Best Metaphors.... very DA
Discussion
In the best tradition of Douglas Adams, these are suposedly from GCSE exam papers - regardless of source, there are some touches of genius here.
Which is your favourite - or can you do better?
These are metaphors from actual GCSE essays
Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two other sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.
His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a tumble dryer.
She caught your eye like one of those pointy hook latches that used to dangle from doors and would fly up whenever you banged the door open again.
The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.
Mc Murphy fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a paper bag filled with vegetable soup.
Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.
Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the centre.
Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.
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 York at 6:36 pm travelling at 55 mph, the other from Peterborough at 4:19 pm at a speed of 35 mph.
The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the full stop after the Dr on a Dr Pepper can.
John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.
The thunder was ominous sounding, much like the sound of a thin sheet of metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene in a play.
The red brick wall was the colour of a brick-red crayon.
Even in his last years, Grandpa had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long it had rusted shut.
The door had been forced, as forced as the dialogue during the interview portion of Family Fortunes.
Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.
The plan was simple, like my brother Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work. (I have actually got a brother called Phil)
The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.
`Oh, Jason, take me!` She panted, her breasts heaving like a student on 31p-a-pint-night.
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.
Her artistic sense was exquisitely refined, like someone who can tell butter from "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter."
She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.
It came down the stairs looking very much like something no one had ever seen before.
The knife was as sharp as the tone used by Glenda Jackson MP in her first of several points of parliamentary procedure made to Robin Cook MP Leader of the House of Commons, in the House Judiciary Committee hearings on the suspension of Keith Vaz MP.
The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a lamppost.
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 cashpoint.
The dandelion swayed in the gentle breeze like an oscillating electric fan set on medium.
It was a working class tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with their power tools.
He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a dustcart reversing.
She was as easy as the Daily Star crossword.
She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature British beef.
She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
Her voice had that tense, grating quality, like a first-generation thermal paper fax machine that needed a band tightened.
It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.
Which is your favourite - or can you do better?
These are metaphors from actual GCSE essays
Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two other sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.
His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a tumble dryer.
She caught your eye like one of those pointy hook latches that used to dangle from doors and would fly up whenever you banged the door open again.
The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.
Mc Murphy fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a paper bag filled with vegetable soup.
Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.
Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the centre.
Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.
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 York at 6:36 pm travelling at 55 mph, the other from Peterborough at 4:19 pm at a speed of 35 mph.
The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the full stop after the Dr on a Dr Pepper can.
John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.
The thunder was ominous sounding, much like the sound of a thin sheet of metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene in a play.
The red brick wall was the colour of a brick-red crayon.
Even in his last years, Grandpa had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long it had rusted shut.
The door had been forced, as forced as the dialogue during the interview portion of Family Fortunes.
Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.
The plan was simple, like my brother Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work. (I have actually got a brother called Phil)
The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.
`Oh, Jason, take me!` She panted, her breasts heaving like a student on 31p-a-pint-night.
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.
Her artistic sense was exquisitely refined, like someone who can tell butter from "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter."
She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.
It came down the stairs looking very much like something no one had ever seen before.
The knife was as sharp as the tone used by Glenda Jackson MP in her first of several points of parliamentary procedure made to Robin Cook MP Leader of the House of Commons, in the House Judiciary Committee hearings on the suspension of Keith Vaz MP.
The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a lamppost.
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 cashpoint.
The dandelion swayed in the gentle breeze like an oscillating electric fan set on medium.
It was a working class tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with their power tools.
He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a dustcart reversing.
She was as easy as the Daily Star crossword.
She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature British beef.
She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
Her voice had that tense, grating quality, like a first-generation thermal paper fax machine that needed a band tightened.
It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.
s off a thistle
Here's a selection of bad romantic metaphores or similes I stumbled across a few years ago:
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 road-kill 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.
His finger, weathered and rough from years on the ranch, danced in and out of his nose like a slimy ballerina.
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 road-kill 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.
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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