Actually, they're similes. Going the rounds, but this one struck me as
more amusing than most of the genre.
Regards,
Peter
---- Forwarded message follows ----
"These are metaphors from actual GCSE essays"
Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.
The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the full stop after the
Dr. on a Dr Pepper can.
Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only
one that had been left out so long it had rusted shut.
The plan was simple, like my brother Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan
just might work.
Oh, Jason, take me!" she panted, her breasts heaving like a student on
31p-a-pint night.
He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck either, but
a
real duck that was actually lame. Maybe from stepping on a land mine
or something.
She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just
before it throws up.
The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg
behind her, like a dog at a lamppost.
It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to
the wall.
Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two other sides
gently compressed by a Thigh Master.
His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like
underpants in a tumble dryer.
The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling
ball wouldn't.
McMurphy fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a paper bag filled
with vegetable soup.
Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed lovers raced across the
grassy field toward each other like two freight trains, one having left
York at 6:36 p.m. travelling at 55 mph, the other from Peterborough at
4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.
Her artistic sense was exquisitely refined, like someone who can tell
butter from "I Can't Believe It's Not Butter."
The knife was as sharp as the tone used by Glenda Jackson MP in her
first several points of parliamentary procedure made to Robin Cook MP,
Leader of the House of Commons, in the House Judiciary Committee
hearings on the suspension of Keith Vaz MP.
The dandelion swayed in the gentle breeze like an oscillating electric
fan set on medium.
It was a working class tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with
their power tools.
She was as easy as the Daily Star crossword.
She grew on him like she was a colony of E. coli and he was room-
temperature British beef.
She walked into my office like a centipede with 98 missing legs.
Her voice had that tense, grating quality, like a first-generation
thermal paper fax machine that needed a band tightened.
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