I'm going to post a few updates over the next couple of days. Don't worry, they're all good. One's even a contest…I think. More on that later.
Since I haven't posted something fun in weeks, this post will satisfy that quota.
If you haven't yet heard, the winners of the 2011 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest were announced. The competition invites authors to come up with the worst opening sentence of a novel. Click here to read the winning entries.
While none of my submissions placed, which is good I guess, I figured I'd share them with all of you. No shame, right? Hope you enjoy!
· The zombie named Mr. Malediction is antediluvian, sempiternal and thinks he’s sapient, but he’s really a brummagem who extols his existence, always gives Hobson's choices, wears a tattered pair of swamp green pants and a half-buttoned, torn-at-the-sleeves, button down shirt, but he’s fop, and he thinks it’s kitsch, so my sobriquet for him is Footless, and imagine this, he thinks he’s smarter than this sentence.
· This is my nineteenth time in jail since jail was created, but what can I say?, me, the Vampire leader, because I’m drawn to girls two-hundred years younger than me, especially those whose age is only one digit.
· Choosing the wrong printer paper is probably the worst decision of my life, but in a close second, I would have to revert back to the day I spilled purified water on my work polo shirt, because not only did I get wet, but I also wasted water, and that was the day Merle was extremely thirsty and asked me for a swig, but since I only had ten percent of the water remaining, I told him that a study proved the remaining ten percent in any drink was always backwash, so I didn’t want to let him swallow my spit.
· In this third book of the trilogy titled, “Using Air to Fill Your Tires: How to do it Properly, Safely, and with Respect to the Environment,” which by now you probably think after having written two novels with a combined 1,392 pages, not including an index, but including my personal acknowledgments, that I couldn’t possibly expand on the issue anymore, but I’m about to prove you wrong again.
· Susan, AKA the abominable snow-woman, stood over John’s shoulder, AKA John, and when she sneezed and projective vomited, which no one thought was possible, John ended up losing his Photoshop drawing of an eggplant, not because his keyboard was covered in carrot-chunk oatmeal, but because he accidentally hit the delete button instead of save.
· I sat at the table with the girl of my dreams, neither of us saying a word for the first ten minutes, until finally she opened her mouth, causing her poop-breath to slap me across the face like coming across a roman numeral while doing long division.
· Dr. Monsoon is so clutch that he air-balled the tying shot in the huge basketball finals overtime game with three seconds left, but then pulled out a laser beam and shot Moby Williams from the opposing team in the face, decapitating him, and with one second left, the referee ruled that Moby was ineligible to play, so since the opposing team only had four players left, they had to forfeit the game, and we won!
· Denny lifted weights once, but he hits another kid, with a machine gun, and now there is blood everywhere, even on the sky.
· She drove a car, through space.
Oh, and here's a cheesy joke to go along with the Memory Eater theme:
Two elderly couples were enjoying friendly conversation when one of the men asked the other, "Fred, how was the memory clinic you went to last month?"
"Outstanding," Fred replied. "They taught us all the latest psychological techniques, visualization and association. It made a huge difference for me."
"That's great! What was the name of the clinic?"
Fred went blank, and he thought and thought, but couldn't remember. Then a smile broke across his face and he asked, "What do you call that flower with the long stem and thorns?"
"You mean a rose?"
"Yes, that's it!" He turned to his wife and asked, "Rose—what was the name of that clinic?"
