Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two other
sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.
Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
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.
Even in his last years, Grandpa had a mind like a steel trap, only
one that had been left out so long it had rusted shut.
The door had been forced, as forced as the dialogue during the
interview portion of Family Fortunes.
Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.
The plan was simple, like my brother Phil. But unlike Phil, this
plan just might work.
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
student
on 31p-a-pint 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."
She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes
just before it throws up.
It came down the stairs looking very much like something no one had
ever seen before.
The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg
behind her, like a dog at a lamppost.
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 cashpoint.
The dandelion swayed in the gentle breeze like an oscillating
electric fan set on medium.
It was a working class tradition, like fathers chasing kids around
with their power tools.
He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as
if she were a dustcart reversing.
She was as easy as the Daily Star crossword.
She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was
room-temperature British beef.
She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
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.
Re: Bad Analogies
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Originally Posted by Proletariat
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