His body was hard — not hard like Milosevic, the Serbian strongman, but hard like the marble on your shower floor, when you fall and bang your knee.
Her shoulders heaved like the tiny sobs of Snuggles the cat being run through with a roasting spit.
Her embrace made his manhood swell like week-old roadkill on hot asphalt in the Georgia sun.
Her petticoats dropped to the ground, rustling like a cockroach in a sugar bowl.
As she kissed her way down his manly chest, he felt his Amalgamated Crane Company stock increasing in value.
Beatrice was on him like a piranha on a corn dog.
…then he kissed her, like a butterfly kisses the windshield of a Porsche on the Autobahn.
Her breasts heaved like a stormy ocean, and her pointed nipples were like hypodermics washed up on the shore.
With his broad shoulders and slim waist, he was a yield sign — yet she could NOT!
He tore open her blouse like a Publisher’s Clearing House letter in which he, and some guy named Steven Bouber from Stockton, California, were potential finalists for the ten million dollar prize.
His manhood stood at full attention, stiff and stony like the vice president.
Sleekly malevolent, driven by a violent hunger, Donovan glided through the chum-filled waters of the singles bar, oblivious to the remora of Annabelle’s adoring gaze.
Like the wind, she ran, her breasts lurching like a motor boat over a wake, and then, as fluid as a fine imported transmission, she whipped out her man-organ and pissed away his dreams.
Her sun-glazed back formed a golden arch as he moved his face toward her happy meal.
With each breath, her chest heaved like a bulimic after Thanksgiving dinner.
He Beatty-ed her shamelessly, making her squeal like Ned and hallucinate like Warren.
He awoke my slumbering womanhood with his double tall loin latte. “Starbuck!” I cried.
His chest was her pillow, and oh, did she drool.
Claire felt swept away by this dark stranger, a helpless dust bunny in the roaring cacophony of his gas-powered leaf blower.
His finger, weathered and rough from years on the ranch, danced in and out of his nose like a slimy ballerina.
The shuffleboard puck looks suspiciously like a urinal cake.
Scheduled entertainment: The comedy stylings of Kato Kaelin.
All activities are scheduled for after sundown, and the chefs refuse to cook with garlic.
First port of call on your “Surprise Adventures Tour” is East Timor.
Six-foot-tall obnoxious mice greet you everywhere you go — and it’s *not* a Disney cruise.
The “TrekCruise” brochure said nothing about William Shatner eating all the shrimp before you get to the buffet.
“LIFEBOATS?!? We don’t NEED no stinkin’ lifeboats!!”
The scenery is nice, but monotonous: two seagulls, a puffy cloud, a sun, then wait ten seconds and it starts over again.
Complimentary Polo shirt is yours to keep — after you make a dozen more just like ’em for Kathie Lee at the Guatemala port of call.
The Good News: You’ve been invited to dine at the captain’s table.
The Bad News: Tonight’s entertainment is a live sex show at the captain’s table.
Welcome aboard “wine and cheese” buffet consists of Ripple and Velveeta slices.
Their ship: Leonardo DiCaprio sketches a tasteful nude of you in your cabin. Your ship: Bobby-Ray spray paints your name on one of the Smokestacks.
“And here’s your dance director: The man who invented dancing, Al Gore!”
Cruise line name: ValuBoat Destination: Florida Everglades
That strong smell of fish is not coming from the sea, but from your cruise director, Julie McCrusty.
Attention passengers: Now starting on the Lido Deck is the ship’s Tequila Shots Championship. Come watch undefeated Captain Hazelwood defend his title!”