Original Bad Prose or Stories!
 

SoNotHer and I enjoyed the Bad Bar Lines so much, we talked about starting a thread with our own, original prose or stories.

It can be a take off on Bad Hemingway or Dark and Stormy night or whatever you would like. My first attempt is very, very bad and I hope you enjoy it!

Dark & Stormy Night by Anya:)
 

It was a dark and stormy night...the wind blew cold and then it blew as hot as a sandstorm across the desert in Morocco or the hot breath of her former lover that always seemed to smell as though she bathed in a vat of onions.

She didn't know if she should put on a heavier coat or take off her dress. It was very confusing to her and it did not take too much to trouble her mind or to wrinkle her brow...though having just had her latest series of Botox injections; it was not exactly a brow wrinkle.

She almost looked as she did the one time a rabid bat flew into her tiny, one-room apartment and startled her so much that she dropped a pot of spaghetti sauce and it appeared just like it was fresh, dripping blood splashed up to the ceiling on her yellowed, kitchen wall, right next to the stove, heavy with grease that she never washed off because grease made her sick.

Her BFF told her what had happened to her when the unlicensed plastic surgeon injected her with Botox. It appeared he *"Spocked" her! She shrugged off that thought because thinking about it upset her and upsetting thoughts would only beget more wrinkles. It was a vicious circle really and a circle of hell as vivid to her as Dante's 7th.

She decided she would take off her dress to cool off. It was a lovely shade of purple that she had bought at a thrift shop because it had a wide, black leather belt that went perfectly with her red patent leather tennis shoes that she picked out because they helped her sprint like a tornado when she last ran with the bulls on a trip to Spain the summer her father married for the 3rd time.

Much better she thought. I am now comfortable. Her smooth and untroubled forehead, though relaxed from the injections, smoothed out further and life was good.

*” As in brows that go up at the ends like Spock.

"..as vivid as Dante's 7th"
 

OMG

This is laugh out loud stuff, A/G!

I love it and the gauntlet has indeed been thrown down.

Time to get cooking....

:canoworms:

Beulah had long suffered the fact that her attempts to capture the coveted “Perfect Peaks” award for the 'gazooms that garnered the longest and most genuine gawking' were for naught, especially when Tussy LaMare was in the running and threatening to fire candy corn from a whirly gig mounted to her devils dumplings, if she lost. Nevertheless and consequently, her sense of good sportsmanship challenged to its absolute limit, Beulah decided that this year, “Second Best Breasts” was simply not good enough.[/SIZE]

Classically awesome in the worst sense of the word!!
 

Oh my sister! LOL:):)

OK, I will work on a shortie, a one paragraph one but doubt I can top yours for a sheer, sheer wonderful use of words and turn of phrase!

But, I will try!

Eagerly awaiting the next entry, A/G :hangloose:

Laissez les mal mots rollez!

*snickers @ devils dumplings

Not sure exactly what works in here but I think this fits the bill for very bad prose:

I had been waiting for this moment for all eternity and would have waited for a thousand forevers if it came to that and consider myself fortunate for the speed of it all and now that it was here I planned to slow down time and make it last that eternity that I had waited so patiently for and as my sword of plenty entered her vacuum of need I wondered just how long forever could be.

I actually entered the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction contest (the yearly challenge to compose the opening sentence of the worst of all possible novels) twice:

“Say you’ll marry me”, pleaded the furnace repair man as he gazed down at Big Thelma who beamed up at him from bended knees, silently thanking her lucky stars that she’d forgotten to put her teeth in.

“That’s life” she said to everyone in general and no one in particular as she sucked back the last of her bourbon & branch and thoughtfully twirled a strand of her moustache through her fingers.

Bad, bad writing
 

She loved her eyes, though one was blue and other, a shade of Harlequin green that at one angle almost appeared yellow, so she always tried to remember to turn her head to the right when people looked at her, so then that eye did appear more green but it hurt her neck to always tilt her head at an 80 degree angle and it was still a problem because people never quite knew if they should look into her green eye or her blue, so instead they tried to look at her nose but since it had been fractured and never properly set, her nose tilted to the left and it was so confusing, people would turn around and walk away, rather than have to deal with such a vexing situation.

Her lower lip quivered and her creamy bosom heaved in time with her hopes as they rose and fell while she waited delicately perched on the edge of what could be a dream but might break her heart depending on whether or not she heard the words “will you accept this rose?”

I Wanna Write Bad Things With You.

Some might say it had ended before it began. That it never had a chance. That it went sour like bad wine. You might think the bad taste in my mouth would have stopped me. But it didn’t. I could never read the writing on the wall, being illiterate and all. Maybe if I had learned to read; or maybe if I had been more interested in wine tasting lessons. If I was just a little smarter, I could have understood an end when I saw one. Maybe when you slashed my tires it should have ended. But instead I just bought more tires. Maybe when you shot my dog I could have stopped it then. But I didn’t. I cleaned up the mess and buried my pooch, my tears washing away the blood and dirt from my face. Maybe that should have been the end. Well it was for Rover. But I was always the dumber animal between the two of us. Maybe when you ran me down with your car that should have ended it. But I always hated to read things into stuff, especially since I can’t read. And after all I am prone to over analyzing. I was still trying to figure out what you were trying to tell me when you jumped off that building smashing yourself to a bloody pulp against the concrete below. Perhaps if you hadn’t ended it, I could have figured out what you were trying to say.

Somebunny and Sam
 

He liked to call her his little bunny, because she was small and very soft, but also called her “honey bunny” or sometimes “bunny face” because of the way her nose crinkled when she was struggling with a decision about something important like chocolate or vanilla, or sometimes “bunny wabbit” when he was feeling particularly tender and which, quite frankly, she adored. She called him Sam because that was his name and because she wanted to be the only one with cute nicknames and also because she just wasn’t that creative and couldn’t come up with anything other than “honey Sam” or “Sam face” or “Sam wabbit”, which just didn’t sound right to her.

As he sat there, listening to her voice, screeching at him, he wondered why exactly it was he could hear her? Surely this was a voice intended only for canines! He looked around the small kitchen as she railed on and on about the new Walmart and what a blessing from heaven it truly was.

He began to daydream about the different ways he could stifle that Godawful voice. For a quick moment he thought of just doing her in with the cast iron skillet, but he was hungry and did not want to waste the perfectly good meal that lay therein. He considered sticking her head in the electric can-opener and letting that thing take a spin or two. Yeah, the can-opener! That was the way to go! Nah, while he thought it great fun to imagine, he couldn't kill her. Who would make his dinner? Who would make sure he wore clean, mended clothes? Who would feed the animals, the children, the endless procession of Jesus people that came a-prayin' most every day? Besides, he was a lazy man lacking in the motivation to brush his teeth, much less make the effort it would take to put a hurtin' on her.

He sat looking at the woman who had cared for him for 35 years, trying to tune out the shrieking instrument that was her voice. Finally it dawned on him, it was so easy he was surprised he had not thought of it long ago. Taking a brussel sprout in each hand he shoved them in to his ears. Silence!! It was glorious silence. It was then he, the man who would not deign to move were a train racing toward him, slowly rose from his chair and walked to the refrigerator. He picked up a pen and wrote at the bottom of the grocery list.....busal poots lauts uv busal poots.

I am sitting crying at work, trying to stifle my laughter and associated tears, for the simple reason; I am at work. I should not have even looked because here is one more masterpiece of supremely clever, bad writing! I tip my hat to you, WMM, as well as to the other writers.

Who knew we had such talent among us. To paraphrase OliverTwist..."Please...may I have more, please?"

Thank you Anya!! Although...I am debating as to whether I am happy about my ability to write badly!


Thinking....................................


Okay...I am happy!

Ask, Anya, and you shall receive (and you can't send it back to the kitchen - oh no!)

__________________________________________________ _______________

Meanwhile back at the ranch, Mindy Sue Ellen Bob was fixing something that wasn’t exactly stew and wasn’t exactly meatloaf. It jiggled like a squishy meatloaf lump but at about the point of tinely penetration it collapsed like an overloaded baby diaper. Of course no one was looking for a textural experience with Mindy Sue Ellen Bob’s cooking. Most folks were looking to eat whatever she spooned or timorously forked over with just one hope - to disengage all senses and ingest the amorphous amoeba-like mass in a kind-of-out-body gastric osmotic trance.

For the cowpokes and dudes of Ranch Dressing Ranch, pulling this off wasn’t always a smooth ride in the kiddy rodeo.

She loved how he appeared so stately and distinguished, with just a touch of gray at his temples.

She thought he looked like a TV star in a mens deodorant commercial; with the snow and the wind blowing at a nearly gale-force, through his beautiful hair, which she clocked, by her stop-watch, at 60- miles per hour.

Unfortunately, he was too proud to chase it, as it blew down the street, as though it were a tumbleweed on steroids.

Laughed out loud at "tumbleweed on steroids."

So glad I was drinking something at the time!

Such fun these stories are!!