Some time ago, a friend challenged me to enter one of those contests where the entry with the worst first sentence wins the prize. I declined. Below is my letter of declination.
I’m sure I could win this contest, whilst reclining on a recliner, sipping sips of a beer from a glass of beer held in one hand, and fondling the Wii controller with the other, as easily as shooting a tame and sedated flounder that was, purely for the sake beating the dead horse that was this metaphor before it succumbed to the blunt force trauma inflicted by my stubby yet mighty fingers dancing nimbly above the dim nimbus of my keyboard, wedged to the point of immobility into a small barrel welded to the business end of a fully armed and operational blunderbuss, because, when I’m not careful, my sentences tend to run on a bit–sometimes farther (or is it further? I can never remember the distinction) than a dash or even an elliptical clause (or two) can justify.
