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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. |
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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. |
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