Gorilla landed his bowling-ball sized, pud-pulling, pugilistic fist on my office door like a mis-guided 750-pound bomb dropping from the bomb bay of an ordinance engorged B-52 and dying to offend a peaceful Vietnamese village during Tet. The knock's reverberation rattled my door like a jonzing heroin junkie’s teeth.
But I was ready for him. My muscles were taut like a snack-craving panther waiting for some anorexic squirrel monkey to happen along in a steam-soaked Amazonian jungle.
Bambi who was in my office and standing by the window gasped like a goldfish who's been hooked from its bowl like a sailfish in the deep-blue sea by a spoiled cross-eyed Siamese cat. My overly-caffeinated, meth-amp'd eyes gave her the once over stare like two pogo stick jockeys trying to get into the Guinness’s Book of World Records. Her battery acid-bleached, blonde locks cascaded off her like Farrah Fawcett in the 70's on a major bad hair day.
Bambi's genetically-endowed jugs strained through her halter top like a Rodin sculpture before an unveiling. She had bullet-proof, wash board abs that would put any abs blaster model to shame. Her hips flared out with just the right amount of fat.
A yellow smiley faced, Lycra patch shrouded her shorn mons. Except smiley was smirking like a Sunday school teacher who just posted some randy pictures of herself on Facebook at the Annual Sunday School Teachers Convention in Las Vegas. You know. The one in which she is wearing next to nothing and slobbering her boozed-ladled tongue between her right index and middle fingers. But enough about her.
"Come in," I barked like a temple dog in front of an Asian massage parlor where even a stray cat gets a "happy ending." Gorilla rushed in like a steroid-spiked defensive lineman playing the game of his life.
He ran to Bambi and knelt before her like Orestes at the idle feet of Athena's idol and said, "Marry me!" Tears gushed down Bambi's creamy cheeks like sewage water in the bombed-out streets of Baghdad. "Okay," she said. I looked at them, reached for a marriage certificate and said, "Save it for the Motel, you crazy kids."
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Max Rivlin-Nadler
Marilyn Sands
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Living with Caer
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Comments
I've just placed an emergency call to the Metaphor Abuse Hotline: 1-800-IT-SUCKS!
Now I must dry my tears of laughter, gushing "like sewage water in the bombed-out streets of Baghdad."
"Come in," I barked like a temple dog in front of an Asian massage parlor where even a stray cat gets a "happy ending.
Metaphor madness! This story was like a day where the dentist gets followed by OB/GYN Kenobi, and Raley's is out of the Alaskan King Crab Legs that you need to deal with the trauma.
Bravo! Well played.
A bit too...good...though, don't you think? I didn't wince in abject pain even once! :-D
James: It seems you liked it like gonococcus at a penicillin party.
Zumalicious: Bambi and Gorilla are availbe if you need some steroid-spiked gym rats to make sure nothing happens to you.
Verbal: You can have the name as long as you pay me royalty for your naming your new band. ; )
You are not immature. On the contrary, you display a certain appreciation for the sweet innocent days when you could get away with saying stuff like this because most of the people wouldn't get it, but somehow it sounded dirty and funny. Gone too are the days of innuendo and double entendre when someone could write something with a wink-wink and it was understood.
Now-a-days, you have to be blatant about everything you write in a delusional attempt to "get street cred" or "keep it real".
Especially in music, where the only way to get noticed is by getting an Explicit Lyrics label on your CD's cover.