On your mark, get set…CONTEST!
August 3rd, 2009 by Writer Unboxed
Kath here: reposting to unbury the contest. This year’s entries are EPIC!
ETA#2: There’s only 48 hours left in our hilarious analogies contest. The prize box continues to fill with great books from our contributors (and other places, shhhh). You have until Tuesday Aug. 4, 12 a.m. EST to submit your entry. Don’t delay!
Feeling creative?Witty?
Are you good with wordplay?
Last year’s contest was as fun for us as we think it was for you (memories HERE), so we’d like to try something similar this year.
Inspiration comes from a viral e-mail claiming to be the 25 Funniest Analogies Collected by High School Teachers. Some examples:
- The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn’t.
- McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.
- 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.
Good, right? But we know you can do better. Send us your hilarious analogies and each will be considered an entry in our contest. Though we can’t crown a winner outside of the continental US (sorry, shipping can be steep), we encourage everyone who’d like to play to play.
What will you win?
- Juliet Marillier’s Heir to Sevenwaters
- Barbara O’Neal’s The Lost Recipe for Happiness
- Ann Aguirre’s Grimspace
- Ann Aguirre’s Wanderlust
- Allison Winn Scotch’s Time of My Life
- Therese Walsh’s The Last Will of Moira Leahy (galley)
- Kathleen Bolton’s Confessions of a First Daughter (as Cassidy Calloway, galley)
- Donald Maass’s The Fire in Fiction
- Ray Rhamey’s Flogging the Quill, Crafting a Novel that Sells
- Sophie Masson’s The Secret Army (a cool graphic novel)
- Rosina Lippi’s The Pajama Girls of Lambert Square
- assorted surprise goodies
- the honor of wearing the contest winner’s virtual crown for a year
Interested? Here’s how to play:
1) Type your contest entry in the comment area of THIS post.
2) Submit repeatedly as inspiration strikes. You can continue subbing through Tuesday, Aug. 4. Again, you must use the comment area in this post or your entry will be disqualified.
3) Therese and Kath will choose the top 10 analogies. Bonus points for hilarity and elegance of prose.
4) Then YOU, our WU readers, will get to vote on the winner out of the top-ten pool. (Be advised, we know when people spam the voting block. Only one vote will be allowed per person.)
Good luck!
Photo courtesy Flickr’s ajagendorf25
110 Responses to “On your mark, get set…CONTEST!”
Though I’m not valid for entry, I look forward to seeing everyone’s ideas, and might come back to drop a few of my own. The prizes look fabulous. Good luck everyone!
To help stir the entrants’ creative juices, I thought I’d share one of my favourite bizarre analogies, from the opening lines of T.S. Eliot’s, “The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock”
“Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table”
Her anger was like a summer storm: it came without warning, it kept everyone awake, and the next morning they had to sweep broken glass out of the front seat of their car.
And yes, I’m taking you up on posting again with more ideas.
The assumed dead turkey leaped from the pan and flew out of the kitchen like a turkey who thought it was dead but realized it wasn’t and found a chance to escape.
She couldn’t have picked a worse time to discuss it,
it was like trying to work out a constipation problem in a
hornet filled outhouse.
She was as speechless as a tongue-tied giraffe. (Have you ever SEEN a giraffe’s tongue?)
His mind was as blank as the test paper of a stoner who, rather than attending classes, spent the entire school year high on the bleachers listening to Jimi Hendrix and playing air guitar.
Being his girlfriend was like going with Greg Marmalard in Animal House. And she had the carpal tunnel to prove it.
His thought processes came to a screaching halt like when you are speeding to get through that yellow light and the car in front of you doesn’t.
So, I married the boss’s daughter. I was, like, a made man. She made my bed, she made my breakfast, lunch and dinner. She even made spaghetti that was almost as good as my mama’s, may she rest in peace. How did I know she’d find out I made out with Lola from Gino’s take out? But the next day, I come home early and,it’s like, the bed’s not made, my dinner’s not made. So I check the phone and the last call she made was to her Uncle Carmine. So I made a deal with the feds. I’m not, like, a made man anymore.
He held her in his arms as he might have cuddled one of his prize-winning melons, though her shape was much more akin to a pear and her scent was that of faintly rotting garlic. Still, her lips were as sweet as her strawberry lip gloss.
His father surrendered the car keys to him with the white-knuckled reluctance of a muse relinquishing bits of creativity to a deadline-pressed writer.
I drew my service revolver and pointed it at the the bank entrance. Reminds me of the time we use to play baseball in old lady Brown’s lot behind her garden. I felt like I was at bat waiting for my pitch. The doors flew open and the gunman ran out shooting his Tommy gun wildly. Bullets whizzed by my head like a swarm of bees. The gunman stepped into my sweet spot. I swung for the fences firing my revolver once. His head split like a rotten pumpkin we use drop off the old train trestle near the mill.
He stared at his cubicle wall, gray as an elephant’s butt and equally crushing.
You guys have me on the floor here . . . srsly dying . . .
He considered pants with the same regard that drivers on the autobahn considered brakes; they were optional.
The stench hit him like a man cuckolded.
Eldon’s writing was somewhat reminiscent of Chaucer’s in that it had to be read numerous times to be completely understood. One major difference: His spelling was not quite as good.
The nervousness didn’t strike until she was fully seated inside the 747 jetliner; her stomach fluttering like a just-consumed butterfly already in the stomach of large bird and doomed to it’s fate.
She felt as undesirable as a Girl Scout sold out of Thin Mint cookies.
She held her anger within, poorly; a clumsy handling of a burning ember, singeing the hair off the knuckles of her goodwill.
It was impossible to take him serious in a full thrust temper tantrum as his face more resembled a Madagascan lemur with its tail stuck in an electric socket than that of a human being.
She was bossy as a backyard blue jay and got away with it being pretty as a peacock.
Clarissa let out a scream of dismay, sounding much like a yowling housecat in heat, protesting the screen that stands between herself and her waiting tom.
She felt as cheap as a 2-bit hooker with time on her hands; if only she realized her value would increase if she held in her hand more than just time.
He was so high he made the International Space Station look low.
He turned her on like a radio, until she realized the tuner was stuck on conservative talk radio. 24/7. Without commercial interruption. Siriusly.
The mystic moonlight trailed along Hunter’s Ridge spilling its magic like melted butter on a big, fat pancake.
OMG!So funny.
Ha ha ha! I love contests.
When Michael kissed her, Joanna recoiled, much the way one’s bare foot does when it encounters a fresh hairball on the carpet in the middle of the night.
He fell into a trance, like a teen texter who falls into a manhole.
Her boss was as unwelcome as the spare tire around her waist, and equally as attractive.
His idea was about as twisted as one of those newfangled eco-friendly light bulbs.
Marsha took what he said with a grain of salt; much like you take what the weatherman on the news tells you even though you know more about weather than he does.
Marilyn couldn’t help herself; the sugar-coated doughnut oozing raspberry jelly looked like The Chippendales lined up on stage, sans pants.
Her eyes were the color of braised T-bones, lips plump as barbequed brats, and hair the color of chocolate soufflé; she was a feast for the eyes that, like Chinese food, left a man hungry for more about an hour later.
Janine was every man’s dream, with curves like a ’49 Cadillac begging to be buffed, an accelerator aching to be floored, propelling her from zero to sixty in a heartbeat – although thirty-two-hundred and fourteen pounds lighter, and thank God for it.
Oh god, you people are killing me . . . I’m laughing like a landed fish gasping for air, except I’m not dying a horrible death or anything.
April was like a speeding locomotive, hot, damn near impossible to stop, and badly in need of a power wash.
Her nonchalance was as contrived as the child’s smile on the Hormel Spam Can would be if they ever found a child that could smile while eating Spam.
Paul’s handling of his boss’ secret affair was smooth as silk; if silk were a Weight Watchers convention raiding the Hershey plant.
His bad mood was like Greek yogurt, thick and sour and impossible to breathe through. Putting up with it was like fresh-squeezed orange juice — easy at first, then sour, but just as likely as the yogurt to drown you, and the kind of thing that left only a wrung-out skin behind.
Kara wanted him; her desire as subtle as a Vampire Bat at a blood drive.
Her attempts to help were as misguided as vending-machine sushi, and as likely to succeed as tuna marmalade.
Brandi eyed the fireman rescuing her cat Skittles like a kid in a candy store with a pocket full of money and a kick-ass sweet tooth.
It was her wedding day. She was as radiant as the midday sun during a full solar eclipse.
Dena’s a tricky girl, once you get to know her; she sometimes reminds me of a rabid terrier hidden under the pink tutu foolishly thrown on it by a well-meaning child.
His plan to win Michelle back was flimsy, like the black plastic bag currently passing for his driver’s side window, and come to think of it, just as likely to blow away in a good breeze.
“Cool as a…”
“–kitten!”
I hid my shame inside my confidence, like shredded chicken inside a tamale, but then when I met Lance all my feelings were wrapped inside another layer of feeling, which was lust, so then with one stuffed inside another inside another I was more like a walking turducken, only then I’m not sure where the corn husk fits in anymore and besides, turduckens can’t walk.
We need to hit the ground running, which, come to think of it, is pretty much impossible because the ground can’t run, it’s an inanimate object, and besides, why would we want to do something to the ground when it never did anything bad to us, unless, of course, you count the dirt that got into the coffee on our last camp-out.
He was as oblivious to the world around him as a teenager who is texting and listening to an ipod.
Simone felt as useless as a Girls Gone Wild video in a gay man’s DVD collection.
OH this is hilarious! gotta think of a few :D
Desperately needing human contact, she scanned the train passengers. Technology, not Humanity, ruled the day. Everywhere she looked, people were isolated with their toys. In a sea of stangers, her silent cry for help would go unheeded. The virtual world being the most important thing in their lives.
He stretched the truth tighter than spandex across his ex-wife’s fat ass.
She gazed at him with doe eyes, moved with the grace of a deer, and had a rack he wouldn’t mind having mounted on his wall.
Mandy felt as powerless as a 120V blowdryer in Europe.
She was all at sea. It was like being up a tree without a paddle.
She was beautiful and mysterious like the Mona Lisa, only she wasn’t smiling, or wearing an old fashioned dress and she had better hair.
Dark clouds savaged across the brilliant sky, ripping it to pieces, much like a puppy ripping up toilet paper all across a blue carpet.
Running off the cliff to paraglide down to the beach below, he soared like an eagle clasping a whale in its talons.
Julie’s poodle appearance hid the Doberman lurking within, snarling fangs and snapping jaws camouflaged with fluff and frou-frou.
Her teeth were as white as Chicklets. He had a sudden urge to chew gum.
Her half-witted explanation made as much sense as dangling from the Eiffel Tower on a long strand of dental floss.
Dana gazed at Mike, her eyes filling with tears as she realized their love was as doomed as a myopic ‘possum crossing the freeway.
After the baby, my boobs were never the same. They went from soft, pillowy mounds, to looking more like those bags you fill with frosting for cake decorating.
My sisters passion for swearing puts the SmartBitches to shame.
To her fellow peers, she displayed her energetic usefulness like a pretty new umbrella on a sunshiny day.
She really wasn’t suited for a wet tee shirt contest. Her boobs looked more like a pair of socks with marbles in the toes.
My life is like the last ride of the day at Six Flags: There aren’t many people in it, and the air smells like other people’s lunches- digested and otherwise- and my arms and the back of my neck are starting to sting with sunburn, but the roller coaster starts up a really big hill and I can see the first stars high up there and something inside me feels weirdly happy, and I wish that we would never get to the top of that hill, or the end of the ride. And then we start going down again, fast, and I enjoy it- right up until the jerk behind me decides he had too much cotton candy, and throws up on me. And I can’t see the stars anymore and I really want the ride to end, but it keeps going on and on and on.
That’s my life. I’ve got a summer pass.
She watched depression bulldozing toward her, like the bitch with a full cart headed for her checkout line just as she was reaching for the closed sign.
Carl tried to remember that he loved Kiki as she twirled around the dance floor like an elephant in high heels doing the cha cha.
His girlfriend is Taffy Royale, resident Drama Queen and owner of an irritatingly perky giggle. Yes, it’s true. She doesn’t laugh, she giggles. If she were a doll, she’d be Tickle Me Elmo’s kid sister.
The day started like yeast.
His eyes opened wide in absolute surprise, like his son’s kindergarten teacher Sister Francesca had just hauled off and punched him in the throat.
On the way into her supervisor’s office she walked as unsteadily as a construction worker in pink satin pointe shoes, and on the way out she dragged her feet as slowly as a ballerina wearing steel-toed boots.
Relationships are like cement. One day you’re walking down the street on a bright, sunny day, and you come upon some freshly poured cement. You can’t resist stepping in it, hoping to leave your footprints for posterity. But it gets hard really fast, and you’re stuck. So you call for help but there’s no one around and you start screaming until finally some gum-chewing, wiseacre kid comes along and you ask him to go get a sledge hammer so you can get out of there but he won’t do it unless you pay him money. So you give him all the money you have in your pocket and then you wait and wait and wait. When he finally shows up, you grab that sledge hammer and start banging way until FINALLY you’re free. You dust yourself off and try to walk home but your legs are weak and wobbly and you don’t think you can make it. But you do. Then you get a huge bill from the town for destruction of property which almost breaks the bank. And you vow never to step in cement again. But one day, you’re walking down a new street and you come upon more freshly poured cement, glistening in the sun, and you are SO tempted to step in it again. But you straighten up, fetch a stick and draw a big heart and write nasty words in it and sign your ex’s name below. Then run.
Theo felt stretched as thin as a tube top over breast implants, and just as likely to snap.
I knew it was futile, like waiting for an old man driver with his turn signal on to actually make that turn.
Their conversation was a satisfying as the warm dribble of water that leaks out of your ear on the pillow after you’ve been swimming all day.
The family disagreement exploded the way the poop of a breast fed baby explodes out of a diaper.
I was God’s gift to women. That would be the year, most women will remember, when God presented them with an overstuffed pillow that smelled of beer.
It was like Chinese water torture, only without the water and my tormentors were French.
Biff’s skin was deeply pockmarked, as if Punxutawney Phil’s entire family had burrowed in and taken residence on his face.
The child was tinier than the small print on a medicine label warning that side effects might include rectal leakage.
Jim Bob looked at Luanne with such redneck lust, she felt like a Denny’s Grand Slam breakfast with an extra side of ham.
Even confession couldn’t clear her conscience. After spilling her secrets and being absolved by the parish priest, her soul still felt partially dirty, like one of those low flow toilets that doesn’t flush all the way.
The time flew by like a flock of geese heading south for the winter with snowflakes tickling their butt feathers and thoughts of lazy days spent pooping on warm, freshly mowed grass filling their heads.
Resisting his luscious kisses was as futile as resisting warm brownie ala mode after two weeks on the grapefruit and cabbage diet.
He loved me like a rock. ‘Til I hit him with it. Twenty-two stitches. Pressed charges. Then hit me with a lawsuit. Yup. Love hurts sometimes.
Lactose intolerant, he sat in the bathroom, sorry he’d had cereal with milk. Now breakfast roared through his intestines like the Enola Gay on the way to drop an atomic bomb.
The dead body floated in the pool like a lifeless goldfish floating in a water-filled plastic bag after being won by a sugar-buzzed kid at a carnival.
He was as flaky as a freshly made croissant–but not as good with jelly and a hot cup of tea.
I wouldn’t call her promiscuous, but her legs are like a new-fangled umbrella on a rainy day–one button opens them quickly; getting them to close is another matter altogether.
Shannon couldn’t deny her attraction; Kip’s hips gyrated like Granny Ella’s forty-year-old washer, minus the constant leaking, and she was feeling like a week-old load of dirty laundry.
(Just an administrative note: when you keep reposting, you might want to do duplicate entries, or at least change the old posts to link to the new ones, because I keep trying to link to this contest and keep getting told that my links don’t work…)
Chuck felt excruciating pain like he’d been stabbed in the chest, then he realized he had been.
Saying he might be crazy is like saying the ice caps are melting: not only is it fact confirmed by professionals, it also will probably the cause of death of many, many people unless we do something about it.
She was gone in a flash, like teenage drunks when the cops show up.
He ran after her, like a teeny yappy dog chasing the tender flesh of a human ankle.
The venomous words rolled off her tongue like a cartoon character stuck in a snowball rolling down an impossible steep mountain.
The towering stack of papers quivered like mom’s fluorescent green gelatin salad, then fell like the Leaning Tower of Pizza in an earthquake.
Delilah devoured the candy bar like a red-eyed rabbit eating the giant carrot from its wet dreams.
Her woman’s intuition told her run, run like a freaked out 3-year old who has just been plunked down on the lap of a foul smelling, fake bearded, whiskey breathed “Santa”.
Taking a walk with her dog was like being in an episode of “The X-Files”. Something’s out there. Can’t you hear it? Can’t you smell it?
I felt like a writer who gave birth to a wonderfully funny, sarcastic, capable character with a rich back-story- and then put that character up for adoption at an editors’ conference.
His snores were like the death throes of a drowning accordion.
Anger fizzed up from deep within, like Alka Seltzer tablets dropped into the glass of water; noisy, bitter and distasteful. But provided no relief.
The hickey would not succumb to her Max Factor concealer. It was like trying to cover the aftermath of a shark attack with peanut butter.
The entry portion of our contest has officially ended. Thanks so much for playing. Stay tuned for next steps…