Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Cliches are so cliche!

I should be writing. Or cleaning. Or figuring out what that form that came in the mail from the government means.

I should be writing Christmas cards. Or organizing my Fibber McGee's closet of recipes. Or exercising.

I should be paying bills. Or writing articles to sell for big bucks someday to pay bills.

Instead? I'm twisting tired cliches. Just for fun.

Wait a minute. That's writing, isn't it?

I've already told my husband he should consider donating my brain to science when I'm gone. I'm thinking the Smithsonian people might be interested in studying a brain that couldn't move in a straight line.

Roses are red, violets are blue—On what planet? Violets are violet.

A bird in the hand…had better be wearing a diaper.

A stitch in time saves bleeding on the carpeting.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but at least they work for free. The orthopedic surgeon charges an arm and another arm.

If you can’t say something nice about someone, I guess that speaks volumes about their character.

All work and no play is like all cow pattie with no chocolate chips.

Feed a cold, starve a cold. Really doesn’t matter. You’re still going to have a cold.

That pecan pie at Thanksgiving was good for a belly lap.

What goes up must have been down at one time. Otherwise we’d say it went “over.” Does that make a balloon bi-polar?

If life gives you lemons, forget making lemonade. Make pie! With meringue! You deserve dessert.

A watched pot never boils. It also never boils over, so it’s a good news/bad news thing.

Two many cooks spoil the odds I’ll be chosen as the Next Iron Chef.

Abe Lincoln had a hattitude.

Where there’s smoke, there’s a city council on the rampage to close the restaurant down.

The little girl was as cute as a button-down collar in a room full of turtlenecks.

It was so hot, you could fry an ego on the sidewalk.

She was blind as a baton, which makes more sense than bat, when you think about it. Batons don’t even have eyes in the first place.

He cut the dickens out of his finger while using the can opener. Then he cut the Faulkner, Shakespeare, and Hemingway out of his other finger.

What if the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow is a typo? What if it’s really a pot of cold?

Her students sat straight in their chairs—stiff as boreds.

Reader-friend, do you have a fresh twisted tired cliche for my collection? I'd love to hear it.