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“What? Those are the winners?! Where is my glorious entry? Dammit, you wouldn’t know funny if it bit you on the ass!
No doubt. This sort of thing is enormously subjective. On a different day I might well have picked a slightly different group of winners, and a different judge would almost certainly have come up with a very different list. With well over 100 entries, I ended up having to reluctantly leave off some submissions I liked quite a bit. So if your sentence doesn’t appear below, that doesn’t necessarily mean it was no good—it just didn’t jump out at me the way these did. And, of course, I wouldn’t know funny if it bit me on the ass.
So, on with the show. First, Contest A: write a terrible opening line (of 25 words or less) of a hypothetical novel. Lots of good entries here; it was hard to decide where to draw the line for inclusion—I finally settled on a dozen—and just as hard to pick an actual winner. But in the end I went with:
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For centuries, man had watched the clouds; now, they were watching him. |
It was possibly the least overtly wacky of the lot, but I find it marvelous. But just as deserving would have been any of these runners-up:
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It was just like Jack the Ripper, only, this time, Jack was a she, and possibly some form of time-traveller. |
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It was the best of times, it was the worst of times; I know that’s a contradiction but bear with me. |
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Sing, O Muse, of Tiffany’s wrath on Triple Coupon Day. |
That first one was actually submitted for the other contest, but I think it’s much funnier on its own.
On to our special prizes. Nothing quite jumped out at me as a Comrade Todd Award winner, but certainly this sentence cries out for a Changwatchai Citation for that distinctive flailing backtracking:
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It happened exactly like this… well, maybe not exactly, but I’m fairly confident about the major points—not that I was there, though. |
The Berman Prize for suggesting a novel I really, really wouldn’t want to read goes to:
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Michael had always wanted to lactate. |
And the inaugural (and possibly final, because this sort of thing could get old quick) Montfort Medal for amusing reference to the sentence’s own production or consumption goes to:
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I really hope you like this book, because I wrote the whole thing totally naked! |
Now for some honorable mentions. Starting with an example of the ever-popular hint-at-something-gross genre:
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Indubitably, this was not the sort of soup that engendered wholesome thoughts of energetic eating. |
I’m sure this is the actual beginning of a filmstrip currently lost under 45 years of cobwebs in a midwestern high school library:
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The inner workings of the kidney, which you will no doubt find quite interesting, can, albeit shocking to some, be downright astonishing to others. |
(Update, years later: little did I know back in my twenties that I would someday have to become quite well acquainted with the inner workings of the kidney.)
This could conceivably be the beginning to a good comedic novel:
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In retrospect, Grace realized she probably shouldn’t have fucked a Republican. |
A dose of sage advice:
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“Son, defenestration is your only option.” |
And finally, one from the “meaningless if you don’t get the reference, but really funny if you do” ranks:
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Thirty days left, forty nine thousand nine hundred eighty seven words to go. |
Of course, part of the impetus for this competition was that most actual Bulwer-Lytton entries would qualify for Nanowrimo all by themselves.
And speaking of Bulwer-Lytton, let us now turn to Contest B: write a terrible second line to Edward George Bulwer-Lytton’s Paul Clifford. Lots of these entries were similar, going for the quick undercut of the first line, and we’ll actually get to some of those later. But others were more inventive, including the winning entry (which, unfortunately, wasn’t signed):
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It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. Steeling himself for battle, Fyandor, the oldest and bravest of the lamps, proclaimed, “Nay, foul wind, this will not be the night of our extinguishment!” |
“…oldest and bravest of the lamps…” Ha! Then there’s our runner-up:
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It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. The lamps weren’t the only ones struggling—indoors, I was having the dickens of a time unhooking my betrothed’s Gordian knot of a bra. |
Others that were more creative (and funnier) than most included:
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It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. After blinking wordlessly at the scene for a few moments, Clarence exclaimed “This screen-saver sucks ass!” and switched back to the flying toasters. |
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It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. Likewise, gusts of faith checked torrents of blahs, agitating Beth’s innermost hope lamps—get it? |
Many entries attempted to mimic the narrative voice of the first sentence as closely as possible. The best of these were this:
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It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. A cloaked figure stepped off the sidewalk (for it is in a puddle that we continue our scene) and a splash soaked his trousers. |
And this:
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It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. Our other scene, containing seemingly unrelated characters and events to those in the London scene (but which will become integral later), takes place in Tahiti. |
The location-switching trick was popular, and sometimes amusingly executed, as with:
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It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. Meanwhile, elsewhere, in Paris perhaps, it was less dark but also stormier. |
And:
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It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. Actually, I was just kidding; our scene lies in El Paso. |
As with Contest A, we had a “hilarious if you get it, bewildering if you don’t” entry:
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It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. To unbendingly trudge through pelting precipitation, turn to Page 17. |
But most entries fell into the “quick undercut” category, with second sentences like “Or so it seemed.” and “The end.” and such. Some of the better ultra-short ones included:
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It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. And me without my umbrella. |
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It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. Bob triple-checked the weatherstripping. |
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It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. Things were mighty atmospheric, you see. |
But the purest of the ultra-shorts, and a nice capstone to the whole contest, is this:
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It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents—except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness. Yup… dark and stormy. |
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And that’s it for the 2003 Lyttle Lytton contest. Many thanks to all the entrants! See you in 2004!
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