'Oh, Jason, take me!'; she panted, her breasts heaving like a Uni student on $1-a-beer night.
Bob was as perplexed as a hacker who means to access T:flw.quid55328.comaaakk/ch@ung but gets T:flw.quidaaakk/ch@ung by mistake.
Even in his last years, Grandad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long, it had rusted shut.
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 p.m. instead of 7:30.
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.
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.
He was as tall as a six-foot-three-inch tree.
He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.
Her date was pleasant enough, but she knew that if her life was a movie this guy would be buried in the credits as something like 'Second Tall Man.'
Her eyes were like two brown circles with big black dots in the center.
Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a Thigh Master.
Her hair glistened in the rain like nose hair after a sneeze.
Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.
It hurt the way your tongue hurts after you accidentally staple it to the wall.
John and Mary had never met. They were like two hummingbirds who had also never met.
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.
McBride fell 12 stories, hitting the pavement like a Hefty Bag filled with vegetable soup.
She caught your eye like one of those pointy hook latches that used to dangle from screen doors and would fly up whenever you banged the door open again.
She grew on him like she was a colony of E.coli and he was room-temperature prime English beef.
She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.
She was as easy as the TV Guide crossword.
The ballerina rose gracefully en pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.
The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.
The little boat gently drifted across the pond exactly the way a bowling ball wouldn't.
The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.
The politician was gone but unnoticed, like the period after the Dr. on a Dr Pepper can.
The red brick wall was the color of a brick-red Crayola crayon.
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.
The thunder was ominous-sounding, much like the sound of a thin sheet of metal being shaken backstage during the storm scene in a play.
The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.
They lived in a typical suburban neighbourhood with picket fences that resembled Nancy Kerrigan's teeth.