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Anywhere in the story:

Some people are like Slinkies - Not really good for anything, but they still bring a smile to your face when you push ‘em down a flight of stairs

(alternatively, substitute “see 'em fall” for “push 'em”)

Sara objected to formal fundraisers at the best of times, and tonight wasn’t one of them. Her target, multi-billionheiress Egypt Ritz[1], was the exact sort of person Sara had grown to despise on sight. Therefore it was something of a supreme effort not to do so to the woman’s carefully sculpted face.

“Darling,” cooed Egypt. “I simply can not believe you organized the entirety of this gorgeous little soiree.”

“It’s not as hard as you might think,” Sara faked a natural smile and resisted the urge to grit her teeth.

“Obviously. The rare times that the paparazzi snap you, you’re always wearing hideous and cheap pret a portier.” Translation: street clothes for the plebs.

“I prefer to reserve my budget for more worthy goals, dear,” If she believed in heaven or hell, tonight she earned years off of purgatory for not adding a snarl to that sentence.

“Well obviously, it would be difficult to salvage that figure and that face,” smiled Egypt.

_ I will kill you, later. After a thorough kharmic realignment._ “Yes. Well. Anyone who can afford ten thousand dollars for a dress she wears once can certainly afford the underwear to match. Or did you leave it somewhere and forget about it when you chose to show it off, last week?”

Egypt’s bland, botoxed half-smile faded into a semi-sneer. Point to Sara.

“And speaking of thousands of dollars,” Sara continued, taking joy in pretending she had no clue about what had previously issued from her mouth, “there is the issue of sponsored nutrition for the -ah- less than affluent kiddies. You can hold a giant cheque to make sure nobody can see up your dress.”

“How kind,” Egypt snarked. “I’ll think about it.”

“The Adrien family will be donating an even million, to begin with,” added Sara. She knew without a doubt that Miss Ritz would not allow herself to be overshadowed by someone less telegenic than herself.

Daddy collected her by the elbow as Egypt swanned off to get photographed with prettier people. “That came close to homicide…”

“Some people are like slinkies, Daddy,” said Sara. “No functional use whatsoever, but such fun to watch fall down the stairs.”

“No pushing her.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Sara sighed.

[1] Any resemblance between this lady and certain others named after a city and a hotel are strictly imaginary. I swear. Cough.

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A story in which this:

“It’s time to do the right thing!”
“By which you mean commit a major felony.”
“Think of it as a series of 208 rapidly successive misdemeanors!”

Occurs.

“This is not right,” said Sara.

“It is legal, sweetheart,” said Daddy. They both knew it, but he had to remind her. Her near-reality orbit frequently ignored things like that which was legal.

“That which is legal

Anywhere in the story, possibly as a result of a situation originating from Forge tinkering:

If we can confirm its existence, then it interacts with the physical world. If it interacts with the physical world, we can, theoretically, blow it up.

“Sara Louise Adrien, what a surprise seeing you here,” said the Doctor. He’d just literally run into her as the worlds changed.

“Ah,” said Sara. “You again.”

“Still dimension-hopping?”

“Yes,

Whoever said words can’t hurt you has never been pegged with a dictionary.

Sara was drawn to the child’s tears. She knew that kind of crying, having done a lifetime of it herself.

“Something the matter, dear?”

“…go ‘way.”

Sara knelt. “I promise I won’t tell you that you’re overreacting if you promise not to tell me I can’t understand.”

The kid looked up.

RAF WWII slang: Exdigitate - get your finger out.

(#00113)

There are days when it was fun and exciting to be married to a genius. This was not shaping up to be one of them.

“Come along, darling, you need breakfast.”

Todd opened an eye. There was bacon and eggs and -sweet heaven, thank you- coffee gently steaming on his bedside table. “Mrghl…”

“Exdigitate, dear.”

“Mnnnh…”

Sara dragged him upright and gently

“If at first you don’t succeed, label it version 1.0.”

“Fuck this fucking thing to fucking fuck!”

“Problems?”

“Why did we release this stupid piece of shit?”

Andrews peered over Laslie’s shoulder. “Oh. That. Budget overruns. Time under-runs. Figgis-fiddis. You name it, that one had it. I think we all ended up calling that one Project Icarus at the end.”

“Doomed to crash and burn?”

Anywhere in the story: “There is no font size big enough to describe the ‘oh shit’ that is about to occur.”

The body corporate had done it. They’d finally leashed the beast of their own making. They controlled the internet. And there wasn’t even time to celebrate.

“Now, we need to start talking about the three 'sisses’. Censorship, sponsorship, and shill. Every single page, every site, every last goddamn corner of the

Parent: [Character name]? How much uranium is in the house…?

Child: [after much dancing about about whether it’s uranium at all, and if so, how much] Okay, a lot…

“Jachyx…” came the warning call of Parental Prime. “How much uranium is in the house?”

Jachyx hid her work and emerged from her private space. “Who says I have any uranium?”

“Security detected fissionable material, grubling.”

Gah. She hated it

You’ll have to forgive my uncle, sir. He has a very unique sense of humor which involves not being funny.

Since she wasn’t riding horses, today’s costume was that of a paige. She was too tall and not chesty enough for the typical wench and the material still hadn’t come through for her chatelaine outfit, it was either a paige or a time traveller and people tended to be hostile to the latter.

Sara

    Old software engineering joke: “Write your code as if it’ll be read three months later by a homicidal psychotic who knows where you live.”

    Spoiler: You know where you live, and will have to read your code three months later, when you’ve forgotten what much of it does.

“Who the hell was the fucktard who wrote this goddamn ugly shitty mess of shitty shit fuck!”

The entire cubicle labyrinth prairie dogged their heads above

In days to come, he would reflect upon the premature nature of that thought. He would ponder it, as a sinner pondered the inexplicable actions of an irritated deity. He would wonder if perhaps, by allowing himself to think it, he had angered the God of Perversity, and Murphy, who is His Prophet. It was the only offense he could think of that might have explained what happened next.

(#000106)

He should never have asked, “What could possibly go wrong?”

Imperial China. They actually had royal dragon caretakers on the payroll. Logic says that this was due to them either having actual dragons (read: dinosaurs), or the Emperor had done off the deep end again. If they really did have dinosaurs they were almost certainly plant eaters … but that doesn’t allow us to imagine T-Rex cavalry fighting alongside stupidly large infantry armies, and that should be it’s own goal.

(#00105)

[AN: Given the nature of actual Chinese

At some point, someone (Sara? Somebody in your own setting?) defines Patience.

Patience, noun: the state of having too many witnesses.

(#00104)

“We reviewed the evidence and personal testimonies,” said the brown-robed Archivaas. “And we thought we might work with you to.. re-evaluate history’s view of Ernest Hackmeyer.”

“That plagiaristic bastard can go rot in fire,” Shayde said cheerily as she poured tea. “Is he goin’ from bafflin’ genius tae scum-suckin&

“Genius is always allowed some leeway, once the hammer has been pried from its hands and the blood has been cleaned up.”

“That’s a scary quote from you, hon,” said Todd.

Sara, waist-deep in the workings of Cerebro, said, “Granted, it is problematic. Fortunately, my murderous tendencies remain confined in the socially acceptable forum of fiction. But it is rather apropos.”

Todd quickly put two and two together. “You mean this aint a