(previously published on this blog on July 14,2011)
If you have read any romance novels at all then you have come across some laughable “purple prose”. Awhile back someone sent me this list of what I’m assuming are made-up romance novel quotes. The list remains one of my all time favorites. Here’s hoping your sense of humor is as sick as mine:
His body was hard — not hard like Milosevic, the Serbian strongman, but hard like the marble on your shower floor, when you fall and bang your knee.
Her shoulders heaved like the tiny sobs of Snuggles the cat being run through with a roasting spit.
Her embrace made his manhood swell like week-old roadkill on hot asphalt in the Georgia sun.
Her petticoats dropped to the ground, rustling like a cockroach in a sugar bowl.
As she kissed her way down his manly chest, he felt his Amalgamated Crane Company stock increasing in value.
Beatrice was on him like a piranha on a corn dog.
…then he kissed her, like a butterfly kisses the windshield of a Porsche on the Autobahn.
Her breasts heaved like a stormy ocean, and her pointed nipples were like hypodermics washed up on the shore.
With his broad shoulders and slim waist, he was a yield sign — yet she could NOT!
He tore open her blouse like a Publisher’s Clearing House letter in which he, and some guy named Steven Bouber from Stockton, California, were potential finalists for the ten million dollar prize.
His manhood stood at full attention, stiff and stony like the vice president.
Sleekly malevolent, driven by a violent hunger, Donovan glided through the chum-filled waters of the singles bar, oblivious to the remora of Annabelle’s adoring gaze.
Like the wind, she ran, her breasts lurching like a motor boat over a wake, and then, as fluid as a fine imported transmission, she whipped out her man-organ and pissed away his dreams.
Her sun-glazed back formed a golden arch as he moved his face toward her happy meal.
With each breath, her chest heaved like a bulimic after Thanksgiving dinner.
He Beatty-ed her shamelessly, making her squeal like Ned and hallucinate like Warren.
He awoke my slumbering womanhood with his double tall loin latte. “Starbuck!” I cried.
His chest was her pillow, and oh, did she drool.
Claire felt swept away by this dark stranger, a helpless dust bunny in the roaring cacophony of his gas-powered leaf blower.
(Deet is on vacation until December 3rd and will run some older posts that were well received)