Thursday, July 28, 2005

Given the quality of some of the posts and comments here,

I feel it only appropriate to share this on the blog:

Thursday, July 28, 2005; Posted: 6:01 p.m. EDT (22:01 GMT)

SAN FRANCISCO, California (AP) -- A man who compared a woman's anatomy to a carburetor won an annual contest that celebrates the worst writing in the English language.

Dan McKay, a computer analyst at Microsoft Great Plains in Fargo, North Dakota, bested thousands of entrants from North Pole, Alaska to Manchester, England to triumph Wednesday in San Jose State University's annual Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest.

"As he stared at her ample bosom, he daydreamed of the dual Stromberg carburetors in his vintage Triumph Spitfire," he wrote, comparing a woman's breasts to "small knurled caps of the oil dampeners."

[...]

"We want writers with a little talent, but no taste," San Jose State English Professor Scott Rice said. "And Dan's entry was just ludicrous."

[...]

Full Story

--Doug

Comments:
"We want writers with a little talent, but no taste,"

If they only needed writers with NO talent and no taste.......
 
The explosion could not have been louder than hundreds of LANL: TRS bloggers screaming in unison in realizing their anonymity was an illusion!

Take that 8:30!!!
 
The thunderous silence accompnying Nanos' departure was as the screaming of a thousand earthworms, drowning in the deluge of a dark Los Alamos summer thunderstorm.
 
The prickly radiation from the americium 241-contaminated chair in the Central Avenue Starbucks provided a pleasant distraction to the moody, conflicted weapons-designing physicist, as he sipped his Grande Caramel Machiato while solving LaGrange point state-spaces.
 
Freshly oiled, the sheen of Baghdad Bob's rippling physique was eclipsed only by the gloss of his speedo as he prepared the latest rendition of his "Be Happy, Don't Worry" briefing for the Monday morning press meeting.
 
It was a bright and sunny morning. Hatch green chile stink hung in the air, making the atmosphere pregnant like most of the local housewives (for it is in Los Alamos that our scene lies). The interim laboratory director eased his tuchus into the overstuffed leather chair left so precipitously by the disgraced former director, rebooted the computer that required a reboot since a security patch push the night before intended to close one of the 14,000 holes in the operating system approved as the OS of choice for computers on the LAN that proclaimed itself as under attack many times a second, defied the words of Rich Marquez to skim a few personal websites (acquiring nine cookies, three viruses, and four spyware programs including a keystroke logger in the process) and observed that the annual Bulwer-Lytton contest results were in. Sad, he thought to himself, so very sad that the laws of the land precluded his desire to show the American people the hands-down should-be winner of the contest which immortalized bad writing. As that thought trailed away like the stink of an unbathed socially lacking co-worker with a doctorate in Physics from a prominent New England university who steps into your office to ask if the re-wording of his LDRD proposal might be adequate to mooch a few hundred grand from the budget of the weapons program he spent the preceding eleven months denouncing, the interim director looked down at the mighty document weighing down his inherited desk. Yes, sad, he thought, that this masterpiece of bafflegab, malarkey, and linguistic meretriciousness would remain unread by so many of those whose tax dollars had underwritten its creation. And wiping a tear from his eye, the interim director placed his elbows on the desk, bunched his shoulders, leaned into the document and let his gaze fall upon the words "2005 Annual Stockpile Assessment." The interim director thought to himself, I need a break. If only I didn't have to work on Fridays. I'd even settle for working on alternate Fridays. Pity, he thought, and turned his attention again to the day's labor.

The above is a work of fiction. All is well. Remain calm. They are not looting the Food King.
 
Positivly purple. Bulwer-Lytton just turned over in his grave.

--Doug
 
Thank you 9:10. I just lost lunch.
 
"Pray to me you worms...pray to me!", he thought as he pondered the weighty geopolitical and personal financial implications of the signed 2005 Certification Letter which he rolled up and stuffed into the already swelling pocket of his already stuffed suit. He knew that George W. and his Pentagon potentates would soon be endorsing the Reliable Replacement Warhead Production Facility Construction Project (RRWPFCP) like a lost pussycat endorses a reliable tuna fish factory. He knew that said endorsement would bring endless studies, project planning, swelling budgets, and an indefinite supply of the indefinite. The lack of any perceptible direction was, of course, the lifeblood of his employer: the newly rediscovered Los Alamos Lockheed Martin Limited Liability Corporate Scientific Weapon Cruiser (LLLMLLCSWC or 3LM2LSCWC for short). Having been shamelessly but deservedly promoted under the previous management of Los Alamos, he knew well the difficult path that lay ahead for a man of his character and girth. Mentally quoting from some fellow named Thomas Paine, he thought, "soulwise, these times are sure tough." - and tough he would be. No blog would persuade him to see the error of his selfish ways. No, he would steadfastly lead the world into a new era - an era where he alone would see the path to truth. A path missed by those lesser mortals who simply do not "comprehend".
 
Let it be written that LANL The Real Story jumped the shark on July 28, 2005 with the posting of this story.
 
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