Shaun Ponsonby
10-27-2005, 02:48 PM
I may have posted this before-but, in case I haven't...
These are metaphors used by 16 year old british school kids in their English GCSE "Creative Writing" essays. I thought they were quite funny.
McMurphy fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a paper bag filled with vegetable soup.
Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.
John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.
The door had been forced, as forced as the dialouge during the interview portion of Family Fortunes.
The plan was simple, like my brother Phil.
"Oh, Jason, take me!" she panted, her breasts heaving like a student on a 31p-a-pint-night.
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 landmine or something.
Her artistic sense was exquisitely refined, like someone who can tell butter from "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter".
The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a lampost.
The dandelion sawyed in the gentle breeze, like an oscillating electric fan set at medium.
She was as easy as the Daily Star crossword.
She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coil and he was room-temperature British Beef.
It hurt the way your tounge hurts after you accidently staple it to the wall.
The knife was as sharp as the tone used by Glenda Jackson MP in her first several points of parliamentry proceedure made to Robin Cook MP, leader of the House of Commons, in the House Judiciary Comittee hearings on the suspension of Kieth Vaz MP.
These are metaphors used by 16 year old british school kids in their English GCSE "Creative Writing" essays. I thought they were quite funny.
McMurphy fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a paper bag filled with vegetable soup.
Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.
John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.
The door had been forced, as forced as the dialouge during the interview portion of Family Fortunes.
The plan was simple, like my brother Phil.
"Oh, Jason, take me!" she panted, her breasts heaving like a student on a 31p-a-pint-night.
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 landmine or something.
Her artistic sense was exquisitely refined, like someone who can tell butter from "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter".
The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a lampost.
The dandelion sawyed in the gentle breeze, like an oscillating electric fan set at medium.
She was as easy as the Daily Star crossword.
She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coil and he was room-temperature British Beef.
It hurt the way your tounge hurts after you accidently staple it to the wall.
The knife was as sharp as the tone used by Glenda Jackson MP in her first several points of parliamentry proceedure made to Robin Cook MP, leader of the House of Commons, in the House Judiciary Comittee hearings on the suspension of Kieth Vaz MP.