A2 Monday, December 13, 2021 — DAILY REPUBLIC
Revisiting my old Worst Writing entries of the past
I
don’t usually put into each other and then disclaimers on my jockeying for position as columns, but this one their ceremonial diapers has an overabundance crept tantalizingly of grossness and I know closer to no man’s land. often people read this SQUOINK! Yes! Success! while having breakfast, The blessed eruption and so you are forewarned. resulting white lava was I was looking for Tony Wade akin to champagne being something in an old uncorkified and flowing The last laugh email account I have freely in the locker room that goes back to 2004 and came of the World Series champions. across a winning entry of mine Now that actually wasn’t just from the annual Worst Writing any winning entry, it was actucontest the Daily Republic ally my fourth win out of five used to do. tries. I then crafted this letter to Morning Sports the editor: Deboogerizing my nose with It is with considerable Kleenex Ultra Soft tissue was sadness that I announce my nothing new. What was new retirement from the annual was how I used the same tissue Daily Republic Worst Writing to eradicate my extra oozing ear Contest. I want to assure both wax before boldly ballifying it of my fans that my decision to and hitting an impossible three lock up my laptop had nothing from downtown. I then noticed to do with the doping scandals that the morning crusties were currently raging in the Compethuddled in the corner of my eye itive Worst Writing field (and like it was fourth and goal and when my Sample B is retested I they needed the perfect play expect to be fully exonerated). to score. I instinctively knew After winning the inaugufrom seasons past what finger ral event in 2000, I then pulled to use. The middle and the ring off the Michael Jordan-esque were out because of lack of threepeat from 2002-2004 with control. The pinkie nail was too a series of reeking writings. long. The thumb? Well, that was I no longer have anything to just plain crazy. I held up my prove. My writing stinks and pointer like Tiger Woods wieldI’m shamefully proud of it. I ing a 9 iron and nodded. I then want to pass the torch to a new picked out the crusties and generation of revolting writers, flicked them into oblivion. but there’s one thing missing: I thought I was ready but then I saw it. Mount Vesuvius on recognition. Is it too much to ask that the my forehead. A plump, whiteaward be renamed The Tony capped, volcanic zit. I needed Wade Worst Writing Contest? to unpusify it immediately. I Or maybe induct me into the relaxed my hands and cracked Worst Writing Hall of Shame? my knuckles thoroughly. My Would it kill the DR to sponsor middle fingers then slowly, a downtown ticker-tape parade ever so slowly, came together in my (dis)honor? (Perhaps we on either side of the towering pimple peak. Then, I increased could get the makers of Lysol to sponsor it?) Could Fairfield the pressure until it was equal Mayor Harry Price present me to the slappacity ratio of two with an honorary key to the sweaty sumo bellies crashing
city(’s bathroom)? Good luck to my successors! For those about to stink, I salute you! Tony “Putrid Prose” Wade, Fairfield I also came across this entry for the 2005 contest, which I think was canceled. MONIKER, by Tony Wade, Aug. 22, 2005 “Acne Soup?” “No, too literal.” “Chipmunk Squeezins?” “Nah, too early eighties.” “How about Persnickety?” “That’s good, but not quite right.” “Wait, wait, guys I’ve got it: Cream of Mushroom Cloud.” “Too cold war.” “Try this one on for size: Pocket Full o’ Chitlins. Whaddya think?” “I think I need another break.” “Well then why don’t you come up with some ideas, Mr. Negativity?!” “Hey, Mr. Negativity. That’s pretty good.” “Already taken by a Danish heavy metal outfit.” “Dang it!” “Look guys, we need to come up with a name for the band and we need to do it now!” “OK, how about we try to visualize what name would describe our soulful mixture of reggae, techno, and post-punk polka with bluesy undertones.” “Tongue Twister?” “You said that an hour ago!” “Did not!” “Did too! See it’s right here on the rejected list! In case anyone forgot here are the others we said ‘no’ to: Shrek’s Earwax, Toe Jammers, The Spuds, Weed Whackers, Thurston Howell’s Bowels, Squishy, The Pus Project,
and . . . ah . . . ah . . . ah . . . AAAAAHHCHOOOO!” “Dude! Why don’t you cover your nasty pie hole! That was disgusting! You just shot phlegm all over my new snare drum! Hey . . . wait a minute . . .” And thus The Snot Rockets were born. The DR’s contest was inspired by the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, which since 1982 has challenged participants to write an atrocious opening sentence to the worst novel never written. The whimsical literary competition honors Sir Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, whose 1830 novel “Paul Clifford” begins with, “It was a dark and stormy night.” Chosen from more than 4,500 entries, the winner of the XXXIXth Lyttoniad was Stu Duval of Auckland, New Zealand. “A lecherous sunrise flaunted itself over a flatulent sea, ripping the obsidian bodice of night asunder with its rapacious fingers of gold, thus exposing her dusky bosom to the dawn’s ogling stare.” According to their website, the rules to the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest are childishly simple: Each entry must consist of a single sentence and contestants can submit as many entries as they wish. They can be of any length, but they warn that writers go beyond 60 words at their peril. They have to be original and previously unpublished. I also uncovered some of my own entries to the BulwerLytton Fiction Contest, which I don’t remember if I event sent. n Fidddletown residents thought Phineas a tad odd mainly because of the tattoos of the “Welcome Back Kotter” cast
on the bottoms of his toes, but the day Zeke Pembry got WZAP’s Big Money Question of the Day (“Who was the leader of the Sweathogs?”) and froze up, Phineas’s Barbarino big toe in the air started off a celebration still talked about today. n As far as nose pickers went, Kyle certainly wasn’t the fastest or most thorough (who could top the frantic nail-scooping of Hall of Famer Nick “Snow Shovel” Tynes?) but he did have assets: the stabbing style he perfected, slender well-manicured nose-picking digits, and above all, the burning desire to be a champion. n Korzone the Galactic Conqueror surveyed the ruins of yet another vanquished world from the cockpit of his helicarrier with a mixture of resignation, dread, elation, arousal, constipation, stupification, horror, glee, rage, confusion, boredom, longing, belonging, and that tingly feeling you get when your foot goes to sleep. n Because of her classic Marcia Brady-esque smile, sassy Wilma Flinstonian wit, and carefree Mary-TylerMoore-fling-your-beret-in-theair manner (not to mention her street-smart, kiss-my-grits Floisms, Edith Bunkerish naiveté, and crazy Mary Ann/ Ginger yin-yang thing she had going on), I had no choice but to love her in a Rocky-franticallyyelling-for-Adrian kind of way. Fairfield freelance humor columnist and accidental local historian Tony Wade writes two weekly columns: “The Last Laugh” on Mondays and “Back in the Day” on Fridays. Wade is also the author of The History Press book “Growing Up In Fairfield, California.”
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