Science Fiction
The quick brown fox time-travels over the lazy dog.
Fantasy
Quick and brown, Ser Fox levitates over L’azy Dog, just as it has been foretold at the Council of Font—but only after fifteen introductory pages of hand-drawn maps.
Alternate History
The lazy dog jumps over the quick brown fox.
Literary Fiction
The quick brown fox wants to sleep with her professor.
Dystopian Young-Adult Fiction
The quick brown fox jumps over . . . society.
The American Canon
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog and tragically dies, to make a point about the futility of the American Dream.
The Western Canon
The quick brown fox is white.
Beach Read
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog (but by a woman).
Pop Sociology
Why quick brown foxes don’t jump over lazy dogs in Norway (and how this just might help predict the outcome of your next pickup basketball game).
Religious Self-Help
And the LORD replied: “My precious quick brown fox. I love you and would never leave you. When you see only one set of paw prints in the sand . . . it was then that I carried you over the lazy dog.”
“Tour de Force”
The quick brown fox jumps over three generations of interfamilial trauma.
Pulitzer Prize Winner
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog in Nazi Germany.
Pulp Romance
The quick, buxom fox buxoms over the buxom dog.
“Throbbing,” murmurs the fox, with buxom clearly on her mind.
“Tumescent,” sighs the dog, buxomly.
Two heated hours later, they both buxom, simultaneously.
Post-Apocalyptic Fiction
A fox. Quick. Brown. A dog, lazy as hell. But mine.
Dog wasn’t lazy, after all. Dog had the sickness. Went quick. Quick brown fox jumped over the body and walked on bold down the road. Wanted to warn him to seek cover by nightfall, when They would hunt. But he was gone.
Found his remains the next morning. Mostly bones. But him.
Piss. Whiskey. Rifle. Rations. Lonely. Rust. Beard. Wreckage. Son? Goddam. How it goes.
Also, my wife is dead.
Novel About a Young Woman, Written by a Man
The quick brown fox pauses before jumping over the lazy dog to examine her breasts in the mirror. They are perky.
Novel About an Old Woman, Written by a Man
The quick brown fox isn’t so quick anymore. She sighs, cupping her arthritic fingers around a glass of tea, breathing in the steam. She realizes that she can’t remember the last time she could jump over a dog, lazy or not. But who has the energy? Her hair is graying and her skin wrinkled—and how her joints ache—but still, her dimming, cataract-riddled eyes contain something like hard-won wisdom. “Come, my dears,” she calls weakly to the children playing energetically on the floor around her. “Come and listen while Grandma tells you a story.”
She is thirty-one years old.
Young-Adult Fiction with a Quirky Heroine
The quick brown fox trips over the lazy dog. She didn’t seen him because, as always, her nose is buried in a book. “Wuthering Heights,” to be exact, which is pretty unexpected, considering that she’s a modern teen. “Sorry,” she stammers, biting her lip and blushing. The lazy dog just laughs and sweeps his hair back from his cerulean eyes.
“Enjoy your book, nerd,” he says teasingly, before hopping on his RipStik and gliding away down the school hallway. Get it together, Guinevere, she thinks to herself. As her misunderstood, lower-middle-class scientist father used to tell her before he died under mysterious circ*mstances, “For someone with a photographic memory and a black belt, you sure are clumsy!” Liking books, being clumsy—she has always been different from the other girls. Mostly, unlike other girls, who are stupid, she is brunette.
Erotica Written by a Man Who, It Is Becoming Clear, Has Never Seen a Woman
The quick brown fox straddles the lazy dog and admires her heaving, hexagonal breasts. They start in her armpits and spill down her torso like a waterslide.
“Sorry,” she says, and blushes self-consciously. “I know they’re not very—”
He cuts her off. “They’re just the way I like them,” he reassures her. “Sharp in all the right places.” He gives one of her breasts a tap, and it instantly wraps itself around his wrist like a slap bracelet. She gurgles in ecstasy and slings one of countless bosoms around her neck like a scarf, which makes him smile. He loves how much he knows what boobs are.
