7 minute read
Broke Girls ’
Revisiting my old Worst Writing entries of the past
Idon’t usually put disclaimers on my columns, but this one has an overabundance of grossness and I know often people read this while having breakfast, so you are forewarned.
I was looking for something in an old email account I have that goes back to 2004 and came across a winning entry of mine from the annual Worst Writing contest the Daily Republic used to do.
Morning Sports
Deboogerizing my nose with Kleenex Ultra Soft tissue was nothing new. What was new was how I used the same tissue to eradicate my extra oozing ear wax before boldly ballifying it and hitting an impossible three from downtown. I then noticed that the morning crusties were huddled in the corner of my eye like it was fourth and goal and they needed the perfect play to score. I instinctively knew from seasons past what finger to use. The middle and the ring were out because of lack of control. The pinkie nail was too long. The thumb? Well, that was just plain crazy. I held up my pointer like Tiger Woods wielding a 9 iron and nodded. I then picked out the crusties and flicked them into oblivion.
I thought I was ready but then I saw it. Mount Vesuvius on my forehead. A plump, whitecapped, volcanic zit. I needed to unpusify it immediately. I relaxed my hands and cracked my knuckles thoroughly. My middle fingers then slowly, ever so slowly, came together on either side of the towering pimple peak. Then, I increased the pressure until it was equal to the slappacity ratio of two sweaty sumo bellies crashing into each other and then jockeying for position as their ceremonial diapers crept tantalizingly closer to no man’s land. SQUOINK! Yes! Success! The blessed eruption and resulting white lava was akin to champagne being uncorkified and flowing freely in the locker room of the World Series champions.
Now that actually wasn’t just any winning entry, it was actually my fourth win out of five tries. I then crafted this letter to the editor:
It is with considerable sadness that I announce my retirement from the annual Daily Republic Worst Writing Contest. I want to assure both of my fans that my decision to lock up my laptop had nothing to do with the doping scandals currently raging in the Competitive Worst Writing field (and when my Sample B is retested I expect to be fully exonerated).
After winning the inaugural event in 2000, I then pulled off the Michael Jordan-esque threepeat from 2002-2004 with a series of reeking writings. I no longer have anything to prove. My writing stinks and I’m shamefully proud of it. I want to pass the torch to a new generation of revolting writers, but there’s one thing missing: recognition.
Is it too much to ask that the award be renamed The Tony Wade Worst Writing Contest? Or maybe induct me into the Worst Writing Hall of Shame? Would it kill the DR to sponsor a downtown ticker-tape parade in my (dis)honor? (Perhaps we could get the makers of Lysol to sponsor it?) Could Fairfield Mayor Harry Price present me with an honorary key to the
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 tony Wade think was canceled. The last laugh 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.”
brIght spot
CorreCtion poliCy
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