Nagasaki, except that MISSILES DON'T HAVE RECOIL. The FAG quickly gained on the missiles, just as the point defense of the destroyer blasted a third of them. Then, the projectiles hit with all the impact of a very short sentence. The destroyer vomited fire from a gaping rent in its side, and then it fired its own missiles. And then Ensign Kairo managed to dodge a few, but most crunched into the hull. Alarms screamed, as the computer's feminine voice announced numerous hull breaches. And then Then Aria cursed quietly in some strange foreign language, and targeted the nearest fighter. And then The small ship blossomed with ruby explosions before it disappeared. And then Then, a ball of plasma from another single ship melted the laser turret. "Commander, we have to abort. This mission is washout!" I HERD DAT ON A VIDEO GAEM OMG IT SOUND SO MILITARY. Despite these guys going home, and not being on a mission at all. Oops?
The Nagasaki wheeled about, just as one of the fighters went on a kamikaze run into her engines. GREEN LEADER GOING IN!
There was a blinding flash of well-written and emphatic proportions. Aria flew backwards and threw her hand over her face to protect herself from the light. Geloth was slammed brutally against an unyielding cold metal wall, and Aria managed a desperate screech to reassure the audience of her femininity before something stuck her and she blacked out so the author wouldn't have to come up with actual scene transitions. Those are a bitch to write.
This will eventually become a webcomic.8/29/2010 . Edited 8/29/2010 #7
Not much sporking going on. Oh well, I guess no sporking is better than bad sporking. Ever notice how a lot of it isn't very good? No offense intended to anyone. I even thought F/R's sporks often missed the mark.3/15/2011 #8
|The Pirate on Wheels
How true. I actually found, for myself, that it took me as much time to spork properly as it does for me to write properly.3/15/2011 #9
How true. I actually found, for myself, that it took me as much time to spork properly as it does for me to write properly.I think the biggest problem is that people try to spork large sections of a poorly written work. Sporking works best when you take small snippets and the original source is fairly well written. 3/15/2011 #10
|The Pirate on Wheels
Could you give us an example?3/15/2011 #11
I'll try to in the next few days.3/15/2011 #12
|The Pirate on Wheels
I'll be looking forward to it.3/15/2011 #13
Bumped for Fusion.3/21/2011 #14
And this is how to spork:7/31/2011 #15
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