“People… they don’t write anymore - they blog. Instead of talking, they text, no punctuation, no grammar: LOL this and LMFAO that. You know, it just seems to me it’s just a bunch of stupid people pseudo-communicating with a bunch of other stupid people in a proto-language that resembles more what cavemen used to speak than the King’s English. .
via The Tugboat Complex

How To Write Badly Well

Use as many adjectives as you can

He slowly walked the slow, winding path towards the crooked, run-down old house. With one slow, hesitant hand he bravely, resolutely knocked on the dusty, pock-marked, ancient and frightening door. Slowly, it opened slowly. He slowly poked his brave head through the narrow, foreboding gap.
‘Hello?’ he slowly said, bravely.
Just then, suddenly (yet strangely slowly), a terrifying, scary, bone-chilling, face-tingling, stupefyingly mortifying and stultifying, yet oddly inconsequential and subtly fragrant, big, massive, enormous multi-hued, monochrome monstrosity of epic, legendary, massive, indescribable proportions burst thunderingly from the shadowy, ill-defined, hazy, portentous, generically appropriate yet obviously underdeveloped and self-evidently over-described dark, dark darkness.
‘RAAAAAAH!’ it said.

from How To Write Badly Well.

“I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this;
I accosted the man.
“It is futile,” I said,
“You can never -“

“You lie,” he cried,
And ran on.
-Stephen Crane

“Behold, the grave of a wicked man,
And near it, a stern spirit.

There came a drooping maid with violets,
But the spirit grasped her arm.
“No flowers for him,” he said.
The maid wept:
“Ah, I loved him.”
But the spirit, grim and frowning:
“No flowers for him.”

Now, this is it —
If the spirit was just,
Why did the maid weep?
Stephen Crane

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again
( I think I made you up inside my head)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moonstruck, kissed me quite insane
(I think I made you up inside my head)

God topples from the sky, hell’s fire’s fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan’s men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you’d return the way you said
But I grow old and I forget your name
( I think I made you up inside my head)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead
(I think I made you up inside my head)

- Sylvia Plath

“Or perhaps a widow found him and took him in: bought him an easy chair, changed his sweater every morning, shaved his face until the hair stopped growing, took him faithfully to bed with her every night, whispered sweet nothings into what was left of his ear, laughed with him over black coffee, cried with him over yellowing pictures, talked greenly about having kids of her own, began to miss him before he became sick, left him everything in her will, thought of only him as she died, always knew he was a fiction but believed in him anyway.
Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything is Illuminated

“The reason I talk to myself is because I’m the only one whose answers I accept.
-George Carlin

"MC, I can see the light."
"Well, don't go towards it."

"What are you doing?"
"....nothing terribly inappropriate..."

"I could always tell him what exactly we could do with that sassy tongue of his."

"Wait, you're still alive? Well, sh - I mean, oh good."

"I think he loves me."
"Are you insane? He looks at you like you're a kitten he's about to devour."
"He doesn't eat kittens!"
"Not the point!"

"This was a wonderful time to enter. This is also a wonderful time to exit."

"I have met the enemy, and I make him dinner every night."