> A friend of mine is an English major, and a fairly decent writer. She usually has a class each semester where the students trade and critique each others' work. The passage mentioned below reminded me of a lot of the stuff she brings home to read.
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> Bal"Maybe their strength lies in something other than prose"anthalus

In my Junior year English class we had our own Bulwer-Lytton contest. It was one of the most entertaining assignments I've ever had in school, even if I'm less than pleased with the sentence I churned out. (There's "so bad it's good" and then there's "so bad it sucks." That would be mine.) Some of the results in the class were just amazing, though. My personal favorite was this long, but awesome, one here:


"Ah, yet another day of life," Estella ruminated, reflecting angrily on the despicable state of affairs she now found herself, her husband, her two lovers, and the tall, dark, secretive man drowned in; like a baptism gone awry, with the baby dead and blue and the priest with tears in his eyes; yes, this was her life, a sordid mess of scrambled eggs congealing on the plate of her soul, which was delicate and might, she pensively postulated, smash like the beautiful china doll her mother had bought for her eleventh birthday, which Estella broke in a fit of jealous rage after her rich, handsome neighbor, Fritz, one day did not call her, but called on that blonde brat, Luella, who painted her lips and nails red as sin, as if to lure all unsuspecting brutes who are attracted by bright colors, but no, Estella realized, the solution was right before her, right there in all its glorious grandeur, and she thought that for once she had eaten enough to see through to the pattern on her plate; the great pattern lacquered onto the depths of her soul, that is; but at that moment, the bell rang, the mirror cracked, and the candle at her side blew out, perhaps due to the rush of air that emanated from her heaving sigh; and the butler came through the doorway, sundering her thoughts with his nefarious-toned voice, the silver handgun gleaming in his soft hand like a sickly piece of jewelry for the devil's minions, and before Estella could remember his name so she could reproach him for the untidy appearance of his suit, he had slain the strange, black shrouded figure which had been for the last twenty-seven seconds quietly stealing up behind her chair, with a large knife and the oil lamp from the kitchen in its long-fingered, leather-gloved hands; all of which meant, Estella suddenly realized, sighing with sufferance, that her dinner party, like her dreams, would be dreadfully delayed.


Psy"Not to start gushing or anything, but that's TEH BETS SENTINSE EVA!!!11"che