Comments on: Give me your bad, your really bad, your huddled prose . . .

By: We have a winner!

We have a winner! — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 14:45:31 +0000

[...] (You can see all the entries here!) [...]

By: Mister

Mister — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 13:42:11 +0000

This sentence, horrible as it is, may have saved my life last night. I wish there was an additional prize for spaghetti/thunderstorm-related cautionary tales.

By: kelly

kelly — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 04:05:24 +0000

And . . . time!

Thank you for all the entries. They are . . . terrible! But which one is the worst?

Winner to be announced tomorrow morning.

By: Geordi

Geordi — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 03:30:24 +0000

The heavens, enwrapped in a pillowcase of inky sorrow, excreted lightning around the
geriatric choking on spaghetti.

By: Maya

Maya — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 02:56:39 +0000

These entries are the result of a group writing session on my patio:

Raj (my bro) -
Her gold toerings caught a glimmer of sunlight, attracting the men like the sound of a mariachi-broadcasting ice cream truck draws children to the sidewalk on a moist summer Sunday night.

Emily (his betrothed) -
The june bug sat on her face, its buggy body bouncing like a fat guy on a trampoline.

Maya (me) -
The night was not young, and ether was either the grace or curse of that Wednesday’s ending, which the alcohol ads did NOT prepare her for; Grace would later point out that it was a huge pictorial success, but, as everyone could plainly see, an abysmal chemical failure wherever ethoxyethane was concerned.

Clint (my husband) -
If you read it, you think it’s really depressing – it’s a tale of woe – but then it gets worse, and then when you think it can’t get any worse, it gets worser – and then it gets really bad.

Maya, Emily, and Raj -
Experience tells me, more than my age-addled Aunt Agnes, that men are like cheese – with age generally comes a fuzzy variety of mold.

Emily, Clint, Maya, and Raj –
Her rose tattoos peeked out from her ample cleavage as she playfully pulled out a copy of Grilling for Dummies and winked knowingly at her common-law husband.

By: Kyle

Kyle — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 02:33:12 +0000

It was the fourth time Edward Buffins had hidden like a mouse in the bushes of his apartment, waiting for his neighbor Diana Dufrane to sprint spryly by on her morning run, and as he sat cross-legged, waiting, he savored the recollection of her firm breasts swinging to and fro like two fleshy, synchronized pendulums.

By: Lara Zielin

Lara Zielin — Tue, 06 Jul 2010 16:48:16 +0000

Oh, I love this one! I am imagining some Yankee Candles in that knapsack, too.

By: Kelly W.

Kelly W. — Tue, 06 Jul 2010 14:22:53 +0000

Oh, it’s so perfectly bad! And romantic, too.

By: Mister

Mister — Tue, 06 Jul 2010 13:49:38 +0000

Is it possible that a sentence could be the worst of more bad sentences, but also the most perfect sentence ever written?

By: Lara Zielin

Lara Zielin — Tue, 06 Jul 2010 13:16:57 +0000

This one is also from the romance novel. Gosh, I just can’t figure why my agent didn’t find this guy a total sexpot:

His neck was crimped from where he’d tried to angle it comfortably in his reading chair, his left hand was asleep, and his mouth tasted like old socks.