The World's Worst Writing Strikes Again

Aw dang. I thought you were starting another communal story, Jes...however... if I must, I must, so here goes:

My head was pounding, like when the beefy, butt-cracking-showing 350 lb man swings the sledgehammer to win that "Hit the whatever it's called" game at the carnivals, and my mouth was completely devoid of moisture, drier than sandpaper, drier than dust, drier than the Sahara and Gobi Deserts combined even, yes, it was so dry that I couldn't feel my tongue but I assumed it was still there, and my stomach was roiling, like it contained a hurricane, tornado, typhoon and every other horrible weather event I could imagine; I hurt, hurt badly, and I wanted to kill myself but I had an appointment at 10:00.

Flying, thought Doug briefly, is a delicate game of lift, drag, thrust, and weight, which he played briefly (and lost spectacularly) in the few moments between leaving the bouncer's arms and arriving at the pavement.

Landing, thought Doug briefly, is a mathematical puzzle for arriving tangentially to the ground, a puzzle which Doug failed to solve before coming to a successful, if painful, three-point touch-down.

Laying there, Doug thought nothing, briefly.

Hmmm. According to various editors, I might use any manuscript for which I have a stack of rejection slips, but here's a contribution.

“He’s as mellow as freezer burned potroast that doesn’t smell quite right” she thought as she cooked it anyway and decided ketchup would conceal the leathery tasteless texture as he didn’t strike her as the melodramatic fussy type that would make a scene.

Standing over the fallen statue the tears from Becky flowed at the realization that the shattered plaster of paris fragments from the statue which lay there in pieces of the ground were the direct result of her actions and that was because her dress, as told by her mother, was too extensive and had a tendency to wave in the wind and catch things when Becky ran and here was the proof laying in pieces on the ground and one of Becky's tears hit the eye of the statue and rolled off into the dust, almost as if the eye of the statue was crying. Becky saw that and her tears flew anew.

Read this Amazon book review:

http://www.amazon.com/review/R1LPA5YOND6TGD/ref=cm_cr_rdp_perm

That might possibly be the greatest paragraph I have ever read. I have already sent it to a half dozen friends. Classic.

That was very funny....

"Behold:

"Of all the things to think, he never thought he'd think that."

And:

"Already, he knew he wouldn't be able to do it. In fact, he KNEW he wouldn't."

???"
~~~
I wish the reviewer has listed all the author's malapropisms... "the glow was emancipating from the closet..." too funny.

You don't have a half dozen friends!

Oh thank God it's an AuthorHouse (I think that might be like St. Marten's Press, which is mostly a vanity imprint).

"Angel," Rocky said, "you turn me on like a cat licking barbecue sauce off a Post-It note."

Sheesh. That review reminds me of some of the stuff Roberta has had to proof. Poor woman!

Sorry, typo and all that. Change "friends" to "half dozen random people"

Somebody in the comments section of that review linked to the kid's site, and that's pretty interesting/hilarious, too. He has reviews of his book posted--they all say things like "I'm not a fan of horrer, but this has romance suspence mystery!! the whole package!!! the next Stephen King!!!"

And apparently this review started a whole big mess on his forum...it's crazy if you go there. I guess the site was set up so that anyone could post under any name, and people were posting as "Aaron Rayburn" and saying stuff like "i is a gret writer, ur all just jelouz LOLZ," etc. It sorta made me feel sorry for the big dope.

I was relieved to see that it was just a vanity press thing, though--I'd be so mad if something that bad had gotten published!

Her girl eyes of move danced with sparkles and sassy smirks, on lips agloss with red lips, taunting Joe, who doe eyed felt a dry mouth, burning.

Maud, her dermis greasy with the oleaginous effusions of the black bat night just passed, her glaucous orbs clogged and bleared with the sticky, yellow ooze of slumber, her countenance creased and fissured as though titanic tectonic tussles had marred her repose, then frozen through endless aeons of slow-marching time, her mouth open and arid as any Atacama, but reeking as if a grave gaped and gave forth its charnel stench, stirred ponderously in her sleazy, stained sheets as her dim consciousness struggled to surface, Kraken-like, as though from the deepest, darkest abyss of the dreadful deeps....then, as if crushed by its own heft, sank back deep into the primordial ooze of her id.

Grace attended yoga class faithfully, despite a hatred for twisting her body like a tortured simile.

When the monster stuck its head through the door, breaking it, and the wall around it too, she was still in bed. Like, asleep. But then she woke up, and saw the monster, which was very ugly. He reminded her of her uncle, who was also very ugly, except that he was much bigger of course. She was very scared. She hadn't been this scared since she fell out of the climbing ropes at PE class, except that this was much, much more scary of course. Was it going to eat her? Would it spit fire like the monsters in the comic books she used to read (she was such a geek!) as a child? It was still there, making a din of a noise. What could she do?

Ham? Why did it always have to be ham? Paul thought as he smiled for yet another photo op. The elections business is a difficult game, and a nonkosher one, he mused, as he took a bite of tref and pretended to smile, secretly hoping and lying to himself that maybe, just maybe, it was mislabeled chicken.