[Cross posted from Hiram Hover, here's one for the lighter side]
Maybe it's because I'm so inept at drawing good analogies myself, as Mrs. Hover frequently insists, and I'm simply finding vindication and pleasure in the verbal and logical miscues of others, whether in literature, academic writing, or political argument.
I especially like extended bad analogies--they're like watching a train wreck in slow motion, as the cars pile up one into another, each bringing both its own satisfaction and the tingling anticipation of another crunching, metal-screeching impact to come (that one's for the missus).
So - I was delighted to see that bad similes and metaphors figure prominently among winners in the 2005 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, which honors gloriously bad writing (hat tip to University Diaries and Critical Mass).
Follow me to the flip for some wonderfully wretched writing.
For example:
As he stared at her ample bosom, he daydreamed of the dual Stromberg carburetors in his vintage Triumph Spitfire, highly functional yet pleasingly formed, perched prominently on top of the intake manifold, aching for experienced hands, the small knurled caps of the oil dampeners begging to be inspected and adjusted as described in chapter seven of the shop manual. [from contest winner Dan McKay]
And there's this:
India, that hangs like a wet washcloth from the towel rack of Asia, presented itself to Tex as he landed in Delhi (or was it Bombay?), as if it mattered because Tex finally had an idea to make his mark and fortune and that idea was a chain of steak houses to serve the millions and he wondered, as he deplaned down the steep, shiny, steel steps, why no one had thought of it before. [from Grand Panjandrum's Special Award winner Ken Aclin]
And this:
She walked toward him, her dress billowing in the wind -- not a calm and predictable billows like the sea, but more like the billowing of a mildewed shower curtain in a cheap motel where one has to dance around to avoid touching it while trying to rinse off soap. [from Kristin Harbuck, runner up in the Purple Prose category]
And this:
After months of pent-up emotions like a caffeine-addict trying to kick the habit, Cathy finally let the tears come, at first dripping sporadically like an old clogged percolator, then increasing slowly like a 10-cup coffeemaker with an automatic drip, and eventually pouring out and noisily wailing like a cappuccino maker complete with slurping froth. [from Chris Bui, dishonorable mention, Purple Prose]
I'll confess that the last is my favorite, because it's a sort of trifecta: extended, mixed, and artlessly godawful in the first place--it's like watching the wreck of an especially rickety train, in slow motion, as the cars ....
