The Bulwer-Lytton bad writing award has been announced.
"Theirs was a New York love, a checkered taxi ride burning rubber, and like the city their passion was open 24/7, steam rising from their bodies like slick streets exhaling warm, moist, white breath through manhole covers stamped 'Forged by DeLaney Bros., Piscataway, N.J."'
I prefer the postmodern flavor of this entry by Alex Hall of Colorado, in which the suspension of disbelief is stripped away, revealing not only an author manipulating his story, but an "author" who is himself imaginary. A fiction within a fiction, if you will.
"'Toads of glory, slugs of joy,' sang Groin the dwarf as he trotted jovially down the path before a great dragon ate him because the author knew that this story was a train wreck after he typed the first few words."