It was a stark and wormy blight…

I always look forward to reading the results of the annual Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, even though I eventually come away depressed that I couldn’t write that badly if I tried, although, now that I think about it, perhaps my problem is that I’m trying to write badly, and that — while in and of itself is certainly nothing to be ashamed about; just look at what Hunter S. Thompson accomplished, although, of course, he’s dead and that pretty much leaves us at an impasse on that trail — is stifling, as it were, my natural bad-writing ability and causing it to be subsumed, submerged, subterraneanized…in short, buried, like a bad cask of limberger cheese left in the trunk of a ’47 Hudson on a hot and steamy summer New Jersey day (assuming, of course, they were making Hudsons in 1947), and so, sadly, all I can do is look on and shake my head in envy.

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