Someone will probably de-throne me – no one has won twice, let alone twice in a row, in the contest’s 25 year history. If I must lose (though I’m trying hard not to) I would take great comfort in knowing that I inspired my successor and retained the crown for the SDMB.
Plus, I’m running out of time to brag.
The challenge is to “compose the opening sentence to the worst of all possible novels”.
I am ready to offer advice or suggestions if asked.
Here is my most recent entry. I wrote this because, how better to get people to stop reading your book than telling them it’s a bad book with no useful lessons to teach, and that they’re idiots for reading it?
You’d think I would be on antidepressants or dead at this stage of life – pushing 50 with no discernible accomplishments or even the semblance of a social life, and a job offering all the satisfaction of a prisoner at Auschwitz; yet here I am writing my autobiography, giddy with glee in the knowledge that some idiot has already agreed to publish this steamer and those of you reading it have lives more empty and pointless than my own.
I’ve put in about a dozen entries so far this year and I hope to get in a few more.
Do remember not to post your entries here: you have to have full rights over what you submit, and Creative Loathing can take a lot of liberties over member-created content.
Actually it is ok to post your entries here, but only AFTER submitting them to the contest. The rules say entries may not have been previously published.
Barry was awakened, as always, by the morose howl of his faithful, if senile in a way possible only to a
would be champion hound long past his prime both for hunting and carousing, companion throughout
the interminable years, Basalt Executive Primrose, cursing yet again the day he agreed to take the
dog as a marker.
2)
The number of permutations was the problem facing Jean as she opened the drawer to contemplate
the pieces gathered from incomplete sets both silver and stainless, tangled together forming a
modernist fossil accretion and was uncertain to whom the souvenir soup spoons would be assigned
and which of her unfortunate guests would be forced to dine entirely with fondue forks, not even ready for
the embarrassment awaiting her among the plates.
3)
When attempting to detail the history of a country through a particular theme it is
critical to confirm the relevance of the specific proposition to the unique nation, lest
one fall into the trap of forcing insubstantial trivia to assume the role of foundation
to an absurd, almost vaudevillian pastiche of footnotes and previously debunked legends.
**Gerald began–but was interrupted by a piercing whistle which cost him ten percent of his hearing permanently, as it did everyone else in a ten-mile radius of the eruption, not that it mattered much because for them “permanently” meant the next ten minutes or so until buried by searing lava or suffocated by choking ash–to pee. **
n**photopat ** those are outstanding! I like the last one in particular – just the right tone of defensive drivel by an academic who’s premptively defending against inevitable claims of “bullshit” by peers.
“I’m the president of your fan club!" Darryl squealed, clutching the aging pop singers
hand as if trying to break off a piece for his collection of what would later prove on
inspection to be worthless detritus and painful reminders of a career highlighted by
performing in failing malls and musty Eisenhower-era gymnasia.
**Clarissa left in a Huff, or perhaps it was a Pardue, it was hard to tell - that year was a bad one for automotive styling with one model looking pretty much like all the others, and none of them very good or interesting or true; leastways, not true in the way a good woman is true, which Clarissa was not one of. **
And,
**The rain-slick road cried out her name as she drove away, although it could actually have been the tires sucking against the pavement, under-inflated as they were because she never, ever bothered to read the damn manual, leaving me standing there, in the rain, with no shelter from the storm if you don’t count the house, which I turned around and went into. **
If you could fill a book with this kind of ‘intentionally bad and funny despite itself’ kind of way I’d be all over it. Almost like a line from Douglas Adams.
Well, you know what they say: when life hands you lemons . . . um, something something something, something else, some kind of aphorism, then a big flourish having to do with lemons. Or something.
Sorry, but, you can’t claim the title. Travis Tea is the winner.
To paraphrase Terese Neilson Hayden, the Bulwar-Litton contest is bad prose written by amateurs. Travis Tea’s Atlanta Nights is bad prose written by experts.
She knelt at the feet of the Master Boyo Jim, longing to pour praise on his glorious head, then decided that kneeling was probably a bad idea because his head was now out of reach but when she went to stand up her knees hurt so bad she couldn’t and she started to fall over and she grabbed his leg for balance and the Master, who didn’t know she was there, kicked hard thinking some weirdo had a hold of him and he kicked so hard he killed her and that was the end of her in a couple of ways, first she wasn’t going to be pouring praise on anyone because she was dead and second she wasn’t going to get her entry in the Bullwer-Lytton Bad Writing contest finished and sent off either.
1)“Urethra!”Stan shouted in a vain attempt at a joke after finding the keys
he’d thought lost forever but which were actually exactly where he had left
them the night before while waltzing alone through the mudroom blissfully
unaware of the humiilated stares of his two teen-aged children hopelessly
wishing he would forget they existed and walk past them and their laughing
friends who were, in truth, grateful it was not one of their own parents, home
from a dance class and deeply infatuated with the married, not especially
beautiful, yet curiously sensual instructor.
As I sit here I recall with both regret and a touch of bitter amusement akin to
that felt when watching one’s child hit a long high ball into center field only
to have him trip over his laces between third and home and being tagged
out to lose the game, seeing my first love walk down the aisle with another
man and knowing in my heart they would be far happier than we ever could
had we not been separated by an ocean while still teenagers, and then
laugh to myself when I remember the man walking down the aisle with her was
her father and the person waiting to marry her in front of the altar was in fact her
girlfriend.
I lay startled on the ground, which was cold and uncomfortable, and I hurt very badly as I contemplated how I ended up on this cold, uncomfortable ground and realized that it was partially my fault, and partially the fault of the old man, who was very wrinkled looking with false teeth and balding head, who in his carelessness I ended up on the cold ground, startled and uncomfortable.
The monster was horrific in appearance and closed in on the poor, frightened girl who, in her emotional distress, had hurt her ankle which made escape difficult and which caused her to voice her dissatisfaction with what was happened very vocally causing damage to her vocal cords…not that it would matter.
