Bulwer-Lytton makes me doubt myself

Yikes, this year’s winning entry in the Bulwer-Lytton contest actually doesn’t sound bad to me; I mean I can really see it – the gritty reality of lustful passion.

“Theirs was a New York love, a checkered taxi ride burning rubber, and like the city their passion was open 24/7, steam rising from their bodies like slick streets exhaling warm, moist, white breath through manhole covers stamped ‘Forged by DeLaney Bros., Piscataway, N.J.”‘

Garrison Spik

And this one sounds okay, too –

“Like a mechanic who forgets to wipe his hands on a shop rag and then goes home, hugs his wife, and gets a grease stain on her favorite sweater — love touches you, and marks you forever.”

— Beth Fand Incollingo, Haddon Heights, New Jersey  (The name seems odd though, kind of close to in cognito with a nod to lingo.)

I think the following is not within the nature of the rules, but I guess the awards committee thought elsewise:

“‘Toads of glory, slugs of joy,’ sang Groin the dwarf as he trotted jovially down the path before a great dragon ate him because the author knew that this story was a train wreck after he typed the first few words.”

— Alex Hall, Greeley, Colorado

Well, it is cloudy today and rained . . . Will it be a dark and stormy night?

Grandma, you should see this . . .

Yesterday was a hectic day, hectic and stressful and then last evening, when I was watching a DVD movie, Summer came around the corner and said, “Grandma, you should see this.” She led me to the basement but did not turn into the main area, which by the way they had trashed; she led me into the other third of the basement – the bunker where we hide out. There, on the far wall, I saw a waterfall. The rug was soaked like a sponge.

It is apparently the drain pipe from the washer and that pipe is hidden behind another. The water pushed Pfaltzgraff serving bowls and lids off shelves; the big crock pot . . . kaboom.

Today, I will try and handle this . . . and then I may lie down in a fetal postion.