# The Bad Hemingway Competition is dead. Long live the Bad Hemingway thread. **URL:** \ **Category:** Cafe Society\ **Created:** [August 11, 2007, 11:41am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-bad-hemingway-competition-is-dead-long-live-the-bad-hemingway-thread/415248 "2007-08-11T11:41:00Z")\ **Posts on this page:** 12\ **Page:** 1
**Author:** ![Boyo\_Jim](https://avatars.discourse-cdn.com/v4/letter/b/87869e/32.png) [@Boyo\_Jim](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Boyo_Jim)\ **Post date:** [August 11, 2007, 11:41am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-bad-hemingway-competition-is-dead-long-live-the-bad-hemingway-thread/415248/1 "2007-08-11T11:41:00Z")
I had a plan that has already run into serious obstacles. The plan was to sweep the world’s Bad Literature contests. Now I’ve learned that one of the most famous of them, the Bad Hemingway Competition, has bit the dust, swallowed the shotgun as it were. So I invite you to post your Bad Hemingway here. The original contest limited entries to one typewritten page, and AFAICT, that was it. I have no prizes or awards to offer, only my own piece of Bad Ernie. There will be no victors here, only losers. Or is that the other way around? My “Bad Hemingway”: > [@](#): > > The smell punched the old man, a stiff jab at his nose. It was a manly smell, a masculine smell, a smell that spoke to the old man. It was the smell of victory. > > For two days he had struggled, stooped and strained. For two days he wracked his body in supreme effort, sometimes doubled over, sometimes stretched straight as the lance he’d used as a picador in his younger days. His body had shaken with effort, as now it shook with relief. > > It was over. He was both sad and relieved, like a boy who’s made his first kill of a noble beast, his father at his side saying, “Well done, young man.” For just a moment, he was back with his father, eagerly discussing what to kill next. In another moment, he was in a trench again, outside Madrid, where the question was _who_ to kill next. He preferred the killing of men in war: he’d always been a little squeamish about gutting his kills anyway, and his father had ridiculed him for it. The brown-clad men had simply toppled over, unrecovered, the disposal someone else’s problem. Some men collected ears as trophies – not him, in the ring or in the war. > > And just as suddenly he was back in the now, considering his prize. This one he would keep – he had so little to bring back the memories of his more glorious youth. And so little time left in his hardscrabble life, he preferred to live in the past rather than the present. His prize would remind him that there was once a time when he could do the same three, four, even half a dozen times a day, almost without effort, actually more a matter of relaxation than exertion. > > Then his eyes narrowed, scanning the horizon. He knew the smell of his victory would travel to others as well, who would want to take what he had. The white sharks would be gathering, and they weren’t patient or generous. They were savages, to be repected of course, but to be held at bay with whatever was at hand. Soon one of the bolder ones would move in and make a claim. And the old man nearly wept, as he didn’t have his lance, or his rifle, anymore, to protect the last victory he might ever win. > > And suddenly, the enemy appeared. No preliminaries, no time to savor his victory, just a sudden clamping down on his waist and a quick tearing sound. He was afraid to look down, not sure what might be left. Then he remembered he was a man, who had killed and loved and drank deeply of life. He must face this, and he did. He looked down > > Nurse Carmen stood at the foot of the bed. “Mr. Hemingway, this is GREAT! We were afraid your kidneys had shut down and we would need to start dialysis. But with this volume of urine production, I don’t think we need to worry about that.” > > She waved the diaper in the air. > > His prize taken from him, the old man wept. –_The Old Man and His Pee_, with apologies to Ernest Hemingway ---
**Author:** ![Lambo](https://avatars.discourse-cdn.com/v4/letter/l/ecc23a/32.png) [@Lambo](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Lambo)\ **Post date:** [August 11, 2007, 2:27pm UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-bad-hemingway-competition-is-dead-long-live-the-bad-hemingway-thread/415248/2 "2007-08-11T14:27:03Z")
You know, I could see where this was going after the second paragraph (bodily function, anyway; I had the wrong one), but it was still beautiful. The white sharks… ---
**Author:** ![whitetho](https://sea3.discourse-cdn.com/straightdope/user_avatar/boards.straightdope.com/whitetho/32/1059_2.png) [@whitetho](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/whitetho)\ **Post date:** [August 11, 2007, 3:31pm UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-bad-hemingway-competition-is-dead-long-live-the-bad-hemingway-thread/415248/3 "2007-08-11T15:31:02Z")
“How do you load this stupid thing?” “The cartridge goes in here. And I don’t have to remain you that you point the gun _away_ from your head”. “Thanks.” BANG!!! ---
**Author:** ![Gatopescado](https://sea3.discourse-cdn.com/straightdope/user_avatar/boards.straightdope.com/gatopescado/32/5711_2.png) [@Gatopescado](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Gatopescado)\ **Post date:** [August 11, 2007, 9:20pm UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-bad-hemingway-competition-is-dead-long-live-the-bad-hemingway-thread/415248/4 "2007-08-11T21:20:53Z")
She got out of bed and walked into the kitchen across the cool, tile floor. She opened the refrigerator door and reached in to get the carton of egg. Eggs, laid by chickens who were fucked by roosters who later that night would fight and die for the amusement of tourists in crisp white linen suits and Panama hats. Thats all I got… ---
**Author:** ![Gatopescado](https://sea3.discourse-cdn.com/straightdope/user_avatar/boards.straightdope.com/gatopescado/32/5711_2.png) [@Gatopescado](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Gatopescado)\ **Post date:** [August 16, 2007, 4:12am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-bad-hemingway-competition-is-dead-long-live-the-bad-hemingway-thread/415248/5 "2007-08-16T04:12:16Z")
Killed another one! ---
**Author:** ![Boyo\_Jim](https://avatars.discourse-cdn.com/v4/letter/b/87869e/32.png) [@Boyo\_Jim](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Boyo_Jim)\ **Post date:** [August 16, 2007, 4:14am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-bad-hemingway-competition-is-dead-long-live-the-bad-hemingway-thread/415248/6 "2007-08-16T04:14:15Z")
No you dint! ---
**Author:** ![Rubystreak](https://avatars.discourse-cdn.com/v4/letter/r/e5b9ba/32.png) [@Rubystreak](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Rubystreak)\ **Post date:** [August 16, 2007, 4:27am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-bad-hemingway-competition-is-dead-long-live-the-bad-hemingway-thread/415248/7 "2007-08-16T04:27:43Z")
Have you guys seen this one before? Why did the chicken cross the road? Answer, if written by Hemingway: _To die. In the rain._ ---
**Author:** ![Brad\_Anyway](https://avatars.discourse-cdn.com/v4/letter/b/35a633/32.png) [@Brad\_Anyway](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Brad_Anyway)\ **Post date:** [December 1, 2016, 2:02am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-bad-hemingway-competition-is-dead-long-live-the-bad-hemingway-thread/415248/8 "2016-12-01T02:02:50Z")
The sun rises about as often as it sets damn it That’s what we say in Idaho. We all say it now that we all know it to be true. They know it and I know it too, though we don’t talk about it, not ever. Not once even. I go to the window and push the ferns aside. They’re big and their size reminds me of other ferns of the same size that I must have seen before in other places much like this one where I am now, but located in other areas, other regions, indeed other areas, by which I mean to say not here, in this place. Where I am. I can’t get over these damn ferns sometimes. With the ferns safely strewn all over the floor I whistle and Marianne comes running to the kitchen with my binoculars. “Mushrooms al dente,” I say. She licks my eye socket. “Quite.” She’s a damned trollope. I leer at her queer face. Taking my binoculars in hand I turn back toward the window. It’s then I realize that Marianne is my cat and none of this makes sense. Unperturbed, I shrug and look through the binoculars to Harry’s Bar & Grill in my back yard. I have a little sign over the door and everything. I built it myself, if you can call that damned piece of horseshit a building. It’s been built and it’ll stay built, especially when Marianne gets her whiskers wet in the brandy just before she looks over her snifter at me to ask ‘que pasa?’. That’s when I usually roll over and toss the lamp across the damn room. She’s a damned trollope and I can’t do a thing about it. The creatures are there, at Harry’s. I named the damn place Harry’s because I thought it would make a swell name for a place to have as a requirement in a writing contest much later, after I’m dead. And gone. The creatures meet at Harry’s to catch the musky odors and drink the warm cider. Cider is for sissies. I’m sure M. would like some. I’d like some too. I went out back with my shotgun. The creatures are still there, all of them, the ferrets, weasels, deer, and birds drunk on cider and sex, species being of no consequence as they let their inhibitions flop and flap and fly to roost out of the way, patiently roosting and stationary. I chase them all away in a drunken fury and get an erection as I realize the cider is now mine to keep for myself. I drink a lot of the cider and exclaim to M. how grand it all is, but she hasn’t bothered to show up yet. Once again I am diluted, diffuse, nonplussed, astringent and tedious. I have another handful of the cider then wipe my damn mouth as i sing an old war song and go back to the house. I sit around the rickety old house and have another glass of grappa with M. She is freezing now. I want to go back to Harry’s. So I go back there and now she’s with me. We both have a bunch of the cider and M. tells me it tastes like apples in autumn after they’ve been squished. When our two brains lock that way, sometimes it gives me the shivers. “Mine too,” I reply. “Your damn what?” she says. “Goddammit woman,” I’m snarly beyond belief. “For chrissake…” She climbs inside my nose and I make myself sneeze just to get her out of there. It’s then I realize I’m standing in the kitchen at the window and that I don’t have a cat at all, not a single damn one. Perhaps I have a goldfish. “Screw you, Marianne, I’m going back to Harry’s,” I said. “You mean Harry’s Bar and Grill?” “What the hell do you think I’ve been saying for the past three days? Can’t you keep a straight face?” I said. I went back to Harry’s like I said I would, and had some more of that damned cider. “Oh Christ,” I thought as I cartwheeled back to the house. I had some more drinks there. Then I went back to Harry’s, and finally some other joint and finally ended up back here before returning to Harry’s for more cider. I must have drank all the goddamn cider there ever was. When I finally got back to the house at last, there was M., gone. “Screw you, bitch,” I said to an empty wall. The painting that had once hung there christ-like had long since ceased to do so, but the nail that had held it was still stuck in the wall and this I addressed, taking comfort in the fact that I now had something to focus on since the room was about to start spinning anyway I figured. “Dammit,” I said to the nail. “Screw you,” the nail replied, “I’m going to Harry’s - Harry’s Bar & Grill that is, don’tcha’ know.” Nonplussed and rickety, I agreed. You can’t argue with a nail anyway. It’s just too damned impossible. I’m sure they’ll start saying that in Idaho soon. All of those bastards. I click my rubber boots together and am shortly back at Harry’s among the creatures and the cider. It’s a damned crazy way to live but I’ll stay here at least until Marianne comes back if she ever does, if I even care. And I don’t. But if she wants me I’ll be out back I tell her as she heaves me out into the yard. Soon I’ll be back at Harry’s. Where the hell else can I go? ---
**Author:** ![Ukulele\_Ike](https://avatars.discourse-cdn.com/v4/letter/u/df788c/32.png) [@Ukulele\_Ike](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Ukulele_Ike)\ **Post date:** [December 1, 2016, 2:29am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-bad-hemingway-competition-is-dead-long-live-the-bad-hemingway-thread/415248/9 "2016-12-01T02:29:00Z")
AHHHHHHHHHHH zombie Hemingway!!! ---
**Author:** ![Bryan\_Ekers](https://sea3.discourse-cdn.com/straightdope/user_avatar/boards.straightdope.com/bryan_ekers/32/183_2.png) [@Bryan\_Ekers](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Bryan_Ekers)\ **Post date:** [December 3, 2016, 12:47am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-bad-hemingway-competition-is-dead-long-live-the-bad-hemingway-thread/415248/10 "2016-12-03T00:47:53Z")
“For sale: baby shoes. Bullet holes.” ---
**Author:** ![John\_Mace](https://sea3.discourse-cdn.com/straightdope/user_avatar/boards.straightdope.com/john_mace/32/185_2.png) [@John\_Mace](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/John_Mace)\ **Post date:** [December 3, 2016, 10:48am UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-bad-hemingway-competition-is-dead-long-live-the-bad-hemingway-thread/415248/11 "2016-12-03T10:48:01Z")
This thread is old. Older than the hills. On Grandma’s chest. But I wrote in it anyway. It was late at night. I had been drinking. Scotch or Bourbon of something. Doesn’t matter. I looked over at the girl lying in bed. What was her name? I couldn’t remember. She was blonde, but not too blonde. I kicked her once or twice to see if she was still alive. When she rolled over, I was relieved-- I had tangled with the police enough that day. “Get me a drink” she said, with emphasis on “me”. I poured one for both of us, but she wanted more than just the drink. We had gone at it most of the night, and I wasn’t sure I had anything left. I gulped the rest of my drink, and dove in head first, remembering to hit the “post reply” button before the hamsters ate the text. ---
**Author:** ![Shoeless](https://sea3.discourse-cdn.com/straightdope/user_avatar/boards.straightdope.com/shoeless/32/7099_2.png) [@Shoeless](https://boards.straightdope.com/u/Shoeless)\ **Post date:** [December 3, 2016, 1:31pm UTC](https://boards.straightdope.com/t/the-bad-hemingway-competition-is-dead-long-live-the-bad-hemingway-thread/415248/12 "2016-12-03T13:31:25Z")
As long as this zombie’s been resurrected, I have a question for the OP. How many bad literature contests are there, and how many have you won? I know you won the Bulwer-Litton a few years back (with an entry, IIRC, that also involved peeing). Have you won any others, and was urine involved?