TITLE: The Worst Novel Ever Written
(A shiny, dotted, wet piece of sandpaper-coated muscle soars through the air. It soars with urgency. It soars with passion. With intent. With haste. Horniness. Pride. Confidence. Ambition.
Like a spear, it soars. Like an arrow, it soars. Like (any projectile soaring straight that you can think of), it soars.
And it soars so fast. Like nascars. Like that spear. Like that arrow. But all fast-forwarded. 32X speed.
It collides with another muscle. Like two towels, they collide. Like two balloons, they collide. But not totally like them. These two muscles, they smush together. Their shiny dots of wetness eject, and project, and soar until they collide. This collision splashes. It creates bigger globs of wetness. And that wetness rains down on two muscles. Two muscles that are now locked in the ultimate wrestling match.
One muscle twists and turns and wraps and crawls and drags across the other, as the other does the same thing, but delayed by one second, so they form a twisty thing.
Like they both got an A+ in gymnastics, these muscles unwind and perform the ultimate moves. Aerial. Check. Front hip pullover. Check. Front pike somersault. Check. Somi-and-a-half. Check. Sticking. Check. Straddle. Check. Straddle split. Check. Swedish fall. Check. Check. Yurchenko. Now they've gone too far. One muscle pulls back. It's panting. It's dripping saliva. Right down to a row of teeth. The teeth are white. They were just brushed. They were just flossed. )