worst analogies

This list of hilariously mis-formulated analogies by high school students has been bouncing around the Interwebs for awhile, but it’s so good that it deserves a repost. Lore has it that it originates from a Washington Post contest that asked teachers to send samples of the worst analogies from their students’ work. The word “worst” is a bit of a misnomer because many of these analogies are unintentional genius and all of them are pretty hilarious. Enjoy:

Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the center.
He was as tall as a 6’3? tree.
Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.
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.
John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.
She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.
The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.
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 vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.
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.
The lamp just sat there, like an inanimate object.
McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.
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 asolar 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.
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.
Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.
The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn’t.
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.
They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan’s teeth.
He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant and she was the East River.
Even in his last years, Grand pappy had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it hadrusted shut.
He felt like he was being hunted down like a dog, in a place that hunts dogs, I suppose.
She was as easy as the TV Guide crossword.
She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.
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 college freshman on $1-a-beer night.
It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.
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.
The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the period after the Dr. on a Dr Pepper can.
Her eyes were like limpid pools, only they had forgotten to put in any pH cleanser.
Her date was pleasant enough, but she knew that if her life was a movie this guy would be buried in the credits as something like “Second Tall Man.”
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 color of a brick-red Crayola crayon.
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.
Her pants fit her like a glove, well, maybe more like a mitten, actually.
Fishing is like waiting for something that does not happen very often.
They were as good friends as the people on “Friends.”
Oooo, he smells bad, she thought, as bad as Calvin Klein’s Obsession would smell if it were called Enema and was made from spoiled Spamburgers instead of natural floral fragrances.
The knife was as sharp as the tone used by Rep. Sheila Jackson Lee (D-Tex.) in her first several points of parliamentary procedure made to Rep. Henry Hyde (R-Ill.) in the House Judiciary Committee hearings on the impeachment of President William Jefferson Clinton.
He was as bald as one of the Three Stooges, either Curly or Larry, you know, the one who goes woo woo woo.
The sardines were packed as tight as the coach section of a 747.
Her eyes were shining like two marbles that someone dropped in mucus and then held up to catch the light.
The baseball player stepped out of the box and spit like a fountain statue of a Greek god that scratches itself a lot and spits brown, rusty tobacco water and refuses to sign autographs for all the little Greek kids unless they pay him lots of drachmas.
I felt a nameless dread. Well, there probably is a long German name for it, like Geschpooklichkeit or something, but I don’t speak German. Anyway, it’s a dread that nobody knows the name for, like those little square plastic gizmos that close your bread bags. I don’t know the name for those either.
She was as unhappy as when someone puts your cake out in the rain, and all the sweet green icing flows down and then you lose the recipe, and on top of that you can’t sing worth a damn.
Her artistic sense was exquisitely refined, like someone who can tell butter from I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.
It came down the stairs looking very much like something no one had ever seen before.
Bob was as perplexed as a hacker who means to access T:flw.quid55328.com\aaakk/ch@ung but gets T:\flw.quidaaakk/ch@ung by mistake.
You know how in “Rocky” he prepares for the fight by punching sides of raw beef? Well, yesterday it was as cold as that meat locker he was in.
The dandelion swayed in the gentle breeze like an oscillating electric fan set on medium.
Her lips were red and full, like tubes of blood drawn by an inattentive phlebotomist.
The sunset displayed rich, spectacular hues like a .jpeg file at 10 percent cyan, 10 percent magenta, 60 percent yellow and 10 percent black.

Write a love story with the worst analogies you can think of. I.e. “They pulled in for a tender embrace. Tender like a chicken breast after you’ve cooked it just right”

anonymous asked:

I just read an article about a dairy cow farmer who compared kids that bond with their schoolteacher in a schoolyear, and how the bond is broken when they get another teacher the next year. To: she having 'cared' for a cow by milking her and taking her babys away, and sending them to the slaughterhouse... How would that ever be the same thing?!

Wtf! Well the kids don’t have the school teacher milked then slaughtered and then eat the teacher.. Worst analogy ever🤔

Darkest White

I live in a void. It’s an endless, soundless, deafening thing. The whooshing sound of blood rushing through my very veins a clear reminder of my continued life. Endless, spiraling, empty…

I try to fill the spaces, the dark yet white spaces, with sounds and physical objects and the colorful thoughts of my mind but nothing seems to stick. It’s like putting a single, miniscule drop of white into a vast, black hole… it makes no impact and is swallowed by the dark.

The dark… that’s funny because everything looks white. Bland, stark white. It’s the worst, most fitting analogy I could find.

I drown in the darkest, most stark shade of white.

anonymous asked:

i told my boyfriend i was demisexual so i had to expalin to him that demisexual is the kind of people who feel sexual attraction to someone with an emotional bond, and he said "yeah just like everyone else"... how i am supposed to react to that? i told him that no, because lot of people is alright with one night stands, but he was insisting everyone was like this..

This is a hard one that I’ve struggled with too, because as demisexuals we know that our experience is fundamentally different, but often times harder to pin down than saying we’re strictly asexual.

Here’s how I explained it to my mom. I’m not sure how useful this is, especially since it’s about how *I* experience demisexuality, which might be different than how you or others do, but maybe it’ll help.

So imagine that sex is coffee right? People love coffee. Coffee is everywhere. There’s a Starbucks on every corner, coffee drinkers in every TV show and movie, and billboards and ad spots about coffee all the time. People who like coffee might be peculiar about how they want their coffee— maybe they like it with sugar or soy milk, or only in the mornings before 10, or only when they’re studying, only from Starbucks or only from their local coffee house, etc. Or they might not care— they might like coffee no matter when or how it’s made. They’ll buy it from anyone and take it in whatever form because they really like coffee. But they all agree that in general they like coffee.

And then there are people who don’t like coffee at all. They can’t stand it. They don’t want coffee at any point of the day, no matter how it’s made or who makes it. Nothing you can do makes coffee in any way appealing to them. Coffee lovers are generally baffled by this, and some might insist that people who don’t like coffee just haven’t had the right cup, but the fact is that people who don’t like coffee simply just don’t like coffee.

And then there are people like us: we don’t generally like coffee, and we wouldn’t choose to have coffee on our own. Like the people who don’t like coffee, we can go years without a cup of coffee and it doesn’t bother us at all.

But we have a friend who loves coffee, and we love that friend. And the longer we’re friends, the more we want to have coffee with them. Not because coffee has suddenly become our favorite drink, but because we love our coffee-drinking friend and THEY make us want coffee. So we go out for coffee with them, and we enjoy having coffee because we’re having coffee with them. If we weren’t with them, we wouldn’t want coffee.

“But everybody feels that way” isn’t true. Coffee lovers still want coffee even when their conditions for having coffee aren’t met. Just because they’re not drinking coffee right now, or because they might have preferences for when & how they drink coffee, doesn’t mean they stop liking coffee. But for people like us, if we’re not having coffee with that specific person, then we don’t care about coffee. It holds absolutely no appeal or value. We have to have that connection before we ever want coffee. Coffee lovers might want that connection when they have coffee too, but they also generally want coffee as a thing in itself.

That’s the difference between being demisexual and being an allosexual who likes to have emotional connections with their partners. An allosexual person still likes and wants sex as a thing itself, even if the conditions for having sex aren’t being met. They think about and desire sex outside of the conditions they set for engaging in the actual act. A demisexual person doesn’t care about sex as a thing in itself, because sex is inherently tied to emotional bonding for them. We don’t think about sex as an act involving us unless it’s under those conditions.

That may or may not be the worst analogy ever, I honestly don’t know, sorry. It seemed to work for my mom, but that might be because she really likes coffee *shrugs*

If anyone following this blog has any resources on how to respond to that type of response they’d like to direct the anon to, please let me know so I can post them!

Hope that helps!

bluescarr  asked:

imagine bucky having an instinct for cooking

“It’s just basic chemistry,” says Bucky, feathering his icing with a practiced flick of his knife. “Like working with explosives, only nobody dies if you fuck up.”

“You know,” says Steve, “that might actually be the worst cupcake-related analogy I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, well. Try one of these and tell me my method isn’t working.”

Steve can’t, of course. The cupcakes are delicious.

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.
Men are like beans?

Since having moved to Lagos, I have rediscovered my love for beans. I love beans. In the United States, the beans were different and with a very small African community in New Mexico, I let go of my beany love and settled for green chili and enchiladas.

I’m very particular about my beans, I’ve thrown well-disguised tantrums over beans.

The reason why I happily ended things with the last guy I was with was for the same reason I just won’t eat any sort of beans.

SHIT JUST WASN’T RIGHT. I KNOW I HAVE WAITED FOR THE RIGHT SORT OF BEANS FOR NINE YEARS. NINE YEARS!!!! AND JUST BECAUSE YOU SERVE ME BEANS YOU THINK I AM GOING TO TAKE IT?? LOOK AT THIS WATERY MESS! I WANT BEANS POTTAGE! IF YOU ARE GOING TO SERVE ME SOME PLAIN ASS BEANS AT LEAST HAVE THE DECENCY TO ADD STEW AND MEAT.

Then folks will point out that I wanted beans and this is the sort of beans everyone orders, but I’m angry because I’m fucking hungry and I had a very specific sort of beans in mind and now I’d rather die than eat this runny diarrhea on my plate. But because it is beans I still try it and sure enough, I don’t like it. Everyone else may like it and think it’s cute and charming and a bit mysterious, but I’d rather say no thanks, go sulk for a bit and then go get better beans.

Wow … this turned out to be the worst analogy ever lmao - Yagazie Emezi

two left swipes don’t make a right

for: Neeta @neetfreak10​/@rationalebasis

by: Amina @alototalk

summary: in which Daleena is terrified of technology, Niall is a bit of a perfectionist, and Tinder is the icing on top of a disastrous cake. a university AU.

word count: 8863

warnings: none

main pairing: Niall/OFC

“You’ve literally passed every single guy. Just give this one a chance! Look how hot he is!”

“But he’s… Carla, I really don’t think this is a good idea.”

Keep reading

Her date was pleasant enough, but she knew that if her life was a movie this guy would be burried in the credits as something like “Second Tall Man.”
—  Worst Analogies Ever Written in a High School Essay