I was a dork on a stormy night ...

the way bad things start

So there's this contest. A sick, twisted and demented university sponsors an annual bad writing contest -- comprised entirely of the worst opening lines ever conceived for the novels that fortunately never were. The contest is named for its spiritual muse, Charles Bulwer-Lytton. He of the two last names was the first to start a novel with the now-infamous "It was a dark and stormy night..."

If you're really interested, check out their site or find one of their books at a cheap book sale (I have Son Of 'It Was A Dark And Stormy Night...' and it's not too bad).

So anyway, one night I couldn't sleep and came up with some contributions of my own. Read them at your own risk. At my own risk, on the other hand, I intend to send them in and see what happens.

Cecil watched its derisive struts, the determination in its ethereal motions, the inexplicable and sudden breeze deep from darkened depths airily flipping its coxcombs, and knew that, at long last, he had found it--the Bantam of the opera.

Truly there are few things like waking up to a beautiful Monday sunrise in the Alps when the weather is just right, the grass the right height and the birds singing the perfect song into the breeze -- that is, unless you last fell asleep on a Wednesday with Swedish beauties laying all around you exhausted from one frenzied hour of what you considered your best performance in bunk beds to date.