Bad, bad writing

He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the East River

At the O-Club last night Pappy cited some of the 56 worst/best analogies of high school students. e.g. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up. McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup. The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease. The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work. The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while. “Oh, Jason, take me!” she panted, her breasts heaving like a college freshman on $1-a-beer night. Anonymoose responded:  Pappy: I used to collect that sort of bad writing. Some of the best were published in National Lampoon, in their True Facts section. They were collected by an "unnamed editor of serious fiction", which turned out to be Analog Science Fiction and Fact, one of the last magazines to take unsolicited manuscripts. Here is some of their best.  I've listed a few below, because I have no self control. And, what's wrong with "The light that was Frannie went out?"  I think that's from a story I submitted. Bastids. “ His teacher asked, "Peter, was you annoying Jeanette?" His organ began to beat so hard he thought it would pop out of his chest. When Sue and Bob came home, they found their cook in the kitchen, shot to death. "That does it!" Bob said, exasperated. "We're moving!" Then, when man's hatred for his brother had ripened like a swollen fruit, the fighting started and like a bastard child we named it the Civil War. "Well," she said suavely, "viola for now." The sudden expulsion of air caused the pouches of skin he used for cheeks to flutter like sails before a stiff wind. Mrs. Rogers said, "I'm sorry I lost my temper, but I was grumpy, and when I'm grumpy I get grouchy." The editor sighed. Look at all those Type O's. The four-story ranch house, flanked by cypress columns, looked majestically down on Route 66. It was like an old Alan Ladd movie I saw with Veronica Lake. "An omelet for mademoiselle," Jimmy pronounced, "and an 'amburger pour moi." I think that was when I fell in love with him. I knew I had a bestseller in me--all I had to do was plumb my depths and out it would come, like some literary bowel movement. "Os swoh skcirt?" Jack asked when I arrived at the office. "I'm fine, Jack," I said. "But you know I hate it when you talk backwards. With her splendid blond mane and her ripe figure, Sally splendidly embodied the splendor of our American continent. Dan wasn't much, Clara admitted, but at least he was an up-and-coming lawyer or businessman. Clues don't kill people, the inspector thought. People kill people. George Cohan soundlessly placed his lips to hers and excused himself to go and fix them another drink.