Smells Like... What?

The futile attempt of a person not wanting to put down the money for a new vehicle that Detroit or some fancy pants New York city ad agency tells us that will improve our sex life and popularity smells like condoms and funny shaped hats being sold on the black market for massively reduced prices while the dolphins remain underfed.

The pregnant girls making a pact to be pregnant in some sort of way to be cool or to make their lives easier smells like a raid on the Department of Justice to see if anyone has a brain.

All the people who listen to Coast to Coast AM hoping that someday all the theories and stories that they hear of aliens and time travel are finally revealed to the masses with a great moment of apathy smells like a bridge made of titanium being erected somewhere in Kiev while the robots on the building site are busy checking for gold deposits.

A plot twist in the latest Hellboy movie franchise smells like a 5th Avenue breakdown of immense numbers of silk ties by runaway carbohydrates and a sinusoidal adventure with fatty acids.

an overly lengthy Allen Ginsberg poem dipped in a chili sauce that's been on the table for hours smells like not even one free beer.

Edited by Dean - July 16 2008 at 05:21

The desperation of a man looking into his wallet realizing that he's got neither an ATM card nor a single dollar bill on him to pay for any beers to wash away his depression smells like a lost episode of Gilligan's Island involving a plot in which the Daleks attempt to take over the world only to be thwarted by the Doctor who through some twist of fate is unable to rescue Gilligan and his friends.

Another Hollywood ploy to wring another sequel out of a long forgotten franchise so that it can get as much money from the movie going public without having to come up with an original idea smells like something I would do if I had even one good original idea in storage.

We may have run out of ideas and thoughts in that silly story thread as well smells like the saddest thing I've heard since The Quiet Game was closed.

The day someone wanted to cry because the Answer Game got closed, yet they had run out of tissues and refused to cry smells like a walk in the carpark on a fresh winters morning with the mist of night lapping at your feet as the breaking dawn caresses the glistening dew on the rusting body of an abandoned Toyota while the object of your unrequited love laughs playfully at your bashful clumsiness through a telescopic sight of a high-velocity rifle from a vantage point on the roof of a nearby building.

A plot to assassinate a former or future world leader who's views and policies are not in agreement with your own smells like a gentle gush of wind through the window of a loft where a depressed and hungry artist slowly reaches up off the floor to paint an insecure stroke of yellow over a dark blue section of an amateurish work depicting a drowning Icelandic sailor.