Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides
gently compressed by a Thigh Master.
She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was
room-temperature Canadian beef.
She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes
just before it throws up.
The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a
bowling ball wouldn't.
McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag
filled with vegetable soup.
Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair after a sneeze.
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.
He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the
East River.
Even in his last years, Grandpappy had a mind like a steel trap,
only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.
The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil,
this plan just might work.
...and my favorite:
The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender
leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.
_______________
Banzai Harakiri
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