Hey, I goofed on some of the terminology, but it was a pretty good attempt at a bad book intro, wasn’t it?
The dark underbelly of Amerika makes my stomack roll as I see it’s hairy abdomen: I think about urine flowing off cliffs from dopers who think it’s “kewl” to pee from highs and I think aboute mundane pointless discussions of bad story openings and I turned to my main chick FritoRita and said “Man. That’s just uncool.” one morning as we were trying to discover the darkness that makes up this “nation” by travelling and living off the land (with our dog, Boo) since this was in the early ‘70s of course, not that you punks who grew up under Regan and Clinton know anything about that, being that you grew up in a completely sheltered life, unlike me and FritoRita and Boo, who was even the runt of his litter so he had it hard too - but we loved him anyway, as much as anyone could love anyone in Nixon’s Amerika, which, like I said, was uncool and when FritoRita turned over in the haystack we were sleeping in that night, and she said to me “Lobo, I want me some eggs for breakfast” so of course I sneak into the barn to try to rob some eggs from an ol’ hen, (“death to the fascist insect animal-jailers”, I thought), when suddenly I found myself looking in the barrel of Ol’ MacDonald’s shotgun.
And he said “Son, I caught you stealin’ from my ol’ hen. I’d put you to work and I’d pay you for what it was worth, but long-haired freaky people need not apply. I’m a’ calling the sherriff. You know where you’re gonna end up? Working on the Chain Gang.”
And he marched me outside, but FritoRita, she knew how to deal with fascist insect animal exploiters and jumped him. He fell to the ground, clutching his chest. Boo ripped his throat out.
We were on the lam.
That night, as me and FritoRita tried to escape the Pigs by jumping off the Talahatchee Bridge, our journey across Amerika really began…
I have to ask–did you end up counting the cars on the New Jersey Turnpike?
And when the farmer said that long-haired freaky people need not apply, why didn’t you tuck all your hair up under your hat and ask him why?
Seriously, Fenris, I have to say I enjoyed your post. Nicely done!
It all started in a trailer park in New London, Missouri.
Well, Ol’ MacDonald’s shotgun put a crimp in the conversation. And in response to your other question,
Lobo and FritoRita did not count cars on the New Jersey Turnpike as they were unable to obtain the prerequisite Mrs. Wagner’s Pie (frankly, I don’t think they’re the sort of people who’d have the kind of silly fun that Kathy and Whathisname had (“his bowtie is really a camera…”.
Instead, Lobo and FritoRita put flowers in their hair and therefore ended up in San Fransisco where they encountered cop’s faces filled with hate on a warm night.
Thanks for the compliment, but if you enjoyed it…damn! I blew it. These are supposed to be bad. I’ll have to try again. Hey, Dr_Paprika…can I try again or is it one entry per customer?
Fenris
They’ve all come to look for America.
Laughing on the bus, playing games with the . . .
The novelist blew some Marlboro smoke over his typewriter as he stared critically at the first sentence he had written. The second sentence was no better, except that it was shorter. The third was bad and short. He liked the self-referential nature of the fourth sentence, but thought on the whole that his time would be better spent out of doors. So he left the fifth sentence unfinished an
I had never fellated a pig before that day—I’d heard they’re shaped like corkscrews, but little did I know . . .
Try as often as you like, Fenris.
“Drudgeworth liked the colour red – liked apples, and sunsets, and crimson beach towels, and those suspenders worn on CNN, and the taste of cinnamon buns and licorice whips and the red Hawaiian Punch of uncertain flavour identified only as “Fruit Juicy Red”; until that fateful day in autumn where he put-near got crushed by a red Volkswagen and started liking the colour green.”
Jubal lay at the bottom of the hill,scratched and stained from his fall. He looked up to see what it was that tripped him and saw: a root!
“Relax”, he said, "they couldn’t hit an elephant at this dist—
Foreword
by Regis Philbin
“What follows is a compilation of “worst book openings” taken from the Straight Dope Message Board…”
Two more:
It was a warm January day, which was unusual for Anchorage, but not that unusual for Havana, where our story takes place.
“Cincinnati,” Brad mused, “it was Cincinnati that was my undoing, and Cincinnati that shall be my salvation.”