(no subject)
They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that
resembled Nancy Kerrigan's teeth.
He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who
went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes
with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high
schools about the dangers of looking at a solar
eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.
She caught your eye like one of those pointy hook latches that used to
dangle from screen doors and would fly up whenever you banged the door open
again.
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.
From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie,
surreal quality, like when you're on vacation in another city and "Jeopardy"
comes on at 7pm instead of 7:30.
Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.
Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the center.
Bob was as perplexed as a hacker who means to access
T:\flw.quid55328.com\aaakk/ch@ung but gets T:\flw.quidaaak/ch@ng by mistake.
He was as tall as a six-foot three-inch tree.
The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them
in hot grease.
Her date was pleasant enough, but she knew that if her life was a movie this
guy would be buried in the credits as something like "Second Tall Man."
Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the
grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left
Cleveland at 6:36pm traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at 4:19pm at
a speed of 35 mph.
The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the period after the Dr. on a
Dr. Pepper can.
John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also
never met.
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.
His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like
underpants in a drier without "Cling-Free."
The red brick wall was the color of a brick-red crayola crayon.
The clouds were like sheep with no legs.
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.
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.
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.
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.
The dandelion swayed in the gentle breeze like an oscillating electric fan
set on medium.
The knife was as sharp as the tone used by Glenda Jackson MP in her first of
several points of parliamentary procedure made to Robin Cook MP, Leader of
the House of Commons, in the House Judiciary Committee hearings on the
suspension of Keith Vaz MP.
The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind
her, like a dog at a lamppost.