World’s Worst Sentence

By Mike Myers

 

mike-myers(Ed. Note: At the last Lake Chapala Annual Writers’ Conference, what follows won the “Worst Sentence Award.” It is also incredibly long. We hope that this does not inspire any of our other literary contributors, though it may tickle our readers.)

Through the sleep-sequestered slits of my heavier-than-Iead eyelids, the Mexican sunrise began with the pewter-dark to slate-grey to bedazzling-blue of another boringly-beautiful lakeside day and so did my wanderings in search of what I do not know, but this auspicious day I would find out by circumnavigating “gringoland” from North, imprisoned by the steeply towering rim of sedimentary rock precipitously uplifted by plate tectonics, now shades of dirty, dusty grey with a leaf -on-the-ground oak tree topping, but later, during “la temporada de lluvias”, shrouded in a dark-Irish quilt of the greenest greens, with an abundancy of overflowing creek beds, cascading waterfalls, and “arroyos imposible pasar de”, to the West, steaming and sweltering with the thermals of San Juan Cosala, so close yet so far from the frigid water of Lago de Chapala, “con mas topes” to stumble over, “y muchos restaurantes” to sustain strength on my Don Quixote quest, then South and East along the disconnected and bifurcated “malecones” strung along the shoreline intermittently, leading me to Chapala Town, and, hopefully, to the San Greal in the holiest of lands which life has enticed and drawn me toward since my earliest, cognizant memory, with its cobble-stoned calles and ages-old Mexican ways of life, barely unspoiled by modern conveniences and contrivances and... wait, what do I see at the next corner, beckoning like a desert mirage, but El Gato Negro, and through its worn and well-used cantina doors and into its cool, dark, and embracing acceptance, I stumble, tingling with anticipation for relief from my unanswered obsession, as the bartender gruffly, but pleasantly, as is the Mexican way, intones ever so softly, “Una Margarita, señor?” to which I immediately counter, in my best Gringo-Spanish, parched, dust -dry throat response, “No, señor, gracias.. .make it a Dos Equis, por favor!! !”

Saludos, amigos!

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