Nuts. I got beaten to the punch too. These are the winners in the 7th Annual Bulwer-Lytton Bad Writing Contest.
Like an expensive sports car, fine-tuned and well-built, Portia was sleek,
shapely, and gorgeous, her red jumpsuit moulding her body, which was as warm
as seatcovers in July, her hair as dark as new tires, her eyes flashing like
bright hubcaps, and her lips as dewy as the beads of fresh rain on the hood;
she was a woman driven – fueled by a single accelerant – and she needed a
man, a man who wouldn’t shift from his views, a man to steer her along the
right road: a man like Alf Romeo.
– Rachel Sheeley, winner
The hair ball blocking the drain of the shower reminded Laura she would never
see her little dog Pritzi again.
– Claudia Fields, runner-up
It could have been an organically based disturbance of the brain – perhaps a
tumor or a metabolic deficiency – but after a thorough neurological exam it
was determined that Byron was simply a jerk.
– Jeff Jahnke, runner-up
I’m sure that I won’t be able to do it justice, but I was amused by this:
He said it with the certainty of a man who had gone blind from staring into the sun and who made his living by traveling around the country warning others of the dangers of going blind from staring into the sun.
His body was hard – not hard like Milosevic, the Serbian strongman, but hard like the marble on your shower floor, when you fall and bang your knee.
Her shoulders heaved like the tiny sobs of Snuggles the cat being run through with a roasting spit.
Her embrace made his manhood swell like week-old roadkill on hot asphalt in the Georgia sun.
Her petticoats dropped to the ground, rustling like a cockroach in a sugar bowl.
As she kissed her way down his manly chest, he felt his Amalgamated Crane Company stock increasing in value.
Beatrice was on him like a piranha on a corn dog.
…then he kissed her, like a butterfly kisses the windshield of a Porsche on the Autobahn.
Her breasts heaved like a stormy ocean, and her pointed nipples were like hypodermics washed up on the shore.
With his broad shoulders and slim waist, he was a yield sign – yet she could NOT!
He tore open her blouse like a Publisher’s Clearing House letter in which he, and some guy named Steven Bouber from Stockton, California, were potential finalists for the ten million dollar prize.
His manhood stood at full attention, stiff and stony like the vice president.
Sleekly malevolent, driven by a violent hunger, Donovan glided through the chum-filled waters of the singles bar, oblivious to the remora of Annabelle’s adoring gaze.
Like the wind, she ran, her breasts lurching like a motor boat over a wake, and then, as fluid as a fine imported transmission, she whipped out her man-organ and pissed away his dreams.
Her sun-glazed back formed a golden arch as he moved his face toward her happy meal.
With each breath, her chest heaved like a bulimic after Thanksgiving dinner.
He Beatty-ed her shamelessly, making her squeal like Ned and hallucinate like Warren.
He awoke my slumbering womanhood with his double tall loin latte. “Starbuck!” I cried.
His chest was her pillow, and oh, did she drool.
Claire felt swept away by this dark stranger, a helpless dust bunny in the roaring cacophony of his gas-powered leaf blower.
His finger, weathered and rough from years on the ranch, danced in and out of his nose like a slimy ballerina.
“…And getting stabbed through one’s hand would be better than being stabbed through both hands…but either way, you end up in gut-wrenching pain. Being ‘less bad than the alternative’ doesn’t automatically equal ‘good.’”
That one, I’m afraid, was mine, once upon a time. I think it might be salvageable, with a bit of work. (Maybe. )
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