Lady Steed has been complaining voraciously about the book she's now reading which is full of absurd and obnoxious metaphors and similies like the following:
- Each morning, including Sundays, the sun rose with a golf tee in its mouth.
- She rolled in like a peach basket that had swallowed a hoop snake.
- ...like a barnyard orchid, like a meat bubble, like a saline lollipop...
- ...that lay like a freshly ironed pillowcase atop the TV set.
And for good measure, this fun thing was said by one character:
- All the show here ever shows anymore are bear-poop-in-the-trail movies put out by the Mormon Church.
Yet she can't...stop...reading it.
Perhaps this is why:
- This sentence is made of lead (and a sentence of lead gives a reader an entirely different sensation from one made of magnesium). This sentence is made of yak wool. This sentence is made of sunlight and plums. This sentence is made of ice. This sentence is made from the blood of the poet. This sentence was made in Japan. This sentence glows in the dark. This sentence was born with a caul. This sentence has a crush on Norman Mailer. This sentence is a wino and doesn't care who knows it. Like many italic sentences, this one has Mafia connections. This sentence is a double Cancer with Pisces rising. This sentence lost it's mind searching for the perfect paragraph. This sentence refuses to be diagramed. This sentence ran off with an adverb clause. This sentence is 100 percent organic: it will not retain a facsimile of freshness like those sentences of Homer, Shakespeare, Goethe et al., which are loaded with preservatives. This sentence leaks. This sentence doesn't look Jewish . . . This sentence has accepted Jesus Christ as its personal savior. This sentence once spit in a book reviewer's eye. This sentence can do the funky chicken. This sentence has seen too much and forgotten too little. This sentence is called "Speedoo" but its real name is Mr. Earl. This sentence suffered a split infinitive — and survived. If this sentence had been a snake you'd have bitten it. This sentence went to jail withCliffordr Irving. This sentence went to Woodstock. And this little sentence went wee wee wee all the way home.
Whew! How can you turn down a book like that?