Everybody gets one vote, so use it wisely. If you think yours is the best, then by all means vote for yourself. The point is you do only have one vote, so please be honest. This is for prosperity after all.
Lauren's 1st Entry
Dennis walked down the hall, like a man cruising a corridor. He reached the door, its hinges shining in the moonlight as if illuminated by a reflected glow. He grasped for the knob searching like a virgin lover. When he finally found the knob he let out a sigh like an asthmatic. He gently pushed on the door like a roll of toothpaste, and squeezed himself into the room as if being born. The room was empty save a small glass bowl that lingered tauntingly on the floor. A puddle of water purged like a bulimic from the bowls lip.
Lauren's 2nd Entry
All the world’s a piss bucket and all the men and women in it merely a pile of excrement. They have their entrances and exits, and have somehow been processed and left decaying along the way. Were we to attempt an entrance through an exit we would be blocked by the flurry descending upon us, and pressed further into the bucket. The future for us is inevitable; we are to become a mass of putridity fit for a king.
Renee watched the hot tub jets froth beneath the surface, a swirling toilet bowl of relaxation. Across the room, the Men’s room door opened and a massive man stepped out, like some fat guy who just arrived. As graceful as a walrus shoehorned into a tutu, his blubber rippled with every step. Unwrapping his towel, he let it fall to the floor, a discarded wrapper from the mother of all Twinkies. Slipping into the water, his limbs bobbed to the surface, his feet like buoys topped with a line of engorged maggots. The hot tub over ran like a cup that runneth over except for bigger, and with more water. Backing out in a hurry, like a person scared sh**less, Renee stared in horror at his chest hair, a waving mass of seaweed that floated out from his body like so many dead flies. Now, with the water having as much appeal as toxic waste, she hurried to the changing room and lay steaming on the bench like a fresh pile of manure.
“Pantene,” she sighed apologetically, “to feel your smooth fingers weaving untangled through my silky manageable hair, like golden sunlight quivering through tree branches, to feel your moisturizing lips upon my scalp, like morning dew kissing a rose, to feel your thick richness dripping upon my shoulder, like jam on the chin of a toddler eating a piece of toast, to believe in your promise to make me as beautiful as a dove flying beside a purple lilac bush, to sleep with your intoxicating scent in my tresses, like the smell of nature’s breath in a meadow of wild flowers, it is simply not possible Pantene, my preference is L’Oreal, because I’m worth it.”
Phyllis K. Twombly
My simian simile is like a wee little monkey
With the jittery java jive of the capuchin, oh.
You'll be agog and agape and you might go ape
Once snappy words, like pooh, start to fly to and fro.