I have a writing friend that writes metaphors beautifully. I can’t. Her metaphors are like beautiful wildflowers popping up where you least expect them. See, I stink. Plus, that was a simile.
Whatever. Someone sent me a list of Analogies and I thought I’d share. My favorite is number four. Enjoy!
World’s Funniest Analogies.
–Annual English Teachers’ awards for best student metaphors/analogies
found in actual student papers:
–His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like
underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.
–He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy
who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those
boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at
high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one
of those boxes with a pinhole in it.
She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just
before it throws up.
Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
He was as tall as a six-foot, three-inch tree.
The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling
ball wouldn’t.
From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole scene had an eerie,
surreal quality, like when you’re on vacation in another city and
Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30.
The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry
them in hot grease.
Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the
grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left
Cleveland at 6:36 p.m. traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at
4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.
John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had
also never met.
He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant, and she was the East
River.
Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one
that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.
Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.
The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law George. But unlike George,
this plan just might work.
The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating
for a while.
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 land mine or
something.
The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg
behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.
It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with
power tools.
He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if
she were a garbage truck backing up
