Posted on 07/17/2004 9:09:20 AM PDT by Xenalyte
The brambles and the thorns grew thick and thicker in a ticking thicket of bickering crickets.
Farther along and stronger bonged the gongs of a throng of frogs, green and vivid on their lily pads.
From the sky came the crying of flies, and the pilgrims leaped over a bleating sheep creeping knee-deep in a sleepy stream, in which swift and slippery snakes slid and slithered silkily, whispering sinful secrets.
(James Thurber, The Thirteen Clocks)
Note: Sometimes it's just a good writer who is having a little fun. It is said that a good writer can't write poorly even when he tries.
Boy oh boy did I miss an obvious punchline here. Let me try it again.
Major Daniels could have understood meeting his demise with hot steel--shot in the chest during a hopeless-but-noble charge--or cold steel--at the end of a bout of cunning swordsmanship--but he had never imagined lukewarm steel. Yet there he lay dying, having been kicked in the head by his trusty steed, Luke.
Ping
The prominent dentist was summering at his sprawling summer estate, Tooth Acres.
The moon came up suddenly, like a clump of sour milk once stuck to the bottom of the water-filled glass you left in your sink when you went on vacation.
Definately the worst of all possible novels. Definately.
It was a summer romance, though an adult summer romance, I hasten to add, and as such, it was full of adult summer romance things, you know what I mean. But, as with most summer romances, it was destined to end as the autumnal equinox poured a chill on the fires of their summer in much the same manner as he had poured the passion to her in the burning, sweaty throes of their summer romance.
It was a summer romance, though an adult summer romance, I hasten to add, and as such, it was full of adult summer romance things, you know what I mean. But, as with most summer romances, it was destined to end as the autumnal equinox poured a chill on the fires of their summer in much the same manner as he had poured the passion to her in the burning, sweaty throes of their summer romance.
DD. Oakland, CA
It was a summer romance, though an adult summer romance, I hasten to add, and as such, it was full of adult summer romance things, you know what I mean. But, as with most summer romances, it was destined to end as the autumnal equinox poured a chill on the fires of their summer in much the same manner as he had poured the passion to her in the burning, sweaty throes of their summer romance.
DD. Oakland, CA
"Mr. President, it's time for your injections."
Heaving a sigh, the little electrician stamped out her cigarette.
(There you go, I am not proud of this, it is a take off on ‘big boobs getting in the way’ stories I heard long ago…)
Douglas Adams classics:
"A common mistake that people make when trying to design something completely foolproof is to underestimate the ingenuity of complete fools."
"The ships hung in the sky in much the same way that bricks don't."
"He felt that his whole life was some kind of dream and he sometimes wondered whose it was and whether they were enjoying it."
"Time is an illusion, lunchtime doubly so."
"How do you feel?" he asked him.
"Like a military academy,"said Arthur, "bits of me keep passing out."
"An expression of deep worry and concern failed to cross either of Zaphod's faces."
"Curiously enough, though he didn't know it, he was also a direct male-line descendent of Genghis Khan, though intervening generations and racial mixing had so juggled his genes that he had no discernible Mongoloid characteristics, and the only vestiges left in Mr. L. Prosser of his mighty ancestry were a pronounced stoutness about the tum and a predilection for little fur hats."
"Vogon poetry is of course the third worst in the Universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their Poet Master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem 'Ode to a Small Lump of Green Putty I Found in My Armpit One Midsummer Morning' four of his audience died of internal hemorrhaging, and the President of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos is reported to have been 'disappointed' by the poem's reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his twelve-book epic entitled 'My Favorite Bathtime Gurgles' when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save life and civilization, leaped straight up through his neck and throttled his brain."
Yawning metropolitan granite chasms beckoned.
Then, deep within their dusky depths,
echoed a plaintive cry of dispair and white hot anger.
"Not speak at the convention?
Just WHOOOOOOOOOO do they think they Arrrrrrrrre?".
Like a crusty pantsuit touched
by the redhot flame of desire,
her eyes flashed their defiance.
Her tremorous lips ooozing collegen,
she barked those fateful words.
"Bring ME the FBI files!"
Some where the sun is shining.
Some where hearts are gay.
But there is no joy in Beantown.
Hillery! Clinton has made her play.
"That was the summer we lost the bald Jeeter who was not even mostly Jeeter anymore but was probably mostly Throckmorton or anyway was probably considered mostly Throckmorton which was an appreciable step up from being considered mostly Jeeter since Jeeters hadn't ever been anything much while Throckmortons had in fact been something once previously before the money got gone and the prestige fell away leaving merely the bluster and the taint and the general Throckmorton aroma all of which taken together hardly made for a legacy worth getting stirred up over but any of which taken singly still outstripped the entire bulk of advancements ever attempted and realized by Jeeters who had scratched around in the dirt but were not much accomplished at farming and who had speculated in the herds of cattle but were not much accomplished at speculating either and who at last had turned their energies to the construction of a henhouse which commenced ramshackle and got worse but became nonetheless the chief Jeeter advancement along with the hens and the little speckled brown eggs and the localized ammonia cloud which was itself most probably the primary Jeeter success though no particular Jeeter or group of Jeeters together actually contributed to it or could prevent it either so when the bald Jeeter, with the fat Jeeter as her maid of honor, exchanged vows with Braxton Porter Throckmorton III in the sanctuary of the Methodist church on Saturday June the twelfth, 1942, and afterwards set up house in Neely proper she got away from the hens and the henhouse and out from under the ammonia cloud which was most likely beginning to expand in June of 1942 since it set in to expanding most every June and swelled straight to August and on into September, especially this past August and especially this past Septemebr, so we were having what had come to be our usual summer straight up to the moment Mr. Derwood Bridger laid his ladder against the Throckmorton clapboard and climbed to the upper story where he pressed his nose to the bedroom windowscreen and shaded his eyes and called and hollered and shrieked at the bald Jeeter until he was satisfied that she was gone from us for good."-- From Off For the Sweet Hereafter by T. R. Pearson
Very clever! Timely and a nice, oblique reference to Casey at the Bat!
:)
"He heard the thunder of horses in his head..."
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