I belong to a Yahoo group of smart-asses.  A while back, there was an e-mail circulating around called “There’s a principal here without any principles.”  So we tackled it and produced the following:

The baby gurgled like a toilet does after the Liquid Plumber has sat in it for half an hour.

Her mouth made that little kissy-kissy sound, like the kitchen drain when the last water is swirling down it.

“Floorboard it!” Ringo shouted to the other mounted desperados as he leaped onto his horse.

She loved him like George Bush loves malapropisms.

It was a perfect likeness, she thought of the quick sketch she had just traced in the wet sand, and the next wave would wipe it as clean and
featureless as had the acid she had tossed into his smirking face.

“Flaccid,” he half-screamed, half-yelped, as his manliness shrunk to the size of a half-eaten Tootsie Roll, “who the hell you callin’ flaccid?”

“I love you more than the stars in the sky,” he breathed, not noticing his pocket protector harshly rubbing against her breast, “or, at least, the ones you can see in the Nevada desert; more than the Dow Jones Industrial Average, or, at least, where it was in September 2007; more
than the decimal places of pi, and I mean the current number, dearest – not the puny five million from six months ago.” “Oh, Ambrose,” she breathed between smacks and pops of her chewing gum, “and I love you more than all the jelly beans in the big jar in the window of Katz’s
Drug Store.”

He stood out like a sore thumb; actually more like a pair of sore thumbs.

He was an intellectual giant, big and stupid.

He realized what he'd done and tried to cover it up, like a cat in a sandbox.

His interest in her was as blatantly obvious as that of a rude Dalmatian.

The fields seemed to go on forever, like aunt Martha's stories about how everything she did when she was little was either much harder or
much better than what we do.

When she walked, her body movement was captivating, like Jell-O on a jackhammer.

He knew he loved her, just like he knew the Cowboys were going to win on Sunday.

Her hair flowed rich and smooth over her shoulders, like soft ice cream out of the spigot at Dairy Queen.

He had muscles like Popeye -- well not exactly like Popeye, who was actually kinda funny looking, but more like Popeye would have looked
if he didn't look so funny.

Her fears had been so bottled up inside and weighed so heavily that when she learned she was off the hook, she felt both relieved and
drained, like a cow that's just been milked.

Methammaticks was reely hard, liek spelinng.

She was long, lean and aerodynamic, with those Italian-styled lines like a Masseratti or a Lamborghini, but when she spoke it sounded like a VW
going 40 in first gear.

He bestrode the narrow world like a Colossus, or at least like a six-year-old boy standing in his sandbox over his plastic Army men.

My grandfather is the wisest person I know: wiser than the entire cast of Saturday Night Live, if you can believe that.

My dad said General Patton could have gone through Iraq like foie gras through a goose.

She thought he looked as healthy and manly as the Ken doll she had only recently packed away into the closet, except for being anatomically correct.

“Take me, you fool! Take me,” she shouted, sounding as desperate as a vowel would on “Wheel of Fortune” if vowels could shout.

Frodo stared at the Crack of Doom with disgusted but rapt fascination, like he had stared at Sam Gamgee’s butt crack that morning on the Mangy
Moors when Sam’s trousers sagged like a bag of moldy potatoes trying to rid itself of its contents.

He had a seriously inflated ego, inflated like your intestines get after an evening of especially good beans and wienies.

He felt thoroughly out of place, like a retard at a Mensa gathering.

Her hair was tangled and dirty, like spaghetti...and meatballs.

It had been suggested that he had a spare tire, but nobody mentioned the degree to which it had been overinflated.

He thought it best to make his exit, quietly, inconspicuously, and nonchalantly, like a squirrel in the street confronted by a rapidly
approaching Buick Roadmaster.