Word of the day - supine, furrowed
WORD OF THE DAY:
furrowed –grooved
Supine – lying on the back
Use furrowed and supine in a sentence:
Nobody at the station believed the photo, but we put it on the air anyway, and everybody had a good laugh – a pumpkin that was the spittin’ image of Richard Nixon. Then he sent in the actual pumpkin. It had to be a hoax, or a miracle, or both. Nobody had ever seen anything like it. At least not since the fingerling potato that was a dead ringer for Herve Villechaize in that little white tuxedo. We sent a team to investigate. The man (he referred to himself as “The Professional”) didn’t appear to be home, and the door was unlocked, so we went inside (we could always come up with an excuse later, evidence of suspicious behavior, that sort of thing, and, well, if there was nothing to find then nobody would ever be the wiser) – the kitchen appeared to have been converted into some kind of lab littered with books on advanced theoretical botany--I skimmed through a few pages but couldn’t make heads or tails of it--the walls covered with photos of Richard Nixon: profiles, bust shots, walking shots, sitting shots. And then we saw it (now all that remains is the chalk outline on the floor, The Professional staring at a life sentence in Sing Sing); lying supine on the linoleum--in the former president’s standard blue blazer with flag pin, a tape recorder lying a few feet away—was the headless furrowed body of an orange vegetable man.
furrowed –grooved
Supine – lying on the back
Use furrowed and supine in a sentence:
Nobody at the station believed the photo, but we put it on the air anyway, and everybody had a good laugh – a pumpkin that was the spittin’ image of Richard Nixon. Then he sent in the actual pumpkin. It had to be a hoax, or a miracle, or both. Nobody had ever seen anything like it. At least not since the fingerling potato that was a dead ringer for Herve Villechaize in that little white tuxedo. We sent a team to investigate. The man (he referred to himself as “The Professional”) didn’t appear to be home, and the door was unlocked, so we went inside (we could always come up with an excuse later, evidence of suspicious behavior, that sort of thing, and, well, if there was nothing to find then nobody would ever be the wiser) – the kitchen appeared to have been converted into some kind of lab littered with books on advanced theoretical botany--I skimmed through a few pages but couldn’t make heads or tails of it--the walls covered with photos of Richard Nixon: profiles, bust shots, walking shots, sitting shots. And then we saw it (now all that remains is the chalk outline on the floor, The Professional staring at a life sentence in Sing Sing); lying supine on the linoleum--in the former president’s standard blue blazer with flag pin, a tape recorder lying a few feet away—was the headless furrowed body of an orange vegetable man.
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