X Never Marks the Spot

So mfuwss is holding a Bulwer-Lytton style worst-opening-sentences challenge, and since I cannot resist any excuse to extrude outrageous purple prose:

Illuminating was the day when Napoleon Solo's milk-chocolate-hued orbs did happen to lift from the blizzard-like expanse of paradoxically white red-tape covering his desk, and fell upon the pulse-pounding vision of Janet St. Claude, his most recent flame in a libidinous and continent-spanning candelabra, with her lithe arms encircling the sable-suited shoulders of Illya Kuryakin, his steadfast partner in profession and comradeship alike, and also, so the surprising stab of jealousy's searing hot poker occasioned Napoleon to realize at this singular instant, his one and only true love--excepting, of course, his still-mourned wife, the tragically married Clara, that THRUSH scientist chick who (it occurred to him in passing) he'd quite forgotten the name of, even as she had forgotten everything but his own name; and perhaps a dozen other women and a couple men of unsurpassed fairness and virtue--but really, the important thing was the unexpected epiphany that he wanted in Mr. Kuryakin's off-the-rack but oddly flattering trousers at the nearest possible opportunity, and Miss St. Claude would have to wait (until tomorrow morning at the very least.)

I am placing the blame on theclexfactor, who occasioned to ask what "purple prose" is. Always a firm believer in teaching by example, I proceeded to provide. And then kept providing, because let's face it, I love run-on sentences as much as the next girl. (If anyone wants to jump in and continue this, feel free - I'm all for a Purple Round Robin!)

Smallville Season 6: A Triangle (Not Unlike That of Bermuda) of Forbiddenly Torrid Passions

Lex gazed deeply into the limpid pools of his beloved's chocolate-hued orbs, his heart fluttering in the depths of his chest like a white dove beating its wings against the gilt cage imprisoning it. "Oh, Lana," the boldly bald billionaire whispered with the lush tenderness of a mother caressing the velvet bottom of her only newborn child, and pressing a sweet kiss to the crown of her shining ebony tresses, he promised, "I will cherish you for this life and all eternity to come."

"Oh, Lex," Lana murmured in return, in a voice as sweet as bear-licked stolen honey dripped from a comb found only with the rarest variety of bee native to the darkest reaches of Africa and, by staggering coincidence, Kansas, due to the tumultuous thrashing of a hurricane some fourteen years prior that traversed a single queen insect over the vast roiling ocean and right into a patch of meteor-influenced daisies, "but," and she sighed, her delicately curved bosom rising and falling with subtle perfection under her shimmering satin shift, "I love Clark, you know."

"Dang it," Lex said.

Meanwhile, several sun-drenched miles distant from Luthor's formidable stone abode, a boy on the precarious cusp of manhood stood in the loft of his family's weathered barn. His eyes, the color of deep-sea kelp waving languidly in the warm drifting waters of the Caribbean where once pirates sailed but were now trawled only by grim gray-toned LuthorCorp aquaculture barges, were fixed on the starkly black plastic frame in his man-sized hands, which enclosed behind clear plexiglas the breathtaking and grief-inspiring visage of the girl of all his dearest childhood fantasies, the daughter of his endless adolescent longings, the mother of his tentatively maturing desires, the sister of his heartrendingly sincere feelings, the aunt of his wistfully seductive endeavors, the niece of his unbelievably lonely tears, the second cousin thrice removed of the agonizingly throbbing manhood in his pants, that purified paragon of all that is beautiful and virtuous, Lana Lang...


TO BE CONTINUED!!!

stop me now! somebody saaaaaaave me!