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My Use Of Simile Sucks As Bad As The River Tide

I consider myself a pretty eloquent guy. My grasp of communication is as tight as a three-dollar slipknot. I've been told my diction's clear as strychnine. Heck, I'd even go so far as to say I'm akin to the red wine of conversationalists. But when it comes to relating two seemingly dissimilar things, often with the conjoining words "like" or "as," I'm as hopeless as a springtime frog-fryer.

Now, I may be as pessimistic as a cucumber, but my similes are sorely lacking. But believe you me, it's not from lack of trying! I spout off more similes than a one-legged dog in a haystack, but as sure as China, they always seem to fall flat. To tell it plain, my similes are confusing as the day is wrong, as disappointing as two peas in a pigsty, and more obscure than Kenneth from marketing (the guy who's as big as a thing that's six-feet-tall and 200 pounds). All in all, they're not good.

At first, I dealt with the problem by denying like a fish in cowboy boots. When people would ask me if I could align two unlike objects in a witty comparison, I'd answer, "Yes, just like the mayor of a major city." For a while, things went like a lubricated surface with no textural aberrations, but then it was like August 26 all over again. If you can imagine!

I don't mean to go on and on like a peacock in heat, but I'm about as mad as a Buddhist in a china shop: I'm really pissing feathers here! Day after day I see people illuminating their descriptions with poetical comparisons, but when it comes to forming artful similes, I'm about as useful as a clubfooted field-goal kicker in the 1960s. It would cause endless grief if I didn't happen to be as careful about hiding my problem as an exhibitionist baseball fan on the JumboTron.

If I don't do something soon, this problem could become as bad as my childhood troubles with aphorisms. Even though that's all water beside the hourglass now, I have always believed that an ounce of prevention is worth two birds in the bush, and I see that I need to strike while the iron is still attached to the gift horse. That's just common sense.

While I'm clearing the air, I might as well address some nasty rumors about my alleged "allusion problem." I have lately discovered that these hateful lies were started by a close friend who turned out to be a backstabbing lout trying to poison my colleagues against me. To him I say only, "Et tu, King Lear?"

Thank God I don't have this much trouble with my innuendos. If I did, I would never have been able to convince that woman to let me insert my penis into her vagina in the uncertain moments leading up to sexual intercourse—if you know what I mean.

Maybe I should take a breather. It's just that I'm foaming at the boxes right now! Okay. Anyway. If I weren't busier than a sweater salesman in hell, I'd tell you some pretty wild stories about my command of hyperbole, which is actually fairly decent.

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