Baby, you can drive my… carburetor

The results of the Bulwer-Lytton Annual Fiction Contest are in:

“As he stared at her ample bosom, he daydreamed of the dual Stromberg carburetors in his vintage Triumph Spitfire, highly functional yet pleasingly formed, perched prominently on top of the intake manifold, aching for experienced hands, the small knurled caps of the oil dampeners begging to be inspected and adjusted as described in chapter seven of the shop manual.”

The site goes on to say that Dan McKay, author of this piece of deathless prose, “may have been inspired by Roxie Hart of the musical “Chicago.” Complaining of her husband’s ineptitude in the boudoir, Roxie laments, “Amos was . . . zero. I mean, he made love to me like he was fixing a carburetor or something.”

And the Babu kind of likes Ken Aclin’s sacred-cow-busting entry:

“India, that hangs like a wet washcloth from the towel rack of Asia, presented itself to Tex as he landed in Delhi (or was it Bombay?), as if it mattered because Tex finally had an idea to make his mark and fortune and that idea was a chain of steak houses to serve the millions and he wondered, as he deplaned down the steep, shiny, steel steps, why no one had thought of it before.”

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