The Conners (Roseanne without Roseanne) The Huxtables (The Cosby Show without Bill Cosby) Son (Sanford and Son without Sanford) Uber (Taxi without the taxis) Where Nobody Knows Your Name (Cheers without the bar) Gilligan’s Rent-Controlled Apartment (Gilligan’s Island without the island) Hawkeye Pierce M.D. (M*A*S*H* without the Korean War) Four Funerals and No Weddings (The Golden Girls without the Golden Girls) Passive-Aggressive Acquaintances (Friends with only three of the friends who only ever see each other on Facebook these days) Carlton’s School of Contemporary Dance (The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air without the Fresh Prince. Or the Banks family. Or Bel-Air.)…
Author: David Elliott
David Elliott
David Elliott is a freelance writer, born in Liverpool in 1981. After discovering that exposure to real life was bringing him out in a rash, he started to apply the soothing cream of fiction, silly fiction, seven times a day, both internally and externally. This led to a worrying addiction, and another rash, for which he is now seeking help. His life is an open book (although not a very good one), and his work has been published by a wide variety of people, places, and things. You can find him desperately trying to make contact with other human beings at @DavidEllioops.
I know you’re coming for me, Jessica Fletcher. As I write these words, my hands trembling at the thought of what might come to pass, I jump at every creaking floorboard, cry out at every shadow that resembles your old-lady hairstyle, and I know that the last sight I gaze upon in this world will be your eyes, filled with pure malevolence, as you stand above me, your machete dripping with the blood of my friends and family. I trusted you, Jessica Fletcher. I welcomed you into my house in Cabot Cove, and even though my hometown had the highest…
Hello. I’m a real Nigerian prince, and I’m sending you this email in order to point out that I’m much, much, much richer than you. I also have no intention of depositing any money in your account whatsoever. I mean, why would I? I’m incredibly rich. In fact, you probably don’t have any concept of how rich I truly am, do you? Well, let me assure you that I’m quite staggeringly wealthy. And you’re not. Hurts, doesn’t it? Well, it should. You pathetic poor people sicken me. I bet you’ve never even tried caviar, have you? And even if you have, I bet you…