With a hefty squeeze of my rump, all the goodies and rollerbowlies came don-dangaling out of my butt. "No," I said. "No."
When I danced into the dismal community basement in my pink bacon-print pajamas to wash my socks in the public coin-operated washer-dryer in the middle of the night, because I had finally located enough change in the pockets of my calico flares to use the machine, I had no idea it would be the start of yet another adventure.
Nope. It's still too good! Too much fun. It's the bacon-print pajamas what did it. I'd certainly read on. Back to the drawing board...
This is just quirky. We're looking for BAD. You might be so good you can't write BAD, because you don't even know what it is. Trust me, though: bad exists. It isn't just funny or silly. We're not looking for something that makes someone smile in spite of themselves. We're looking for something that makes the reader throw the story across the room and spend the rest of the evening explaining to their spouse what all the fuss was about. Sort of. @Selbbin, it may be that you just don't have crap in your soul, so you can never write crap. This might be a good thing in general, but not for this thread! So I challenge thee, O @Selbbin, write utter crap! Reach deep within thyself and lay bare the inner putrescence that must stink there! Make us puke with thy word-rot! Disgust us with thy pitiable incompetence!
I can't believe I'm being insulted with compliments and lacking the skill to be unskilled! What a strange world we live in.
Once upon a time- Wait, wait, wait. I know what you're thinking, "he's going to say 'time,' isn't he? Well, the truth is you won't know till you let me know finish, will you? So why don't you just sit back, relax, and enjoy the tale I am about to tell.
Yawn. Yes, that's pretty bad. You've captured that tone—the one that makes me want to stick a spoon down my throat. You don't win (KaTrian does thus far) but you'd certainly get a medal if I were the judge. Which I am. I say so, therefore it is true.
Jack Ackson sighed and became awash with melancholy as he gazed over the yellow sea of wheat, which stood tall,straight and yellow, like raw spaghetti and also like the good old wheat from back home, and not at all like most of the wheat around here, which was normally a bit of a brownish yellow like wholemeal spaghetti.
Camping in the small cove of Honeysuckle bay is always a dismal affair because of the endless rains that drive in from the harsh open sea where freighters bound for distant lands are laden with cargo stacked in tall piles of multiple colors held together with the same type of steel pins that Franklin and his brothers used to forge at the old factory in the south of Dormuth county.
Okay, that's an improvement. You wandered off-topic very convincingly. Unfortunately the scenario is still interesting. It's the tall piles of multiple colours wot does it this time. That's a cool image of a cargo ship. I'd probably continue reading, although I might forget this is supposed to be a camping trip and need to backtrack. But you're getting there. Still short of 'awful,' but no longer as good as before. There is hope for you yet.
This is your problem. @jannert is right. The good news is that you have mastered incompetence. This so-called sentence stinks. All you have to do is use this style to write about whatever is boring (double-entry bookkeeping comes to mind) and you're in!
John was fishing. The sky was blue. The water was bluer. The lustrous yellow-white-orange majestic orb that was the muse and the worship of the ancients was just then embarking upon its cyclical odyssey across the azure heavens, from the orient to the occident. He was with his dad. It was a good day. It was a quiet day. They were by the lake. They had a good breakfast. It was flapjacks. John had three of them with maple syrup and peanut butter. His dad had four of them with regular butter and butter pecan syrup. They had bacon and eggs, too. John was sitting on a log. His dad was sitting on a big rock. John caught a fish. "Dad, look, I caught a fish," said John. "Good, son, that's exciting, what kind of fish is it," retorted his dad.
Or in one sentence: John was fishing under the blue sky beside the even bluer water whereupon the lustrous yellow-white-orange majestic orb that was the muse and the worship of the ancients was just then embarking upon its cyclical odyssey across the azure heavens from the orient to the occident, while enjoying the day's opportunity to spend the day with his dad on a day that was a good day and a quiet day, looking at the lake and thinking about the good breakfast they had, which was flapjacks -- three of them for John with maple syrup and peanut butter, and four of them for his dad with regular butter and pecan syrup, and bacon and eggs for both -- when suddenly, when John was sitting on a log and his dad was sitting on a big rock, John caught a fish and said, "Dad, look, I caught a fish" before his dad retorted, "Good, son, that's exciting, what kind of fish is it?"
Seagulls squawking? Yeah, that's bad. I love the sudden transition from the highfalutin' image of the orb, down to bacon, eggs, flapjacks, maple syrup and peanut butter (urk), butter, pecan syrup—just struck me, you forgot the Worchestershire sauce, orange juice, coffee with cream and sugar, salt and pepper and napkins. And that's before the excitement escalates to the extent that John catches a fish... You don't mind if I put the book down now, and go fix breakfast?
This isn't bad - I actually read the whole thing (not something I can say for many of the posts here) and it made me smile cus it's so silly! This isn't nearly bad enough. Surely you can do better! (or rather, worse )
After awaking from a deep slumber, I got up and admired myself in the mirror and saw my brown hair and eyes that shimmered like opalescent pearls, after which I descended gracefully down the stairs like a baby antelope frolicking in a field of lilies; as I ate breakfast I gazed out the window and saw the glimmering sun cast its dancing rays over the land and everything in it. My brother joined me for breakfast and began pouring syrup in his cereal. "You can't do that," I ejaculated. "It won't taste good."
Today was the day that Amanda Pokerstink-Haversnatch was going to read Twilight aloud to her stuffed animal tea party in a poorly done Cockney accent, and this is what it would have sounded like if a zombie outbreak didn't interrupt her and make Amanda Pokerstink-Haversnatch put down her tome and pick up her Hello Kitty uzi submachine guns.
