EddieSnipes.com

Living just east of Crazy

Bad Metaphors and Worse Similes

Written By: Eddie Snipes - Jan• 31•13

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.

englishSamsung’s Monstrous TV Stand Is Like a Vampire Sorority Girl: Beautiful and Horrible at The Same Time.

A Suzuki Hayabusa, to be exact — a bike that is already as notoriously crazy as a bag full of wet cats.

Something shows up on a computer, a jet fires a missile at seemingly nothing and then, a few minutes later, something blows up somewhere that you cannot see. It’s less like “high-stakes plane jockeying” and more like “filing a request for death” that another department, miles away, might or might not grant.

He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.

Unable to contain his rage, he burst like a pimple of emotion, the pus of his fury streaking the mirror of calm in the bathroom of his life.

The concrete set quicker than mama’s grits at breakfast time.
Time moves slowly. He moved like the time-lapse footage of a pigeon decomposing.

Information poured in like pellets from a rabbit after a big meal. I sorted through them looking for one of value.

Bill tossed Tom the Star Trek movie like a soldier throwing a nerd grenade.

Then he kissed her, like a butterfly kisses the windshield of a Porsche on the Autobahn.

Fighting against it is like slogging through the Swamp of Sadness in The Never Ending Story: you can head into it as optimistically as you like, but by the end you will be so overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of unapologetic nastiness and disrespect that, at the very least, a horse somewhere will die from it, probably.

It’s like watching McDonald’s debate Burger King over whose fries are healthier.

Physicists hate the term. Higgs hates the term. It’s like discovering a vital new gene in neurology and calling it the Kardashian.

The boxer was all over him like a piranha on a corn dog.

Imagine you’re walking down the street and suddenly you see a sandwich hovering in front of you. Hovering sandwiches being your favorite kind, you reach out for it, and are instantly devoured by a nearby monster disguised as a minivan.

The horizon swallowed the setting sun like a dog sucking an egg, but not quite.

Her food looked good, but it was like eating a sugar coated Satan sandwich.

His hand, while firm and masculine, is as soft as a velour child.

Her blazing eyes dance like Astaire and Rogers, but since they were crossed, it was an ocular tango, and my eyes had to foxtrot just to maintain eye contact.

It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.

The zoo of carefully showcased remnants that never get up and walk around their cages; somber, sterile, impersonal, about as pointless as listening to a soundtrack of Bruce Lee action scenes while staring at a blank screen.

She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.

Her parting words lingered heavily inside me like last night’s Taco Bell.

Editing is just like writing, except hateful, and in reverse. Instead of birthing words and ideas out of nothing, you’re murdering them in cold blood, culling them like sickly sheep weakening the flock.

The information imbedded on the stolen computer chip was like an explosive so explosive it could explode, creating a massive explosion.

She was like a refrigerator. Six feet tall, three hundred pounds, and full of ice.

His .38 barked fire, like John Goodman’s butt after a chili cook-off.

The situation had become topsy-turvy — like Christmas in the summer, if you’re in Australia.

From his vantage point in the balcony, the would-be assassin looked down on the debating candidates like a webhead looking down on an AOL user.

He sat like a wise old Buddha, only with hair.

The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had disintegrated because of his wife’s infidelity came as a rude shock, like a surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM.

Her voice had that tense, grating quality, like a first-generation thermal paper fax machine that needed a band tightened.

She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

Hi. It’s like hello, only shorter.

He slipped through traffic like a naked two-year-old covered with butter running from his mother.

His gambling addiction mugged him every week. But without the bruising.

He hung from his arms like a piñata, and Mary was the birthday-boy with the stick.

If we hit that bullseye, the rest of the dominoes should fall like a house of cards. Checkmate.

The A-Frame Structure stood like an inverted V.

Disease and deprivation stalked the land, like two giant stalking things.

With his surfer body and flowery shorts, to Jenn he looked like a Yeti that had raided someone’s underwear drawer.

He looked like a million dollars. Old, green, and wrinkly.

He crawled out of bed and looked in the mirror. 5 a.m. was not his color.

The surgeon felt like he was playing Space Invaders in someone else’s stomach.

His contagious smile spread like a disease.

Her baby was coming quicker than Dale Earnhardt Jr. at a championship race.

His ideas were flowing freely, like an open tap at a wedding party.

He had a heaping serving of belly fat, like someone was dishing out potatoes and the other person forgot to say, "When."

The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

Speaking of ballerinas….

His finger, weathered and rough from years on the ranch, danced in and out of his nose like a slimy ballerina.

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3 Comments

  1. jenlhall63 says:

    Surely these aren’t from real books…I liked the one about the never ending story though 🙂

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