So: February. Did you know that this month’s observances include American Crossword Puzzle Week and National Fettuccine Alfredo Day? Until a few minutes ago, neither did we, because the miseries of February have blinded us to its less horrendous aspects. But we’re trying to make it more bearable by having a bit of fun with February in our new game of the month (our last one, unfortunately, was lame, or dull, or something that resulted in no one even trying). To make up for it, we’re going to award five prizes this time out. We want you to win. Really.
How to play? Tell us what February’s like. Come at us with your best metaphors and other literary lampoonings. Here are a few examples to get you started:
Short and brutal—a Napoleon of a month. —Alli Hammond
February makes a bridge, and March breaks it. —George Herbert
Kath says February is always like eating a raw egg;
Peter says it’s like wearing a bandage on your head;
Mary says it’s like a pack of wild dogs who have gotten into medical waste
and smiles because she clearly is the winner.
—Tony Hoagland
Submit your entry by commenting on this post (click the title) by Friday, February 15. Writers of the five best similes win their choice of thermos, slingpack, or CR back issue (2.2 excluded). Good luck!
February is just January with a dash of hope.
February is like that guy who lives in your apartment building and always says hello to your wife, but not you. Every once in a while, it’s not so bad – there was, after all, that time you were carrying groceries and he went out of his way to hold the door open and responded to your “Thanks” with a friendly grunt. But then one morning your wife is gone and your dog is gone and your car is gone and there’s a note on the table that reads, “I left you for Carl, the guy who lives upstairs. Also, you watch way too much Star Trek: The Next Generation.”
February is like having a wound—a really painful one that has just barely scabbed over, and that you are tenderly favoring—reopened by a berserker ahole who picks his black teeth with fishbones and chortles at unseemly moments.
February is Darth Vader at a bar trying to buy a beautiful woman a drink.
February is like your Aunt Hattie, the one with the thick bluish toenails and the sighs, when you encounter her in your kitchen on–dear God–the SATURDAY after Thanksgiving.
February is the twentieth message on your answering machine that warns: “This is your final notice pertaining to the financial stimulus.”
February is Taylor Swift and Sarah Palin in a bikini snowmobile race to an Aniak bar that sells killer mojitos.