A voice from the back of the room piped up, “Yeah, right.”
“It was terrible,” she sobs. “I was cooking when the phone rang. It was your agent. Because I was on the phone, I didn’t notice the stove catching fire. The house went up in second. Everything is gone. I nearly didn’t make it out of the house. Poor Fluffy is—”
“Wait, wait. Back up a minute,” the man says. “My agent called?”
Two. One to screw it almost all the way in, and the other to give it a surprising twist at the end.
She decides to check out each place first. As the writer descends into the fiery pits, she sees row upon row of writers chained to their desks in a steaming sweatshop. As they work, they are repeatedly whipped with thorny lashes.
“Yikes,” the writer says. “Let me see heaven now.”
A few moments later, as she ascends into heaven, she sees rows of writers, chained to their desks in a steaming sweatshop. As they work, they, too, are whipped with thorny lashes.
“Wait a minute,” says the writer. “This is just as bad as hell!”
“No, it’s not,” replies a voice. “Here, your work gets published.”
A: Subordinate Clauses.
A: A dependent Claus.
The photographer goes first. “I would like to spend the rest of my life living in a huge house in the Virgin Islands with no more worries.” The genie grants him his wish and sends him off to a beach-side paradise.
The journalist goes next. “I would like to spend the rest of my life living on a huge yacht cruising the Mediterranean, with no more worries.” The genie grants him his wish and sends him off to Europe.
Last but not least, it’s the editor’s turn. “And what would your wish be?” asks the genie.
“I want them both back after lunch,” replies the editor, “the deadline for tomorrow’s newspaper is in ten hours.”