I've been studying the Masters. This years winners in the Worst Sentence Competition (aka. 2010 Bulwer-Lytton Award).
Elaine was a big woman, and in her tiny Smart car, stakeouts were always hard for her, especially in the August sun where the humidity made her massive thighs, under her lightweight cotton dress, stick together like two walruses in heat.
She walked into my office wearing a body that would make a man write bad checks, but in this paperless age you would first have to obtain her ABA Routing Transit Number and Account Number and then disable your own Overdraft Protection in order to do so.
(Note: I actually liked the next one.)
As Jeffrey Hicks, the event safety coordinator for the Renaissance Festival finished posting the revised standards for weaponry, he thought of the day an unleashed dog wandered onto the jousting field, causing the rider from Indianapolis to stop short, impaling himself on the butt of his spear, and the following day’s newspaper headline which read: “Stray Injures Indy Knight, Hicks Changing Lances.”[More for English teachers and users everywhere].
Maybe next year, I can break into the winner category like a rasp bar from a much-abused 7700 combine cylinder escaping to freedom through the grain tank floor.