An exquisite corpse

Story 1
Today we inevitably come to treatise on a corpse. What a shame McMally had to die because of our relentless fighting. Keller's roost insisted it was called a "bubbler" while Afton's clan declared "watering hole" to the end. And what a bitter end it is.
The end of the rope slid from the grasp of every member of the tug o' war team leaving them devastated over the loss against Sigma Alpha Beta and thus handing the prize position of head of Greek Council into their hands. Dirty hands. Right Guard Hands. Hands dusty and smelling of Sure anti-perspirant deodorant. "Just wait 'till it rains," someone shouted from under the stars. "Then you'll know that I was the one who put ground beef in the gardenburger mix! It was me! Chew on that one, suckers! Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!" The vegetarians psat their food into napkins and on tablecloths. "That's gross!" said some poor kid unfortunate to have hippie parents.
Jane Wilson wept tears of pain; true, deep-seated pain that she had grown from life with hippies. "God, I hate hippies," she thought. "They like always eat sprouts and wear clogs, ugh." Love, peace and all that hippie shit can eat my dust, as we all say something we thought we remembered from the 50s and run down a dark, empty highway doing an emu dance all the way.

Story 2
"Salvation is rendered perfectly capable of protoplasm when he concentrate hard enough." Unfortunately these were her first and last words as the worms in her stomach finally finished her off. We walked away gladly. But not for long because before we could say "Ichi, ni, san" 14 blond camels descended from the hill, gnashing their teeth wildly and pounding their hoofs into any poor soul who dared to cross their path. Their eyes glowed by the light of the neon signs that decorated the streets of Los Angeles. They were out for blood tonight. They walked the streets thirsting for the blood of innocents. But only the ones who deserved it. To bleed, that is.

Sr. Mary Something smacked her baseball bat on the desk Susie was resting on and she snapped awake. Was it the rain pounding against her window or the small boy with vacant eyes standing at the foot of her bed that awoke her? Holy shit! There is a ghost boy looking at her. Creepy! "Go away! And get lost," the retard exclaimed . He could barely focus straight but he was damned if he'd be mocked.

Story 3
Art is a nucleus. The center of humanity and everything that therein encompasses. The cell of every living being is overwhelmed by the inevitable urge to create something long lasting. Like this time he giggled to himself and kicked the cat. "Fuck you!" Screeched Mr. Muffins. But that leads to a story for another context. For now, let's just say someone won. Yes, I agree to disagree. You can surely take my savings I've wanted to give to my poor wifey who is suffering from premature female balding. She can't get a job, you know, because she can't afford a wig.
She cried tears as solid as diamonds knowing that tomorrow she would find herself the laughing stock of 7th grade. She had to do something to fix the bald patches left in her mane from the matted chewing gum they had cut out. The hair grew back, ten years later, as spaghetti which they used to feed the poor children of Dr. Bruce Houser. But the doctor and his wife had to do the hustle. Otherwise they wouldn't fit in at the swinger party. It was the 70s, you know.