If you’ve been a reader for awhile, then you know that I like a good analogy.  I’ve compared Off Broadway to a rowboat, raising money to selling girl scout cookies, new businesses to kids, and I’ve used more baseball terminology than an ESPN announcer.

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Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that
had its two sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.

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His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and
breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.

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He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from
experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse
without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country
speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse
without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.

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She grew on him like she was a colony of E.
coli, and he was room temperature Canadian beef.

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She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like
that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.

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Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.

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He was as tall as a six-foot, three-inch tree.

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The revelation that his marriage of 30 years had
disintegrated because of his wife’s infidelity came as a rude shock, like a
surcharge at a formerly surcharge-free ATM machine.

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The little boat gently drifted across the pond
exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn’t.

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McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement
like a Hefty bag filled with vegetable soup.

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From the attic came an unearthly howl. The whole
scene had an eerie, surreal quality, like when you’re on vacation in another
city and Jeopardy comes on at 7:00 p.m. instead of 7:30.

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Her hair glistened in the rain like a nose hair
after a sneeze.

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The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just
like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.

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Long separated by cruel fate, the star-crossed
lovers raced across the grassy field toward each other like two freight trains,
one having left Cleveland at 6:36 p.m.
traveling at 55 mph, the other from Topeka at
4:19 p.m. at a speed of 35 mph.

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They lived in a typical suburban neighborhood
with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan’s teeth.

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John and Mary had never met. They were like two
hummingbirds who had also never met.

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He fell for her like his heart was a mob
informant, and she was the East River.

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Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like
a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.

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Shots rang out, as shots are wont to do.

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The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law
Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.

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The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind
you get from not eating for a while.

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He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical
lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame, maybe from stepping
on a land mine or something.

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The ballerina rose gracefully en Pointe and
extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.

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It was an American tradition, like fathers
chasing kids around with power tools.

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He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he
thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.