OT Each passage is from a winner of an annual bad writing contest ( hey most of em remind me of my posts over theyears...lol)
<< A small assortment of astonishingly loud brass instruments raced each other lustily to the respective ends of their distinct musical choices as the gates flew open to release a torrent of tawny fur comprised of angry yapping bullets that nipped at Desdemona's ankles, causing her to reflect once again (as blood filled her sneakers and she fought her way through the panicking crowd) that the annual Running of the Pomeranians in Liechtenstein was a stupid idea.
The lone monarch butterfly flew flutteringly through the cemetery, dancing on and glancing against headstone after headstone before alighting atop Willie Mitchell's already lowered casket, causing gasps of awe to fly from the open mouths of five or six lingering mourners, until a big shovelful of dirt landed on it and it died.
The graphic crime-scene photo that stared up at Homicide Inspector Chuck Venturi from the center of his desk was not a pretty picture, though it could have been, Chuck mused, had it only been shot in soft focus with a shutter speed of 1/125 second at f 5.6 or so.
This was the night, the night that began when the sun dipped its hot belly below the trees outside Detective Gravning's window, the night that would not end until the sun rose in the morning, like the flaming red hair on the married head of Dectective Gravning's lover, who rose now from his bed, and pranced through the room, like a match struck, then thrown.
When the mightily-hewn warrior-hero Glark One-Ear, fed up with paying the tribute demanded by the despotic wizard Jormed-the-Doubly-Soulless, set out to single-handedly unite the warring barbarian tribes of Verfot and lead them in bloodily overthrowing the evil mage's tyranny, he envisioned a progressive tax system based upon income brackets, yet allowing deductions for business expenses, dependents, and charitable donations.
"I could tell you stories about this road we shall be traveling," the old man told his young companions as he leaned on his staff and stroked his silver beard, "of how it was built by Dwarves of the Barad-dur in the days of Thranduil the Great, numberless years before the Elves of the Ered Luin left their silver woods in Lindon, sailed their ships over the Western Sea, and passed from the knowledge of men, but what would you learn from these tales, except that I squandered my college years reading far too much Tolkien instead of meeting girls."
The wind attacked the house with a voracious appetite, lapping hungrily at the eaves, whipping the gutter refuse into a frothy shake of leaves and dirt, while rattling the slate shingles like an orphan banging his plate for more.
Like most members of "Mustela putorius fero," known to laymen as the domestic ferret, our inquisitive hero (about whom more we shall shortly read) resembled a shrunken polar bear, toasted by a blowtorch, suffixed by a tail, and stretched out like taffy while still hot.
Kirk's mind raced as he quickly assessed his situation: the shields were down, the warp drive and impulse engines were dead, life support was failing fast, and the Enterprise was plummeting out of control toward the surface of Epsilon VI and, as Scotty and Spock searched frantically through the manuals trying to find a way to save them all, Kirk vowed, as he stared at the solid blue image filling the main view screen, that never again would he allow a Microsoft operating system to control his ship.
The battered starship bucked and yawed in the frigid belly of the interstellar ion storm, her tortured steel deckplates screaming as they were mercilessly wrenched by the lashing gravity tide waves, the ship's disaster alarms blaring madly and the crash lighting casting an eerie red glow in the smoke-filled bridge as StarCaptain Lazlo Permute, gripping the diskette containing the necessary navigation coordinates to finally escape the storm, waited for the elevator door to the bridge to go "ding" and open."
Out of the killer cold of the forty-below unending Arctic night into the glowing warmth of the Last Ditch Saloon, we stumbled numbly, dragging behind us the frozen dead corpse of our friend, Bartholomew, whom the hardened permafrost of the tundra resisted our burying, and, leaning poor stiff Bart against a wall, gaily called out for drinks for the house, as we were flush with prospected gold that now only needed to be split two ways.
As he saw her step lightly down from the stagecoach, Deputy Slim Pickens reckoned that Luella Mae Bumtugger, the new schoolmarm, was 'bout as fine as frog hair; tapered legs smooth as a salamander and skinny as a newborn colt; brown eyes dark and deep as a barn owl in the shadows of midnight; and a bosom that heaved up through the low cut blouse like two hairless prairie dogs trying to back out of the same hole.
"Alas," Vanessa sighed, "What can one do when one's relationship begins to stale in much the same way as a day-old cinnamon roll which was wrapped in wax paper rather than having been sealed in plastic, and can only be made remotely palatable for a very brief period when reheated for a few seconds in a microwave, after which it becomes even more revolting than it was in the first place?"
As I gazed at my new bride's perfectly round face, with its one eyebrow slightly longer than the other, and listened to the continuous ticking of her grinding teeth as she slept, I grabbed a felt-tip marker, realizing that all she was missing were twelve numbers around the perimeter of her face to remind me this was forever.
My first night with Anastasia was the kind of magical, passionate ride that left me with my pants on the back of the kitchen chair, my underwear on the chandelier, my socks in the toilet, my hair on the door handle, half of my artificial leg somewhere in the pantry, my kidney in a Coleman ice chest on its way to the Moroccan black market, and my car in a Tijuana auto repair shop with new, red, diamond-tuck interior.
Bruce remained on bended knee in front of Sheila, who fixed him with a gaze as cold as a seven-bone roast which had been in the coldest part of the freezer for eight months, and even though a tear trickled down his left cheek, her heart hardened, becoming actually as hard as that same seven-bone roast after that same amount of time in that same part of the freezer, (because when things freeze they also become very hard), and then Bruce knew with certainty that, as usual, Sheila was going to give him the cold shoulder.
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