"The 25 Funniest Analogies (Collected by High School English Teachers)"

That stuff is priceless, like a can of soup at the grocery store that didn't have a price sticker on it....LMAO!
 
4. She grew on him like she was a colony of E. Coli, and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.

is a bit unfair on Canadian beef, especially as I eat it most weeks :)
 
2. His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.
Click to expand...

That made me laugh till I cried , like bring trapped in an elevator with a dog that ate too much Hamburger Helper.
 
That whole site is filled with good stuff. I hope I can retain most of it, like the burping of a liverwurst sandwich well-after lunch. ;)

Coop
 
GibsonFan said:
Bleh, that's dumb as a box of rocks. :D
Click to expand...

Not quite as dumb as a piano-player in a marching band however......


The Bulwer-Lytton fiction page has some great metaphors and similies as well.....

As the fading light of a dying day filtered through the window blinds, Roger stood over his victim with a smoking .45, surprised at the serenity that filled him after pumping six slugs into the bloodless tyrant that mocked him day after day, and then he shuffled out of the office with one last look back at the shattered computer terminal lying there like a silicon armadillo left to rot on the information superhighway.


Despite the vast differences it their ages, ethnicity, and religious upbringing, the sexual chemistry between Roberto and Heather was the most amazing he had ever experienced; and for the entirety of the Labor Day weekend they had sex like monkeys on espresso, not those monkeys in the zoo that fling their feces at you, but more like the monkeys in the wild that have those giant red butts, and access to an espresso machine.


The day was like any other, except that this was a Wednesday so it was really only like 1/7th of the other days.


When he heard the woman upstairs scream, the Maytag man's heart thumped in his chest like an off-balance washer full of heavy bath towels.


She resolved to end the love affair with Ramon tonight . . . summarily, like Martha Stewart ripping the sand vein out of a shrimp's tail . . . though the term "love affair" now struck her as a ridiculous euphemism . . . not unlike "sand vein," which is after all an intestine, not a vein . . . and that tarry substance inside certainly isn't sand . . . and that brought her back to Ramon.


They had but one last remaining night together, so they embraced each other as tightly as that two-flavor entwined string cheese that is orange and yellowish-white, the orange probably being a bland Cheddar and the white . . . Mozzarella, although it could possibly be Provolone or just plain American, as it really doesn't taste distinctly dissimilar from the orange, yet they would have you believe it does by coloring it differently.


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.
Click to expand...



J
 
The Top 20 Bad Suspense Novel Metaphors or Similes

Worn down at the edges like a Times Square hooker, the caretaker's last tooth lay on the floor like a yellow Chiclet.

When she stepped out of her dress, she had the body of a 90-year-old nun, if the nun looked as young, attractive, and sexy as the dame standing in front of me.

The situation had become topsy-turvy -- like Christmas in the summer, if you're in Australia.

The information imbedded on the stolen computer chip was like an explosive so explosive it could explode, creating a massive explosion.

As I watched through the slatted shades, her bosom bounce like her suspicious husband's first check.

The killer was a misplaced comma in the jaunty, happy sentence that made up the party crowd.

His face looked like an ice sculpture. Not one of those pretty ones in the middle of a cruise ship buffet, but the kind they do in a contest with a chainsaw -- and it had been out in the heat too long.

Like any family, this house had its secrets, secrets it grimly refused to reveal, and would continue to refuse to reveal even if it could speak, which unlike a family, or at least most members of most families, it couldn't.

The air of danger perversely made Nina's nipples harden, like that Magic Shell stuff on a bowl of ice cream.

From his vantage point in the balcony, the would-be assassin looked down on the debating candidates like a webhead looking down on an AOL user.

The sudden darkness made the Countess tense, like Bobby Jerome that time with the bicycle in 7th grade, remember?

There was something funny about the kidnapping crime scene that Special Agent Frievald couldn't quite place, and the thought stuck with him throughout the rest of the day, like those tiny little bits of the circumferent skin from the bologna slices on a foot-long Subway Cold Cut Trio that get stuck in between the last two molars on the upper left, on the tongue side where you can't possibly reach them with a toothpick, your fingernails, or even a systematically straightened paper clip, they just sit there and make everything you eat at your next meal taste vaguely like vinegar and mayonnaise, and then somehow -- quietly but miraculously -- they disappear by themselves in the middle of the night while you're asleep, just like the visiting Countess appeared to have done.

Her parting words lingered heavily inside me like last night's Taco Bell.

The bullet burned Gilmore's gut like the first piss after a long night in a Singapore brothel.

A single drop of sweat slowly inched down Chad's brow -- a tiny, glistening Times Square New Year's Eve Ball of desperation.

His .38 barked fire, like John Goodman's butt after a chili cookoff.

Her blazing eyes dance like Astaire and Rogers, but since they were crossed, it was an ocular tango, and my eyes had to foxtrot just to maintain eye contact.

She had a voice so husky it could have pulled a dogsled, and the gun she was holding gave me a bad case of barrel envy.

The neon sign reflected off his gun, like the moonlight reflects off my brother-in-law's bald head after a night of beer drinking and cow-tipping.

and the Number 1 Bad Suspense Novel Metaphor or Simile...

Unable to contain his rage, he burst like a pimple of emotion, the pus of his fury streaking the mirror of calm in the bathroom of his life.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top