Friday, August 12, 2005

Analogize This

Good evening, los guapos.

It's five minutes 'til 6:00 on Friday, and I am still working like a water buffalo. Over the past two days I've had two computers die completely (one of them belonging to the president of the school) and a third start to make screeching noises indicating that it is not to be outdone. If I weren't such a "cool under fire" kind of...... wait a minute. Did I just write "working like a water buffalo?" I did, didn't I? Good Lord - what a terrible analogy, BUT wouldn't you know it gave me a grrr-EAT idea. Here's the deal. I don't want to stay here much longer, but I also don't want to leave you without a Friday post and I won't be able to write one later tonight. So instead, I'm going to copy and paste one of the funnier emails I've received in the last two years and let that serve in place of whatever creative wisdom I'm currently lacking. And of course, it's a list of terribly written analogies. Apologies if you've seen this before, but it's always good for a chuckle. Have a great weekend folks. I'll talk to you a little bit later on.

The sun rose over the horizon like a great big radioactive baby's head with a bad sunburn, but then again it might just have been that Lisa was always cranky this early in the morning.

Jane was toast, and not the light buttery kind, nay, she was the kind that's been charred and blackened in the bottom of the toaster and has to be thrown a away because no matter how much of the burnt part you scrape off with a knife, there's always more blackened toast beneath, the kind that not even starving birds in winter will eat, that kind of toast.

Her artistic sense was exquisitely refined, like someone who can tell butter from I Can't Believe It's Not Butter.

As Fiona slowly drew the heavy velvet curtain aside, her eyes smoldered black, deep, and dark as inside the lungs of a coal miner, although it would be black in anyone's lungs if you could get in there because there wouldn't be any light, even in the pink ones of people who don't smoke.

Having O.J. try on the bloody glove was a stroke of genius unseen since the debut of Goober on "Mayberry R.F.D".

Losing is like fertilizer: it stinks for a while, then you get used to it.

A branch fell from the tree like a trunk falling off an elephant.

He was as bald as one of the Three Stooges, either Curly or Larry, you know, the one who goes "woo woo woo".

From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and "Jeopardy" comes on at 7 p.m. instead of 7:30.

Her pants fit her like a glove, well, maybe more like a mitten, actually.

Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.

Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the center.

Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan's teeth.

He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.

Just like (or as) a bicycle rider lifts his butt from the seat when he sees a bump coming, so Bob pulled back, emotionally, when Alice got angry.

She danced with the grace and elegance of a pregnant cow.

The painting was very Escher-like, as if Escher had painted an exact copy of an Escher painting.

The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.

After sending in my entries for the Style Invitational, I feel relieved and apprehensive, like a little boy who has just wet his bed.

Her date was pleasant enough, but she knew that if her life was a movie this guy would be buried in the credits as something like "Second Tall Man."

Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

The moon looked like a discarded toenail clipping submersed in a puddle of saliva on a black formica countertop.

She caught your eye like one of those pointy hook latches that used to dangle from screen doors and would fly up whenever you banged the door open again.

The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the period after the Dr. on a Dr Pepper can.

We are all like those little pink and blue plastic people in the game of Life.

John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.

The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.

The thunder was ominous-sounding, much like the sound of a thin sheet of metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene in a play.

His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.

He felt like he was being hunted down like a dog, in a place that hunts dogs, I suppose.

The red brick wall was the color of a brick-red Crayola crayon.

She was sending me more mixed signals than a dyslexic third-base coach.

She felt used and unwanted, like the two chocolate halves of an Oreo cookie after someone has already licked the cream out of them.

My underwear stuck to my backside like an All-Pro cornerback to a rookie wide receiver as I browsed through the seed catalog that had mistakenly found its way into my mailbox.

Chicken: it's like a cow, but different.

The lamp just sat there, like an inanimate object.

His fountain pen was so expensive it looked as if someone had grabbed the pope, turned him upside down and started writing with the tip of his big pointy hat.


Blogger Sean said...

My favorite is "Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever." not just because it's a bad analogy, but you can tell there's absolutely no effort put into it.

Great Tricky track, by the way.

11:40 AM  

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