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Student Similes |  | ||
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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. She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just
before it throws up. The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this
plan just might work. Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently
compressed by a Thigh Master. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like
underpants in a dryer without Cling Free. He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy
who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those
boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at
high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one
of those boxes with a pinhole in it. The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling
ball wouldn't. McBride fell twelve stories, hitting the pavement like a hefty bag filled
with vegetable soup. 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 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30. 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. He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree. 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 6:36p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19
p.m. at a speed of 35 mph. The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the period after the Dr.
on a Dr Pepper can. John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had
also never met. 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. The red brick wall was the color of a brick-red Crayola crayon. He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the East
River. Even in his last years, Grandpappy had a mind like a steel trap, only
one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut. Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do. The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating
for a while. "Oh, Jason, take me!" she panted, her breasts heaving like
a college freshman on $1-a-beer night. He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but
a real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine
or something. Her artistic sense was exquisitely refined, like someone who can tell
butter from I Can't Believe It's Not Butter. It came down the stairs looking very much like something no one had ever
seen before. The knife was as sharp as the tone used by Rep. Sheila Jackson Lee (D-Tex.)
in her first several points of parliamentary procedure made to Rep. Henry
Hyde (R-Ill.) in the House Judiciary Committee hearings on the impeachment
of President William Jefferson Clinton. The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg
behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant. The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because
of his wife's infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly
surcharge-free ATM. It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power
tools. He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as
if she were a garbage truck backing up. Her eyes were like limpid pools, only they had forgotten to put in any
pH cleanser. She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature
Canadian beef. Her voice had that tense, grating quality, like a first-generation thermal
paper fax machine that needed a band tightened. It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to
the wall. She was as easy as the "TV Guide" crossword. Many of these originated in Douglas Grant's Style Invitational from the Washington Post, July 23, 1995 - since sent around the Internet many times! Can you do better? Write to Wordskit Contributions to The Langwidge this year:Sol Squire, David Lawton And see acknowledgments from previous years |
Alphabet
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| 13 January 2008 | | |
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