George, your one sounds a bit like P G Wodehouse. Or son of P G Wodehouse anyway. In other words good not deliberately bad.
Her smile was as sudden and elusive as a cruising flasher on a murky day in Margate.
It was as surprising as Nigel Farage at an Anti-smoking Europhiles' Teetotal Dinner.
The steak was bloody rare like a cheerful exponent of climate-change.
She was as cloying, sweet and wicked as a deep-fried Mars Bar.
He was as ill- favoured and as impossible to ignore as a dog turd in a swimming pool.
Just a whisper small, secret and importunate as a young nun's fart in the confessional.
She gave a laugh as dark and dirty as an old paedo's mackintosh.
She looked as thin and desperate as a vegetarian vampire after a hard night.
The play was as slight, slow and ultimately disappointing as a pensioner's hard-won erection.
My delight was fast, fleeting and futile like a boy's first botched performance in the bike sheds.
You are right. It is pleasantly addictive. But these surely need tarting up a bit. Is that better?
The Mona Lisa's smile is as shockingly sudden and elusive as the Hitchcockian image of a cruising flasher working a crowded pier at four o'clock of a murky afternoon in Margate.
UKIP's success has been as frankly surprising as would be the You Tube image of their blessed leader, gagging, gurning and swaying at an Anti-smoking Liberal Democrats' Teetotal Dinner.
My steak was as bloody rare as a cheerfully optimistic exponent of man-made climate-change.
Lying back, naked and exhausted in my personal jacuzzi, my Parisian mistress seemed to me as cloying, sweet and wicked as a deep-fried Mars Bar.
Peter Lorre looked, satisfyingly and as usual, as starkly ill-favoured and impossible to ignore as a slow-bobbing dog turd in a swimming pool.
Monroe conversed in True Love's whispers, as small, secret and importunate as a young nun's fart lost in the tall, looming shadows of the confessional.
Walter Matthau presents to his admirers a face as crumpled, dark and dirty as an old paedo's brown mackintosh.
Mia Farrow looked, as always, as spectre thin and desperate as a vegetarian vampire after a hard night.
Harold Pinter's whole oeuvre is as slight, slow and ultimately disappointing as a futile, frotting pensioner's hard-won erection.
A poet's delight should be as fast, fleeting and entirely useless as a frantic boy's first botched performance in a dank, dark, cobwebby corner behind the bike sheds.
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