Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: katlaughing
Date: 12 Jun 03 - 11:32 AM

Oh, No! There really IS a www.soulfinder.com! I'll have to change my story a bit! LOL!!

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Amos
Date: 12 Jun 03 - 11:18 AM

Wow, KL, that's purdy bad all right! :>)

A

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: katlaughing
Date: 12 Jun 03 - 12:55 AM

Their souls collided like two freight trains on the fast track to oblivion. It was instant and explosive. It left them spent and exhausted and that was just in the parking lot. They'd come together meeting for the first time in person after Madame All Souls Found introduced them on her website, The Soul Finder of Love. Madam said they were old souls. Madam said they had been together many, many times, in different lifetimes, of course. And, now, so here they were, soulmates...so stunned neither could get up from the pavement for a moment or two.

Then, it was as though they melded into one, one heart, one mind, one soul, they were paired, entwined, embraced, ensnared, entangled, each with the other until they were a blur of motion, pure motion, separating only long enough to check in at the motel.

"Oh, Rodney!" she cried.
"Oh, Georgina!" he cried back at her.

As he opened the door to their room, the setting sun illuminated the shabby room, turning it to a Shangri-La gold,like a nugget of miner's gold all shined up, glowing with warmth and golden rays of sunshine just like Shangri-La where their souls originally met. It shone as it had never done before on that room and they knew it was right, that they really were soulmates, entwined forever and ever in True Love's Embrace.

And the sign on the door read:
DO NOT DISTURB

courtesy of www.allsoulsfoundDOTcom

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Little Hawk
Date: 12 Jun 03 - 12:19 AM

Yikes! Pretty classic stuff there, Amos. Adult fantasy reels under another cliche-ridden assault...

- LH

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Amos
Date: 11 Jun 03 - 11:49 PM

She strode through the still-dark halls, her sweeping gown trailing on the cold slate stones, sending small motes of dust from two centuries of royal banquets swirling upward behind her toward the fifteen-foot high ceilings.   On the benches along the walls, louts slept loudly. She stepped through the hall and out intothe chill pre-dawn gray of another dawn rising over Acquitaine. Her lip trembled with the passion rising in her, and the disdain she felt for the brutal men who dominated her life, from the crude louts asleep on the stones within, to the harsh father who demanded her complete acquiescence to his every idiotic scheme, to the scores of lustful and greedy suitors who came to win her name and title in marriage.

She scorned them all!! She alone had the vision to see that only one course of action -- conquering the heart of the hand that ruled England -- would save her lands, her family, her legacy and her throne. She pounded on the stone wall from which she could see almost, she imagined, clear to the Channel where, she saw clearly, her destiny rose before her like a cold Atlantic mist. She must have her way with this struggling land. She must make the men of this court see the reason in her thinking! She must, she must, she must!

She pounded in anger and frustration on the parapet, grinding her tender white skin into the hard stone, and imagining it was her obstinate father's nose.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Amos
Date: 11 Jun 03 - 11:38 PM

Amazing what a bottle of wine will do, isn't it?? :>)

A

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Rustic Rebel
Date: 11 Jun 03 - 10:06 PM

Shoo fly, don't you bother me. I am here playing a sad melody on the piano and wondering where the hell can he be tonight. Talk about a jagged love affair. Shit. It seems as if I might as well have an affair with the fly. "Hey fly, come on back." Ah, I do delight myself when I need to.
I smell something burning in the kitchen and it smells charred and black. I guess I'll contemplate that while I take a hit of this wine. Oh fuck it., I'm going to polish off this bottle of wine.
I told him earlier tonight that crossing his fingers doesn't count when it comes to lying to me. I said, "You can fool yourself, but I don't want to be fooled no more."
Looks like smoke pouring out of the oven door. Now I know what's burning in the kitchen. It's that big old hunk of swine I threw in the roaster. "That's your dinner honey." I think I'll let it cook awhile more.

Peace. Rustic, loving all the stories in this thread. What a mix of talented people.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: John Hardly
Date: 11 Jun 03 - 02:08 PM

oh yeah,

The Name Of The Rose
Umberto Eco

Sherlock Holmes dons monks robes - solves crimes, drags Church kicking a screaming out of the middle ages.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: John Hardly
Date: 11 Jun 03 - 02:03 PM

If wishes were horses, well, the horsepower generated by the collective wishes of all present should have been enough to move a mountain. But mountains don't move that easily. In fact, mountains don't move at all. Well, except volcanos -- if you include volcanos then mountains do move. More accurately, they blow their tops, so I guess in actuality, though they achieve a state of motion (blowing their tops) they still don't actually move. For instance, I doubt that I'd ever see Pike's Peak suddenly appear in Indiana -- no matter how much horsepower wishes could generate. But I digress...

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: GUEST, heric
Date: 11 Jun 03 - 12:53 PM

The Perfect Storm - . . . .


Into Thin Air - People climb mountain with headaches.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Castor
Date: 11 Jun 03 - 12:49 PM

Can the entry be one you heard from a Mudcatter? I hope I remember this correctly:

"All things being equal, you could say that Fred Dooley was having the worst day of his life. At least that's what the folks speeding by on the rural route 'tsk-tskd' to themselves as they drove by Fred, his tractor idling in the hayfield as he straddled the irrigation ditch and threw up what appeared to be biscuits and a skillet full of red-eye gravy.

Fren was gone. Town being what it was, everyone knew only shortly after Fred did. She drove off in her little truck, with the "Save a horse-Ride a cowboy" sticker in the window, and her AquaNet and Harlequin novel in the jockey-box right next to the lucky shaker she used to salt the beer she bought at the drive-thru liquor barn. Fred thought about that and shrugged his shoulders against a set of dry heaves that registered at least a 7.9.

He'd gotten an early atart that morning to try and escape memories of Fern. She'd always cooked his breakfast in the pre-dawn hours, listening to Hank Nelson reading the farm report on the radio. Fred knew Fern had a thing for Hank--just the sound of his voice on the radio was enough to make Fern shimmy out of her bathrobe and lay Fred on the table. Many's the breakfast that went uneaten to the tune of:
"Hogs is up" (oooooooh!)
"Cows is down" (mmmmmmm!)
"An' chickens is just fine like they is." (oh YESSSSSSS!)

But Fred never thought Fern would actually pack up and go off to the big city to find Hank. Fred'd woken up at the usual time, but after looking at his kitchen, decided to skip both breakfast and the farm report in order to get an early start on the day.

The thing those early morning passers-by never knew was that Fred wasn't losing his cookies over Fern, that feeling had passed with the sight of her tail-lights hitting the freeway. Oh no. Fred had simply discovered the reasoning behind the old addage: "Make hay while the sun shines"--for in those few tractoring minutes before dawn, Fred had accidentally baled a skunk.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Amos
Date: 11 Jun 03 - 11:31 AM

The sun swept over the sleeping island that morning like a big flashlight climbing from the sea. It peered through the cracks in the shutters where Too'da'mi-mani lay sleeping. It tickled the sodden brains of the fat white men on their boat, lying at anchor in the bay, who turned over and went back to building hangovers. It crawled across the soft white sands of the long beach on the eastern side of the island, it being morning, where only the night before Cara Pu'a'lu'aiani had found love at the hands of a stranger. But no-one suspected that the old, familiar constant sun would this day shine on an explosive tragedy which would, in the course of things, change all their lives, some for the worse.

(pardon me while I beat a hasty retreat to the Ceramic Repository.....)


A

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Little Hawk
Date: 11 Jun 03 - 02:40 AM

"Heart of Darkness" - Deeply depressed white man takes deeply depressing and virtually endless trip down deeply depressing river in a very depressing part of Africa. Read it to the end and then hang yourself.

Rambo: First Blood - Inarticulate American Vietnam War vet takes on southern redneck cops in forest and kicks ass real good!

Subsequent Rambo movies - Inarticulate American Vietnam War vet takes on assorted foreigners and commies and kicks ass real good!

Rocky movies - Inarticulate Eyetie boxer takes on other boxers, yells "AAAYYYY-DRIENNNE!!!" real loud, and kicks ass real good!

Generic Charles Bronson movie - Almost completely non-articulate guy with poker face and really squinty eyes wreaks inescapable vengeance and certain death on the 35 guys who raped his wife repeatedly in his cabin/houseboat/condo/whatever.

This thread has definitely been hijacked.

- LH

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: LadyJean
Date: 10 Jun 03 - 11:56 PM

I thought my entry had caused the great Mudcat crash. I'm relieved to see there are so man worse ones. I know I'm not to blame.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 10 Jun 03 - 07:55 PM

Amos
Sounds complicated, but if its got Angelina Jolie I'm there.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Amos
Date: 10 Jun 03 - 07:38 PM

The Old Curiosity Shop

Adolescent orphan Nell Trent escapes with her gambling-addicted, mentally infirm grandfather from the villainous "dwarf" Daniel Quilp, to whom the old man, obsessed with making Nell wealthy, has lost his money and his shop. Quilp and a host of other malevolent and benevolent characters track the pair's journey through urban, rural, and industrial England. When the good characters reach the peaceful hamlet where Nell and her grandfather have settled, Nell has just died, soon to be joined by her grief-stricken grandfather.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: katlaughing
Date: 10 Jun 03 - 06:47 PM

Jane Eyre Sex-starved teacher moves in with married man. Mad wife, kept locked in attic, sets house aflame, perishes. True love prevails.

The Virginian They said "Go west" so he did and brought back this incredible tale of baby-swapping, madcap dancing, dead-eye shoot 'em ups and a smile to die for!

The Jungle Book
* You've seen Dances with Wolves
* You've read Women Who Run With the Wolves

Now read about the original Child of the Wolves, as Mowgli, orphan boy becomes one with a pack of jungle wolves. Don't miss out on his life and death struggle with a real live tiger and his touching friendship with a bear. Cross-species communication at its best!

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: John Hardly
Date: 10 Jun 03 - 06:32 PM

Amos,
Man, why did I even offer up my lame attempts when you write so horridly? I can only aspire to your depths.

Leej,
The Scarlet Letter Hot young eastern girl gets it on in period costume. You bought it for the author -- you enjoyed it for the sex.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: katlaughing
Date: 10 Jun 03 - 06:17 PM

Careful, LeeJ, they PAY people to write that kind of thing for book covers, ya know? You could have another whole new career!

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 10 Jun 03 - 06:00 PM

OK Peter, you know the one I'm talking about, Scrooge's sister that died giving birth to his nephew. It was Little somebody..Nan?..FAN! That's it! Ever notice in Dickens, any female who died tragically had to be pre-fixed with "Little"?

I like the capsule summary, JH. That could be a whole new thread subject...Movie of the Week Capsule summaries.

Moby Dick A crazy seacaptain seeks revenge on the whale that ate his leg, bringing catastrophe to his crew mates.

The Bible A supreme being creates all things. Hilarious hijinks ensue.

Macbeth A power hungry Scotsman will do anything to be King, including plotting with witches. He is haunted by the ghost of his friend, his wife commits suicide, and things get even worse when his castle is attacked by a herd of trees.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Little Hawk
Date: 10 Jun 03 - 12:51 PM

Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! (Gasp!)

Bravo, Amos! What a beginning...

- LH

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Amos
Date: 10 Jun 03 - 12:37 PM

Than yew kindly, dear sir. I am disinclined to get too much practice writing badly. It is hard enough to avoid in the ordinary course of things!

A

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Uncle_DaveO
Date: 10 Jun 03 - 11:59 AM

That is LOVELY, Amos! Encore! Encore!

Dave Oesterreich

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Amos
Date: 10 Jun 03 - 10:47 AM

It wasn't the booze. It wasn't the blue-steel smell of a well-oiled .38. It wasn't the pheremones in the summer air, thick as Spanish sweat in the summernight simmer of a city too familiar with sinning. It wasn't even the teeth-grinding screech of bad brakes from a thousand dissonant taxicabs that made Sevilla die that night. It was her goddamned double crossing luminsecent Gardol smile, really, that did her in, finally -- that two-timing fluorescent cheapskate imitation of sunlight oozing out of the dark corners of her pusillanimous soul. That's why she died. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: John Hardly
Date: 10 Jun 03 - 09:48 AM

A Christmas Carol
c. Charles Dickens 1843
revised 2003 Little Charlie Dickins.

overview:
Scrooge, Marley, Kratchet and the rest of the boys are drivin' home from the barn dance. Christmas Eve. They've been drinkin'. They see what appears to be a ghost in the road. In their attempt to avoid the ghost, they run their truck off the road and run over a little girl.

Yeah. Nell dies in this one.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Amos
Date: 10 Jun 03 - 09:45 AM

LEJ:

Mastery extended to the medicore!! You sure you aren't moonlighting as a housewife-plumber?

JohnH:

Wow!! Impressive indeed!


A

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Peter T.
Date: 10 Jun 03 - 09:05 AM

LEJ, little Nell does not die in A Christmas Carol. (Not much of a contribution, but hey, I am rushed at the moment). yours, Peter T.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Little Hawk
Date: 09 Jun 03 - 11:16 PM

Wow. The mind boggles. "Suddenly, their eyes met across the crowded room..." (famous old Far Side cartoon in which ultimate male nerd meets ultimate female nerd at cocktail party)

- LH

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: John Hardly
Date: 09 Jun 03 - 09:04 PM

He arrived in town unnoticed under cover of mediocrity. He did not "blow into town on a strong wind" – his personality was so devoid of substance that wind (strong or otherwise) could not have found purchase. The choices of his life could be described by one word – "safe". He might have been in town for weeks spreading his particularly gray charm to nobody.

Suddenly his world changed.

A full twelve inches of blue-black hair sat crookedly atop a face with skin made taut by the upward force of the huge tortoise shell combs that the foot-high coiffure required, and the downward pull of the immense turquoise and silver earrings that dangled from well-expanded holes in her ear lobes. It may be safe to assume that the earrings were originally a cowboy's belt buckles enjoying a second life as jewelry.

She jangled as she walked. She sparkled. She was a flashlight bulb stuck into a 220 outlet and she was shining way past capacity.

Their eyes met.

The void of his personality drew her to him. A force of nature. Irresistible. Suddenly the world achieved a balance never before dreamed of...

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 09 Jun 03 - 08:45 PM

Yes, I agree Littlehawk. Some of the most incredibly bad horseshit I have produced, which is saying something. I actually got a tear in my eye while writing it, but it may have been pain rather than sentiment.

I have to admit a certain susceptibility to that kind of sentimental garbage. I can read a scene like that, or sit through Nell's death scene in A Christmas Carol for example, knowing full well that it is an obvious contrived effort to pluck my heartstrings, and still tear up like an idiot. I have developed an immunity to bad sentimental poetry though, as well as music. I think it's the ridiculous rhymes that the poets are forced to use that break the spell. I mean the poems by people like Edward Arlington Robinson, or the kind you see in the local newspaper that some housewife or plumber was moved to compose.

He was just 16 and way too young
To die in an awful wreck
But he did not see the curve ahead
so he crashed and broke his neck
And we were all sad when we heard the news
It struck a terrible chord
Until we realized he was heaven bound
And now lives with the Lord

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: HuwG
Date: 09 Jun 03 - 07:38 PM

"Fire!" barked Kimelsen, and with that, the primary projectors of his flagship vented forth their awesome power, an incandescent cascade of pure energy which no force in the universe could withstand, sending their terrifying bolts of power towards the helpless pirate vessels cowering before the approach of the hellish bolts of incredibly intense radiation.

"Damn!" snarled Kimelsen. "Missed!"

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Little Hawk
Date: 09 Jun 03 - 12:38 PM

By the way, LEJ, the story you wrote about the little girl dying is the most nauseating piece of crap in this entire thread. Bravo! You deserve a gold star for that one. It sounds like a great many dreadful stories of the same ilk written in the Victorian Age.

- LH

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Little Hawk
Date: 08 Jun 03 - 11:08 PM

Every time I thought about Jason Burke I got a hot flash that started way "down under" and worked its way straight up to my curling iron. He was undeniably hot, but he was so insufferable. I couldn't stand the man. Still, I couldn't get him out of my mind either. The way he stroked his chin while dictating memos...it used to just paralyze me. I guess he probably figured I was just lousy at taking dictation. Still, he had kept me on, and that was what really made me wonder about Jason Burke. There was hardly one fucking middle management type left in this damn city who still gave dictation for Christ's sake, but Jason did. And to me. Why didn't he just type short, badly-spelled emails with no proper punctuation, like the rest of them did. Why dictate letters? And why to me? Was it because he was a perfectionist or because he was simply old-fashioned? He didn't strike me as the old-fashioned type. A guy who handles conference calls to businessmen in four different cities while playing squash and swallowing live sardines is not what I would call old-fashioned.

There was one possibility that I could not resist considering. Maybe I was the reason Jason Burke dictated those letters. It was an intriguing notion, and one that I meant to get to the bottom of by hook or by crook, by fair means or foul. I checked my lip gloss one more time. Not bad. Lock and load, baby...

* I hesitate to sign this as LH. Just call me "Violet Haize" instead.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 08 Jun 03 - 10:43 PM

a "frying pantheist"?! "The sea was as gray as a nun's diary"!?

That's the kind of crap that could easily win this contest!

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Little Hawk
Date: 08 Jun 03 - 10:30 PM

I had a thought, a splendid thought, that I must share with the world. But then I forgot it. What the hell. The world wouldn't care anyway. Outside the wind was howling. No, not the wind. It was my dog. The yellow one with the evil eye. He had a bad case of ringworm. I knew what that was like. I eyed the .303 that hung over the mantelpiece. It was oily, shiny, and cold. Just like my heart. She should not have left me, but she did. Women are like that. I didn't care. I was a man. A man has things he's got to do that only a man can understand. Well, some men, I guess. Woody Allen...maybe not. I don't give a damn about Woody Allen. The rifle was still on the wall. Silent. Blueing and oiled wood stock. It stared back at me. What the hell. There's not much use arguing with a gun, specially when you've got a fish to catch. I pushed the whiskey bottle away with a grimace. It fell on the floor, but didn't break. Too bad. I like the sound of breaking glass. It somehow liberates me. It's like blood when you cut yourself shaving. You see that blood and you know that it's real. Just as real as the smell of the sea when I stepped out the door. I made my way down the shingle to the beach. The sea was as gray as a nun's diary. I looked at the boat. It was old, leaky, and needed a paint job, but it would do. I got in and cast off. Khan was out there somewhere, waiting, and I was coming for him, and there was no way around it. He knew it and I knew it. It was only a matter of time.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: JenEllen
Date: 08 Jun 03 - 06:12 PM

So there I went, crazy-mad in love again but looking for the door, the tentflap from triage,
the hole in the yurt that led to the freedom of the grasslands. When had love become that tight corset of
choking passion? It wasn't that I didn't love enough, I loved it all, I was a frying pantheist.

Tonight the stars will come out in the darkening, hiding the skidmarks that the planes
make across the sky like the dark hides the skidmarks in his wadded pants by the river, and
he'll grin at me with all the power of the waning sun and he'll talk, trying to explain the meaning of
life like I don't already know. "Hey baybee, it's like Goethe and Charlie Parker, you know.
It takes hands to wash hands, girlie-doodle. You got to give to receive..." and I'll ask him
if he wants some eggs......

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: John Hardly
Date: 08 Jun 03 - 10:17 AM

man, yous gize are ambitious. And funny.

I'd post more but its like that ship done sailed up a creek without a paddle in some water that long since ran over the bridge....or under the dam.....

......the torpedos.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: katlaughing
Date: 08 Jun 03 - 12:32 AM

she fashioned a crude bandage for him from an old corset. Later, during the ambush, he had performed well one wonders just what the bandage was for and if it had anything to do with him performing well!

hehehehehe

She didn't know where he'd come from. She was on the beach. She looked down and there he was. She didn't have her clothes on. They were at the edge of the water where she was scrubbing them. She looked down and there he was, naked like her. She climbed on top of him. She climbed on top of him and rode like the wind. Then her back was against the sandy beach and he rode like the wind. It was all very confusing as there was no wind that night. She still liked him though and decided to take him back to her headquarters. She took him back with her where her iron skillet hung. She thought it might fit his head very well.

(it IS fun!)

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 07 Jun 03 - 10:10 PM

She was the kind of woman who would cook tortillas and eggs on the campfire in a blackened skillet for you. She was the one the other guerillas called La Hermana del Diablo, because she would split a man's skull with the same skillet she had just fried his eggs in. She was an easy woman to make love to, but difficult to sleep with because she could become angry over the lovemaking and try to kill you. She could disassemble a carbine with one hand and put it back together with the other. She bore grudges. She cared deeply about abstract concepts. She could mend a man's socks, but refused to do so.

He had not long been out of the University, where he had become bored and been expelled for performing accurate and degrading impressions of the Dean. He had been homesick for the cold trout streams of his native Idaho, but he could not return because of the warrant. He had ridden a freight car to New York City, where he had learned brutal lessons working on the docks. He carried several inches of a broken grappling hook in his forearm from the time he had laughed at the kilted Scots sailor. He had written one good story and two bad ones, one of the bad ones seeing publication in a Chicago pulp monthly. It was the story of Pedro, a boy who had been killed in Pamplona when he missed the entrance for the toilet and stumbled into the bullring. He felt the poor story had betrayed the boy. In the same way, a wrong turn had landed him in Spain. For a long time he had missed the blond girl. The novel his friends thought he was writing was merely a series of letters imploring her to take him back. When the drinking became too much, he had gone to Spain.

On the morning of the ambush, he had surprised her by the river where she had gone to fetch water. He had looked away from her, stripped off his canvas trousers, and dived into the stream. It had been shallower than he had guessed, and he had been knocked unconscious by a rock. He awoke to find her kneeling by him, naked. The sun had been shining when they began to make love, but he soon felt drops of rain on his back. When they went back to the camp, she fashioned a crude bandage for him from an old corset. Later, during the ambush, he had performed well, and afterwards she had moved into his tent with her skillet.

(this is too much fun)

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: katlaughing
Date: 07 Jun 03 - 07:53 PM

LeeJ!! A Master has Returned!!! Bravo!!

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: GUEST,Q
Date: 07 Jun 03 - 04:56 PM

Poem by Donald H. Rumsfeld (affectionally known as Rummy).
This poem by Rummy (really!) will appear in "The Existential Poetry of Donald H. Rumsfeld, due out this month, compiled and edited by Hart Seely.

Lyr. Add: (No, Lyr. Delete): Saddam-i-am!

I do not like Saddam-i-am!
I do not like that man, Saddam!
Would you like him with inspectors?
Would you like him with defectors?
Would you like him with no chemicals,
Which mens no
wartime epidemic-als?
Not with inspectors,
not with defectors!
Not with Islam, not with Iran.
I do not like Saddam-i-am!
I want regime change for that man!

Seely commends Rummy for blending irony with a cowboy sensibility and calls him America's poet lariat.
(Will Rogers is spinning in his grave)

From a column in the Los Angeles Times- Washington Post News Service, by Carole Goldberg.

And a little haiku by him:

Needless To Say

Needless to say,
The president was correct
Whatever it was he said.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 07 Jun 03 - 04:42 PM

The weather outside the mansion had passed from a gray, ponderous mist to a cacophonous downpour that, despite the violence of its assault on the moors and fens, gained no surcease from the torment innate in its bilious complexion. Lord Marsden was wakened from troubled slumber by a cough of thunder, and realized with a start that the physician was still in the bedroom, somberly tending to little Penelope. Her wan features had taken on the glowing translucence of an angel in these last stages of the consumption, and Marsden was again struck by the resemblance to his late wife who had passed on in the act of giving Penelope life. "Father," the tiny voice called out from some realm where heaven and earth met and mingled. "Father, are you there?"

"Yes my little Darling," Marsden choked, kneeling by the bed and taking her tiny, chilly fingers in his large hand. "Father...am I dying?" said Penelope, her eyes suddenly clear and innocent as she posed the question. "Why, of course not, Dearest!" He whispered, involuntarily turning to gaze at Dr Fitzhibbing, who had turned his bearded face away, the more discreetly to touch a tear from his haggard cheek.

"But Father...I thought I saw Mother at the foot of the bed, dressed in a white robe. She said I was to come with her to Heaven, but that first I should tell you that she still loves you. And that she will be able to care for me now," said Penelope. Marsden opened his lips to reassure his daughter, but his quavering tongue failed in its service. A knock at the door announced the arrival of Reverend Williams, who silently took his place by the deathbed. For a moment the pretty child was silent, her eyes closed as if in the last rapture of mortality, but then she again spoke to her father. "Father, please don't be so sad. Although I had so wanted to ride my pony Billy once more by the bank of the Tanner, where the birds make such lovely music. Promise me that you will go and tarry there and think of me." Marsden could hold back the tears no longer and they fell in profusion down his cheeks. "I promise, my sweetest Darling" he choked.

Again she fell silent, the rain now lashing the window panes as Marsden, the Reverend, and the physician held vigil. The ticking of the clock on the oaken mantle seemed to remind them of the fleeting nature of man's transient existence. Then Penelope's rosebud mouth parted, and she spoke quite loudly. "Oh Father, promise me that you will feed the young robins who were orphaned in the nest outside my window. They have no else to care for them now." Marsden touched her wan cheek, gasping "yes, my angel." Outside the window, the tree in which the tiny nestlings huddled swayed in the wind and rain. The child's eyes then opened and she smiled, her eyes taking on a distant yet warm gaze. "Yes, Mother," she said, "I will go with you now. But first a kiss for my dear Father..." and he gently kissed her a final goodbye. She sank peacefully back into the pillows, whispering "don't worry, Father. Mother and I shall wait for you in Heaven." Then her eyes fluttered, she gave a soft sigh, and her tiny hand fell limp on the coverlet. As if acknowledging her ascendance to a gentler realm, the rain and wind suddenly ceased, and a small ray of the November sun found its way through the window, falling on the child's peaceful face.

"Despair not, Marsden. She now dwells in a far better place than this," said Reverend Williams. Then the world around them was flooded with sunshine. And in the silence, Marsden heard the faint chirping of the baby nestlings outside.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: GUEST,leeneia
Date: 07 Jun 03 - 07:42 AM

It's not original, but I submit a sample of one of a very common form of bad writing, the almost-meaningless prose that pads books of art history.

"In luminist landscapes, measure confines natural elements within an ideational order. This order operates both across the surface and in depth. As in classic art, mathematical and geometric correlations predominate over natural irregularities. Luminist measure, imposing an absolute order on reality, gives specificity to the ideal. Thus the categories of the real and ideal are recipically tempered. Quantification affects every aspect of luminist art; structure, form, tone, light are all subject to the subtlest discretions of calculated control. These minute and economic discriminations release poetic rather than cerebral effects."

FYI, luminist landscapes are the grand landscape paintings of the mid-to-late 19th C., such as works by Frederick Edwin Church and Albert Bierstadt. There is nothing particularly "measured" about them.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Cluin
Date: 07 Jun 03 - 02:55 AM

While Nick walked through the little stretch of meadow alongside the stream, trout had jumped high out of water. Now as he looked down the river, the insects must be settling on the surface, for the trout were feeding steadily all down the stream. As far down the long stretch as he could see, the trout were rising, making circles all down the surface of the water, as though it were starting to rain.
"Fuckin' rain," muttered Nick as he broke down his rod and turned around to go home.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: GUEST,leeneia
Date: 07 Jun 03 - 12:11 AM

Little Hawk, I loved your movie preview.

I rarely go to movies. They make me motion sick. But when I do, I don't go in until the previews are over, because they are the most discombobulating form of film there is.

Peter T: I loved your contribution about the smells and the accountant!

I wish I could write as badly as you guys. Sigh.

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: katlaughing
Date: 06 Jun 03 - 11:30 PM

LMAO, BPL!!

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 06 Jun 03 - 05:12 PM

WARNING: Contains rude words and innuendo.

Meanwhile, several nautical miles behind the Salty Mouth, the prow of the Shagghappy Sharon plunged rythmically in and out of the briny deep. Her skipper has been secretly commissioned by the admiralty to hunt down the crew of ladyboys and eradicate them, thus ridding the fleet, pride of Brittania, of impure seamen.
The admiralty's appointment of Elzevere Black as captain had been unanimous: when asked to fill in the questionnaire, Captain Black had deftly stepped outside and felled the doorman with a left cross. He listed as his hobbies 'hurting' and 'shagging.' At the end of his left arm, just for effect, was a hook which he held in his hand which was tucked up his sleeve.
"How is your first name spelled?" the clerk had asked.
"Elzevere: B-A-S-T-A-R-D ... Elzevere."
Onboard Sharon, two figures were silhouetted matt black against a bad moon rising.
"Keep yer distance, Billy," gruffly spake the captain. "I feel in me bones a change in the weather. A storm is on the horizon."
"Where be that, Cap'n?"
"Where the sky loves the sea."
"Where be that, Cap'n?"
"At the world's edge, Billy."
"Where be ..."
"Over there, you dim fucker," roared the captain, pointing with his false appendage. "Black clouds and thunderbolts ... what are you, blind ... Pew, was that you?"
"Oops."
"Tis a storm a-brewin," said Black. "Have ye ever bin tossed on the high sea, Billy?"
"No, Cap'n, but I bin blown ashore."
The wind gets up and the captain whips out his spyglass and pulls it out to its full length. Far to the east the lights of a sleepy coastal town flicker through the blackness. The captain lowers his scope and smiles at Billy.
"We'll put in for the duration, Billy."
"Ooo, lovely."
A ship is spotted off the port bow. Spotted ships are uncommon even now, but were rare indeed in those days. "There's a Frenchie a-followin' us Billy. I've a partik'ler dislike fer Frenchies."
"I'd quite like one myself," sez Billy.
"There may be trouble -- where's me buccanneers?"
"They're on the sides o' yer buckin' 'ed, Cap'n."
"Muster the lads, Billy."
"Erm ..."
"Get the fuckers up here."
"Right, ahoy there, tally-ho."
"You wasn't brought up on the sea was you, Billy?"
"Actually no, sir. I fell off the quayside pissed about a week since. When I woke up I was aboard this ship two miles off St. Hild's at Hartlepool. I spent the first day blowing chunks, but now I'm getting more used to it."
"When I wants yer life story Billy, we'll break out the accordion an' set it to music. Now, set the mains'el"
"Erm ..."
"Shite, just go an make some tea." Black struts up to the hatch and bellows below.
"Haul it up here, Plunger me lad!"
Plunger Plunkett appears on deck complete with red bandana and blue stripey shirt.
"Aye, aye, Cap'n!"
"Why you dressed like a puff?"
"It's me pullin' gear Cap'n. I heard we was goin' ashore and foreign ladies do lust for me in this garb."
"They must be fuckin' desperate, Plunger. What you hiding down there?" said the captain, again with the appendage pointing.
"Nothing sir."
"Ah, so that's where the nickname comes from ..."
The ship lurches suddenly to the port side and the crew get excited, whirling their cutlasses and other sharp things in the air. They are upon the French ship before you can say "Alors, maintenent pour un spot de l'aggro!"
"Swing 'er into the wind an' we'll ram 'er amidships!" shouts Black, and the boys brace for battle.
"Tea everyone!" sez Billy, and the helmsman is hard put to swerve the ship to one side.
"No sugar in mine," sez Plunkett. "Shall we disengage for tea, Cap,'n?"
"Of course, no wait ... gunner Griswald, thump a couple of balls into her."
"Ooo, lovely, that should make her scream."
"He's very common that Griswald isn't he?" said Black. "I would have to consider him for promotion if you weren't all already Class-A wankers."
"Soon fix that though, hey Cap'n?"
"Ah, yes. Helmsman, tack about fifteen degrees to starboard."
"Erm ..."
"Turn right for fuck's sake. Oh, look. The Frenchies are sinking. Good. Time to reward ourselves with a night of horizontal refreshment I think."

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: katlaughing
Date: 06 Jun 03 - 02:09 PM

John Hardly, THAT should be on Aine's Mudcat stories page! WEll-done, for real, beautifully done!
***************************************************************

The dog which was a dull brown sat in the brown dirt of the long road, the one just off the main highway down Soldier's Way and scratched hisself. He had a passel of fleas and they was all brown, too. Well, the dead ones was red filled up with his blood they'd been suckin' on. Ya ever heard the fat filled up ones pop? Ya git 'em just between yer fingernails like this and squish the suckers. They make a nasty little pop best sound in the world 'cause it's one last one what cain't bite me. Anyhows, that brown dog, well maybe he was more yeller, was itchin' something awful. Last time I went by he's still there, still scritchin'. Thet's why he was kicked out and left there. Ain't none of them wannna be with a mangy yeller itchy, scratchy son of a bitch. They might be bitches, too but they's got standards and none of 'em'll have a hang-dog for a beau!

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: GUEST,A fan...
Date: 06 Jun 03 - 01:54 PM

The 35th Marrisonade

Behold the verdant meadow!
Spilling its seeds in incomprehensible riot
Over the fair flanks of quiescent virgin
Niobes of orgiastic splendour.
Soft!
There comes a footfall
As of some fabled spirit queen
Her tresses unloosed to the rising shaft
Of dawn!
"Methinks," cries the bard, "the game is afoot!"
And was it merely yesterday that we knelt
You and I
Amid these primordial splendours
Our senses tickled by the bleating
Of distant farm animals
Our nostrils bedecked with the pollinated
Effulgence of the marrisonade
Our hearts as one
Engulfed in the puissant aroma
Of eros?
Nay! 'Twas an eon ago, or two
'Twas an epoch past
A space in time
A pause in creation
Upon whose naked limbs rested
The very grasp of all that is real
And all that is...a passing dream.

- a 1997 poem by Malcolm Buggeroll, the "Poet of the Highlands"

Subject: RE: Mudcat Bad Writing Contest (Enter Often)
From: Little Hawk
Date: 05 Jun 03 - 06:17 PM

Prepare yourself for an experience beyond the ordinary, beyond the surreal, beyond your most extreme expectations in this extraordinary exhibit of the postmodern visual arts by the legendary Kant Drawurthadam, the most avante-garde artist in all of Europe...if not the entire World. His bold new use of vibrant colours and savage lines literally leaps off the canvas at the viewer, transporting one into vistas of as yet undreamt-of vastness, disturbing the senses, undermining moral structures, and inducing hypertension on a molecular scale! Kant Drawurthadam has tossed aside all art conventions in his search for inner truth, plumbing the depths of his own tortured psyche and sparing himself nothing in this brutally honest expose of the mores and foibles of our time. When I first saw his art, I was struck speechless. I have recovered enough now to tell you this...don't miss this showing! Be there. Nothing more need be said.

- LH