The results are in....
I am sinking ever downward in a spiraling vortex of despair.
Why?
For the second year in a row, I've forgotten to enter the Bulwer-Lytton "worst writing" contest, which is a tragedy of epic proportions! It is named in honor of a terrible Victorian writer named Edward George Earl Bulwer-Lytton, and the object is for participants to "submit bad opening sentences to imaginary novels."
This year's winner (Jim Guigli):
"Detective Bart Lasiter was in his office studying the light from his one small window falling on his super burrito when the door swung open to reveal a woman whose body said you've had your last burrito for a while, whose face said angels did exist, and whose eyes said she could make you dig your own grave and lick the shovel clean."
Other amusing entries:
"Despite the vast differences it their ages, ethnicity, and religious upbringing, the sexual chemistry between Roberto and Heather was the most amazing he had ever experienced; and for the entirety of the Labor Day weekend they had sex like monkeys on espresso, not those monkeys in the zoo that fling their feces at you, but more like the monkeys in the wild that have those giant red butts, and access to an espresso machine."
"It was a dreary Monday in September when Constable Lightspeed came across the rotting corpse that resembled one of those zombies from Michael Jackson's "Thriller," except that it was lying down and not performing the electric slide"
"Lisa moved like a cat, not the kind of cat that moves with a slinky grace but more like the kind that always falls off the book shelf when he's washing himself and then gets all mad at you like it's your fault (which it wasn't although it probably was kind of mean to laugh at him like that), although on the bright side, she hardly ever attacked Ricky's toes in his sleep."
"The sun, which much resembled the yolk of a sunny-side up egg, set over the slight hill like a cheerio falling off the back of a spoon when a spoon is upside-down on a table and a cheerio is set on top of it."
"Yet again Imelda was exacerbated, or at least she assumed she was, as she was never sure exactly what the term meant though when she felt bloated and crampy as she was now, she was pretty sure she was, exacerbated that is."
My Humble Effort:
"La la la la la!", warbled the ravishingly tempting Victoria Sutton-Fairbanks, who delicately combed her hair of gold spun silk whilst plucking ivory petals from the blushing daisies that surrounded her daintily elfin tootsies; "he loves me, he loves me not, he LOVES me!" she trilled, thrilled beyond measure that the object of her affections, the sinewy and turgid barbarian prince, might have noticed her at the ball last night.
Why?
For the second year in a row, I've forgotten to enter the Bulwer-Lytton "worst writing" contest, which is a tragedy of epic proportions! It is named in honor of a terrible Victorian writer named Edward George Earl Bulwer-Lytton, and the object is for participants to "submit bad opening sentences to imaginary novels."
This year's winner (Jim Guigli):
"Detective Bart Lasiter was in his office studying the light from his one small window falling on his super burrito when the door swung open to reveal a woman whose body said you've had your last burrito for a while, whose face said angels did exist, and whose eyes said she could make you dig your own grave and lick the shovel clean."
Other amusing entries:
"Despite the vast differences it their ages, ethnicity, and religious upbringing, the sexual chemistry between Roberto and Heather was the most amazing he had ever experienced; and for the entirety of the Labor Day weekend they had sex like monkeys on espresso, not those monkeys in the zoo that fling their feces at you, but more like the monkeys in the wild that have those giant red butts, and access to an espresso machine."
"It was a dreary Monday in September when Constable Lightspeed came across the rotting corpse that resembled one of those zombies from Michael Jackson's "Thriller," except that it was lying down and not performing the electric slide"
"Lisa moved like a cat, not the kind of cat that moves with a slinky grace but more like the kind that always falls off the book shelf when he's washing himself and then gets all mad at you like it's your fault (which it wasn't although it probably was kind of mean to laugh at him like that), although on the bright side, she hardly ever attacked Ricky's toes in his sleep."
"The sun, which much resembled the yolk of a sunny-side up egg, set over the slight hill like a cheerio falling off the back of a spoon when a spoon is upside-down on a table and a cheerio is set on top of it."
"Yet again Imelda was exacerbated, or at least she assumed she was, as she was never sure exactly what the term meant though when she felt bloated and crampy as she was now, she was pretty sure she was, exacerbated that is."
My Humble Effort:
"La la la la la!", warbled the ravishingly tempting Victoria Sutton-Fairbanks, who delicately combed her hair of gold spun silk whilst plucking ivory petals from the blushing daisies that surrounded her daintily elfin tootsies; "he loves me, he loves me not, he LOVES me!" she trilled, thrilled beyond measure that the object of her affections, the sinewy and turgid barbarian prince, might have noticed her at the ball last night.
posted by L at 9:09 PM
3 Comments:
I really liked the Michael Jackson one...might have read the whole book! Not.
Here's an idea...go to one of those places that let's you dress up in old clothes and have your picture made in one of those 1800 get-ups and use that as your profile photo.
Oh, it must have a corset and your waist must be at least 20"!
sinewy and turgid...i stopped reading past that!
hehe
Mushy: I still think MINE is the best :)
cap'n Rich: there is absolutely nothing wrong with you -- they are all wonderful opening sentences, really
Roselle: I love those words :)
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