History Quotes / PurpleProse

-> "This has gotta be good writing, look at all those adverbs!"

--> --'''Ernest Hemingway'''

--> --'''Mark Twain'''

--> --'''Also Mark Twain, in a letter to a student'''

-->--'''Anton Chekhov''', Parody of a Feminine Novel

'''Impish Idea''': The fire crackled.

->''" My introduction will be sparse. There will be no majestic prose blustering into the sails of a galleon as we embark on this voyage together. Nor will there be any hamfisted prose whipping its limbs under a bedsheet like a retarded ghost, for that matter. I won't set the stage, or dim the lights. The mood, you will see, will be set soon enough."''

-> The nightfall, saturated with the ''slow, constant'' passage of digital pictures and utter nightmare of knowledge dedicated to be in [[DumbIsGood intellect]], figure of course, being a large in length distance traversed in length distance traversed in preparation for such a multitude of life factoid was little more than an overly complicated and forty minutes At the slow, constant passage of today, when our capability to find overtly flowery, unnecessary figures of over-flowery prose in temperature argument with the whole [[RuleOfThree flowery]] unnecessary figures of course, being spoken of quickly-rising exasperation, his beige-coloured, antiquated digital pictures and [[ThatMakesMeFeelAngry very frustrated]] after an extremely '''vast''' collaboratively maintained repository of eyes still scanning the dusty, unattended apartment of fiction, but instead decide to actually get through, Purple Prose when our capability to as purple in time-space thusly unto a personal, digital desktop computer that said readers spending [[TvTropesWillRuinYourLife excessive amounts of time still scanning the tattered thesaurus of a Wiki]], of his, an encyclopaedia entry, it can make it borderline unreadable.

-> LOVE UNRIPPLED (A NOVEL) Part I.
-> It was noon.... The setting sun with its crimson, fiery rays gilded the tops of pines, oaks, and fir-trees....It was still; only in the air the birds were singing, and in the distance a hungry wolf howled mournfully.... The driver turned round and said:
->“More snow has fallen, sir.”
->“What?”
->“I say, more snow has fallen.”
->“Ah!”
->Vladimir Sergeitch Tabatchin, who is the hero of our story, looked for the last time at the sun and expired.

->'''Literature/InheritanceCycle''': ''The branch Roran had added to the fire burst asunder with a muted pop as the coals underneath heated the gnarled length of wood to the point where a small cache of water or sap that had somehow evaded the rays of the sun for untold decades exploded into steam.''
->'''Impish Idea''': The fire crackled.
--> --'''''Impish Idea''''', ''[[http://impishidea.com/criticism/lyrical-beauty-in-inheritance-part-1 Lyrical Beauty in Inheritance]]''

-> This series of oral sounds or glyphic images takes its birth from the writings of Horace, that illustrious personage of the Rome of ages past, who at one moment in time-space thusly unto a student in the craft of literary pursuits: "[[SophisticatedAsHell Bitch]], your story is okay, only [[TotallyRadical chill out]] with the whole [[BuffySpeak flowery language thing]]. You ain't sewing purple patches onto your clothes, man."

->“[[DepartmentOfRedundancyDepartment I say, more snow has fallen]].”

-->--'''Anton Chekov''', Parody of a Feminine Novel

[[color:purple: Frigglish bothered his beard, as if unkinking a hitch in a long silk windsock. A more pedestrian audience would parse the exhibit as nervous compulsion. Behavior to petition contempt among the reasonable. He was however not surrounded by the reasonable, but the ''wise'', a distinction in men that would forever be the difference in history's garland of treasured follies. As a matter of fact, his cadre of fellow wizards were all putting similar moves on their beards as well. The practice would evince thoughtfulness - sagacity, even - if they didn't do it all the time. Standing in line at the bank. Shooing squirrels from bird feeders. Few occasions were safe.]]

[[color:purple: Zazzerpan inspected the clue. A single piece of evidence cradled in his coriaceous old man palms. It was a human bone, not striking in the tale it told alone so much as that told by the thousands like it festooning the marshy soil of the mass grave. The grisly expanse bore the texture of a decadent dessert, like one of Smarny's formidable custard trifles wobbled out on wheels for the holidays, to the dismay of a small nation.]]

[[color:purple: "You're certain of this?" asked Frigglish. Despite what he was doing with his beard, he was, in fact, immersed in meaningful contemplation.]]

[[color:purple: "I am afraid I am becoming more so with each terrible tick groused by that gaudy timepiece slung around your neck." In case it wasn't clear, Frigglish wore a clock Zazzerpan didn't care for. It was magic. "The massacre of Syrs Gnelph was not as written."]]

[[color:purple: "What has you convinced it was the hand of our disciples in this blackness?" Executus chimed in.]]

[[color:purple: "I believe... I..." a fat face stammered, eyes darting with the guilt of a thief in the throes of an unraveling alibi. "I can summon a... more ''pressing'' line of inquiry..." No, Smarny. Nobody was in the mood for a sticky bundt loaf just now.]]

[[color:purple: Zazzerpan's ears fell insubstantial to any line of inquiry, pastry-oriented or otherwise. His abstruse contour carved a pondering shape in the fog carpeting centuries-dead. His eleven contemporaries too embraced the muted consternation of their great Predicant Scholar. Few wizards kept sharper adumbratives or read them with such lucidity. When Zazzerpan treated men with silence it was seldom unrepaid by the wise and reasonable alike.]]

[[color:purple: It was harrowing to entertain. Zazzerpan the Learned's storied Complacency of Wizards was marked for grander descendence. Disciples hand-picked, vetted by Ockite the Bonafide and tested by Gastrell the Munificent. The twelve sweetest, most studious children a pair of elderly eyes could give their sparkle. Not the ragged guttersnipe so oft-harvested by the common Obscenity, those vituperative little beggars with hearts to corrupt as dropped bananas brown. That these chosen youngsters would turn was not merely unthinkable, but something of a roundhouse to the temporal bones of the Upper Indifference's high chamber of Softskulled Prophets.]]

[[color:purple: His wisdom-savaged brow pruned further with recount of his many lessons to wouldbe successors. Lessons to advance humanity's elucidation and prosperity, an outcome this bleak trail now painfully obviated. There were few puzzles The Learned could not suspend and dissect in the recondite manifold beneath his extremely expensive pointy hat. Daring to pitch his cherished pupils in with the foul melange of history's rogues, the heretofore abstract scourge that built up civilizations with ungodly magic and tore them down with joyful malice, would prove an intellectual trespass to make his calcium-deficient bones quake.]]

[[color:purple: And more daring yet was the only question that now mattered. Could a bunch of bearded, scraggly old men in preposterous outfits hunt them down? He didn't have an answer. Only a simple observation so blunt and uncharacteristically jejune for the lauded sage it was breathtaking in its selfevidency.]]

[[color:purple: [[GonnaNeedMoreX "We're going to need more wands."]] (Wow. Think of something better.)]]

-->Rose Lalonde's '''"[[http://www.mspaintadventures.com/?s=6&p=003752 Complacency of the Learned]]"''', ''Webcomic/{{Homestuck}}''

-->--'''The Man-Emperor of Mankind''', ''[[WebAnimation/IfTheEmperorHadATextToSpeechDevice If The Emperor Had A Podcast]]'', "Inquisitor Draco"

->-'''''Impish Idea''''', ''[[http://impishidea.com/criticism/lyrical-beauty-in-inheritance-part-1 Lyrical Beauty in Inheritance]]''

-> "Oh, my blimey Lord, or Buddha, or Jesus, or Brahma, or Shiva, or Vishnu, or Satan, or the Great Horned God, or the Wiccan Goddess, or Apollo, or Jupiter, or Zeus (Even though you and Jupiter are one and the same), or Juno, or The Other Juno, or The Bad Wolf," he mused, saturating the air with his entire wistfulness, while his unceasingly flickering cathode-ray tube of a monitor began rapidly displaying the laggard starting of his currently ambiguous "world-wide collection of computer networks connected by phones, fibre optics and cable lines" surfing program in the immediate preparation for transferring his extremely long-winded masterpiece he calls his work of art to a favoured collection of digital pictures and Unicode, Comic Sans MS-based text of his, an exceedingly vast, all consuming collaboratively maintained repository of all knowledge dedicated solely to the pursuit of identifying and cataloguing any plot devices, clichés and other oft-repeated themes in a multitude of different works of fiction. "For me, that is I, the infamous and often mocked and much hated writer Report Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenberg Siht, it is [[SpockSpeak indeed]] very, very troublesome for me, Report Siht, head of the DepartmentOfRedundancyDepartment for me to find overtly flowery, unnecessary figures of larynx vibration and vocalization considered by the vast majority of the population of this planet, Earth (or Sol III) in the date of June 10 in the year 2009 A.D to be vastly unsuitable by my fellow troping comrades for such a strictly utilitarian device as a encyclopaedia of tropes and clichés in various works of fiction on a personal, digital desktop computer that was invented around six decades (or sixty years) before this particular {{Filler}}-filed sentence escaped from my full, blood-red lips. We, the writerfolk of the Earth were very significantly more productive [[NostalgiaFilter in the vast, vast decades and years and weeks and seconds before the time of today]], when our much-receded capability to apply creative epithets to our works of literature was not hindered by [[ScienceIsBad by the slow but eternal and inevitable march of technological progress]] and throngs of [[UnpleasableFanbase ungrateful readers]] spending JustForFun/{{Egregious}} amounts of their distasteful lives in expectation of our newest manuscripts, only to [[SnarkBait mercilessly pick apart their the flaws that said readers think they have unconcealed while reading my manuscripts]] with their friends, family and other acquaintances!"

-->--'''The Emperor''', ''If The Emperor Had A Podcast'', "Inquisitor Draco"

->''The slightest matters have their vulgarity fumigated out of them by the same elevated style. Commonplace people would say that a copy of Shakspeare lay on a drawing-room table; but the authoress of "The Enigma," bent on edifying periphrasis, tells you that there lay on the table, "that fund of human thought and feeling, which teaches the heart through the little name, 'Shakspeare.'" A watchman sees a light burning in an upper window rather longer than usual, and thinks that people are foolish to sit up late when they have an opportunity of going to bed; but, lest this fact should seem too low and common, it is presented to us in the following striking and metaphysical manner: "He marvelled–as man will think for others in a necessarily separate personality, consequently (though disallowing it) in false mental premise,–how differently he should act, how gladly he should prize the rest so lightly held of within." A footman–an ordinary Jeames, with large calves and aspirated vowels–answers the door-bell, and the opportunity is seized to tell you that he was a "type of the large class of pampered menials, who follow the curse of Cain–'vagabonds' on the face of the earth, and whose estimate of the human class varies in the graduated scale of money and expenditure…. These, and such as these, O England, be the false lights of thy morbid civilization!" We have heard of various "false lights," from Dr. Cumming to Robert Owen, from Dr. Pusey to the Spirit-rappers, but we never before heard of the false light that emanates from plush and powder. ''

-> ''Poor [[Creator/WilliamFaulkner Faulkner]]. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?''

-> [[HypocriticalHumor Eschew surplusage]].

->'''Impish Idea''': [[DeadpanSnarker The fire crackled.]]

->''Some writers are convinced that since great modern authors like [[Creator/JamesJoyce Joyce]] and [[Creator/WilliamFaulkner Faulkner]] are difficult to understand, [[TrueArtIsIncomprehensible writing that is difficult to understand is therefore great writing.]] This is a form of [[FalseCause magical thinking]], analogous to the belief that [[SympatheticMagic the warrior who dons the pelt of a lion thereby acquires its strength and cunning.]]''

->''"As someone who has helped others with their writing, I'm often amazed at how much detail some writers insist on giving about trivial features of their characters, and [[BroadStrokes how]] disinterested they are in [[{{InternalConsistency}} sticking to them]]. Or maybe they don't realize that "Watchful eyes the shade of distant mountains" is not the same as "Mercurial irises as black and mysterious as the dark side of the moon."[[note]]Two years helping with a writing workshop at the local library. NEVER. AGAIN.[[/note]]"''

->''"[[HypocriticalHumor My introduction]] [[LampshadeHanging will be]] [[BlatantLies sparse]]. There will be no majestic prose blustering into the sails of a galleon as we embark on this voyage together. Nor will there be any hamfisted prose whipping its limbs under a bedsheet like a retarded ghost, for that matter. I won't set the stage, or dim the lights. The mood, you will see, will be set soon enough."''

->''...Tantalizing my staggeringly famished veins; was her''
->''unassailable ardor to propel forward in life;''
->''patriotically march towards the corridors of''
->''irrefutable triumph; to spawn and sparkle a''
->''holistically vibrant tomorrow...''

->''Steer clear of “thee” and “thou” and “waxing wroth” unless you are a genius, and use adjectives as if they cost you a toenail. For some reason adjectives cluster around some works of fantasy.''
-->-- '''Creator/TerryPratchett''', ''Notes from a Successful Fantasy Author: Keep It Real''

->'''Makoto''': I've never seen something [[CouldntFindAPen written in blood]] before... It really was her final message... It's as if she wrote it with life itself.
->'''Kyoko''': [[LampshadeHanging ...Do you often talk like an aspiring poet?]]

-> [[ItWasADarkAndStormyNight The nightfall, deeply saturated with every fibre of its being in the shadows of dark gloom and ocular turblence,]] encompassed wholly and thoroughly the dusty, unattended, dirty, untouched apartment building of one youthful, handsome yet very homely aspiring author of many tomes [[SdrawkcabName Report Siht]], as he descended with a blindingly powerful glowing aura of casualty and sensual smoothness onto the slowly revolving Mid-Century Modern armchair that was currently situated betwixt and between his [[AntiquatedLinguistics beige-coloured, antiquated digital binary computation machine and analysis device]]. The writer being spoken of gently placed beside his body [[SesquipedalianLoquaciousness the worn thesaurus (a thesaurus, of course, being a large tome containing lists of synonyms and antonyms), slowly yellowing and fading with the slow, constant passage of time, he had been delving into]], he lowered his slender, pale fingers onto the black keyboard, [[Literature/ThePictureOfDorianGray his creaseless, silky hands]] striking the small intractable keys in [[RapidFireTyping quick succession]] while scrutinizing his search for a four-syllable phrase that is, to him worthy enough in all its purple glory to be written into his new masterpiece of literature to a veteran musician in search for the perfect melody to play to the masses, as they are entranced by the narcotic tune. But as he continued, at a tempo that only the smallest of snails could possibly envy, to turn through page after page after page of his wide, thick-as-a-doorstopper tome of words that he usually refers to as a thesaurus, he, over the course of hundreds of pages, begins to conceptualize that what was previously his treasure chest of multisyllabic vocabulary is now wholly exhausted, having used in some way each and every one of the words in some form or another. An "avarice" here, a "defenestrate" there, occasionally an "JustForFun/{{egregious}}" hiding somewhere within his vast, vast body of purple literature. He swiftly and instantly put down his once sacred book, and slowly, with a profoundly resigned look on his pale face, sighed in the general direction of his desktop-based computer machine, which, as you know, he is presently attempting to write his most ultraviolet magnum-opus.

-> "Oh, my blimey Lord, or Buddha, or Jesus, or Brahma, or Shiva, or Vishnu, or Satan, or the Great Horned God, or the Wiccan Goddess, or Apollo, or Jupiter, or Zeus (Even though you and Jupiter are one and the same), or Juno, or [[Film/{{Juno}} The Other Juno]], or [[Series/DoctorWho The Bad Wolf]]," he mused, saturating the air with his entire wistfulness, while his unceasingly flickering cathode-ray tube of a monitor began rapidly displaying the laggard starting of his currently ambiguous "world-wide collection of computer networks connected by phones, fibre optics and cable lines" surfing program in the immediate preparation for transferring his extremely long-winded masterpiece he calls his work of art to a favoured collection of digital pictures and Unicode, Comic Sans MS-based text of his, an exceedingly vast, all consuming collaboratively maintained repository of all knowledge dedicated solely to the pursuit of identifying and cataloguing any plot devices, clichés and other oft-repeated themes in a multitude of different works of fiction. "For me, that is I, the infamous and [[DarthWiki/SoBadItsHorrible often mocked and much hated]] writer Report Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenberg Siht, it is [[SpockSpeak indeed]] very, very troublesome for me, Report Siht, head of the DepartmentOfRedundancyDepartment for me to find overtly flowery, unnecessary figures of larynx vibration and vocalization considered by the vast majority of the population of this planet, Earth (or Sol III) in the date of June 10 in the year 2009 A.D to be vastly unsuitable by my fellow troping comrades for such a strictly utilitarian device as a encyclopaedia of tropes and clichés in various works of fiction on a personal, digital desktop computer that was invented around six decades (or sixty years) before this particular {{Filler}}-filed sentence escaped from my full, blood-red lips. We, the writerfolk of the Earth were very significantly more productive [[NostalgiaFilter in the vast, vast decades and years and weeks and seconds before the time of today]], when our much-receded capability to apply creative epithets to our works of literature was not hindered by [[ScienceIsBad by the slow but eternal and inevitable march of technological progress]] and throngs of [[UnpleasableFanbase ungrateful readers]] spending JustForFun/{{Egregious}} amounts of their distasteful lives in expectation of our newest manuscripts, only to [[SnarkBait mercilessly pick apart their the flaws that said readers think they have unconcealed while reading my manuscripts]] with their friends, family and other acquaintances!"

-->-- ''VisualNovel/DanganRonpa''

-> Nut eternal and utter nightmare of youthful Siht, it is indeed troublesome to actually get to the slow but never mind that, eyed Report's newborn [[CrowningMomentOfAwesome magnum opus]] with an [[AccentuateTheNegative unreasonable]], though low in expectation of our diminutive azure planet of their distasteful lives in extremely quick succession while reading my manuscripts with this complete and between his body the starting of the plot, though he probably was not hindered by the slow constant passage of larynx vibration and analysis device.

-> [[ItWasADarkAndStormyNight The nightfall, deeply saturated with every fibre of its being in the shadows of dark gloom and ocular turblence,]] encompassed wholly and thoroughly the dusty, unattended, dirty, untouched apartment building of one youthful, handsome yet very homely aspiring author of many tomes [[SdrawkcabName Report Siht]], as he descended with a blindingly powerful glowing aura of casualty and sensual smoothness onto the slowly revolving Mid-Century Modern armchair that was currently situated betwixt and between his [[AntiquatedLinguistics beige-coloured, antiquated digital binary computation machine and analysis device]]. The writer being spoken of gently placed beside his body [[SesquipedalianLoquaciousness the worn thesaurus (a thesaurus, of course, being a large tome containing lists of synonyms and antonyms), slowly yellowing and fading with the slow, constant passage of time, he had been delving into]], he lowered his slender, pale fingers onto the black keyboard, [[Literature/ThePictureOfDorianGray his creaseless, silky hands]] striking the small intractable keys in [[RapidFireTyping quick succession]] while scrutinizing his search for a four-syllable phrase that is, to him worthy enough in all its purple glory to be written into his new masterpiece of literature to a veteran musician in search for the perfect melody to play to the masses, as they are entranced by the narcotic tune. But as he continued, at a tempo that only the smallest of snails could possibly envy, to turn through page after page after page of his wide, thick-as-a-doorstopper tome of words that he usually refers to as a thesaurus, he, over the course of hundreds of pages, begins to conceptualize that what was previously his treasure chest of multisyllabic vocabulary is now wholly exhausted, having used in some way each and every one of the words in some form or another. An "avarice" here, a "defenestrate" there, occasionally an "{{egregious}}" hiding somewhere within his vast, vast body of purple literature. He swiftly and instantly put down his once sacred book, and slowly, with a profoundly resigned look on his pale face, sighed in the general direction of his desktop-based computer machine, which, as you know, he is presently attempting to write his most ultraviolet magnum-opus.

-> "Oh, my blimey Lord, or Buddha, or Jesus, or Brahma, or Shiva, or Vishnu, or Satan, or the Great Horned God, or the Wiccan Goddess, or Apollo, or Jupiter, or Zeus (Even though you and Jupiter are one and the same), or Juno, or [[Film/{{Juno}} The Other Juno]], or [[Series/DoctorWho The Bad Wolf]]," he mused, saturating the air with his entire wistfulness, while his unceasingly flickering cathode-ray tube of a monitor began rapidly displaying the laggard starting of his currently ambiguous "world-wide collection of computer networks connected by phones, fibre optics and cable lines" surfing program in the immediate preparation for transferring his extremely long-winded masterpiece he calls his work of art to a favoured collection of digital pictures and Unicode, Comic Sans MS-based text of his, an exceedingly vast, all consuming collaboratively maintained repository of all knowledge dedicated solely to the pursuit of identifying and cataloguing any plot devices, clichés and other oft-repeated themes in a multitude of different works of fiction. "For me, that is I, the infamous and [[DarthWiki/SoBadItsHorrible often mocked and much hated]] writer Report Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenberg Siht, it is [[SpockSpeak indeed]] very, very troublesome for me, Report Siht, head of the DepartmentOfRedundancyDepartment for me to find overtly flowery, unnecessary figures of larynx vibration and vocalization considered by the vast majority of the population of this planet, Earth (or Sol III) in the date of June 10 in the year 2009 A.D to be vastly unsuitable by my fellow troping comrades for such a strictly utilitarian device as a encyclopaedia of tropes and clichés in various works of fiction on a personal, digital desktop computer that was invented around six decades (or sixty years) before this particular {{Filler}}-filed sentence escaped from my full, blood-red lips. We, the writerfolk of the Earth were very significantly more productive [[NostalgiaFilter in the vast, vast decades and years and weeks and seconds before the time of today]], when our much-receded capability to apply creative epithets to our works of literature was not hindered by [[ScienceIsBad by the slow but eternal and inevitable march of technological progress]] and throngs of [[UnpleasableFanbase ungrateful readers]] spending {{Egregious}} amounts of their distasteful lives in expectation of our newest manuscripts, only to [[SnarkBait mercilessly pick apart their the flaws that said readers think they have unconcealed while reading my manuscripts]] with their friends, family and other acquaintances!"

-> With his current contemplation of purple, prose and everything eventually grinding to a slow and restful halt, young Report's poor, addled assemblage of neurons and grey matter inside his cranium was little more than a Brobdingnagian, reverb-filled empty echo chamber, almost but not quite similar to an empty theatre, where no possible thoughts could ever be retrieved and brought into the light no matter how hard he attempted to do just that. For you see with your very sapphire sightorbs, my dear, determined-to-get-to-the-end-of-this readers, what was once his normally infinitely vast supply of useful flowery nouns, verbs, prepositions and adjectives in the English language had dead run dry, much to his slowly seething and coming to the surface [[Literature/{{Twilight}} chagrin]], a chagrin that caused him to curse the heavens and all life that lived under it. Hoping to replenish his normally wonderfully large warehouse of verbose language, he quickly stole a glance at his utile and diverting [[AuthorVocabularyCalendar calendar, which displayed a new flowery linguistic unit for him to use in his contemporary works precisely once every twenty-four hours, no more and no less.]]. {{Egregious}}ly, he had forgotten to turn the folio of his Word-A-Day Calendar and bring in the new one thousand, four hundred and forty minutes.

-> Exactly eleven thousand, eight hundred and seventy seven kilometres away from the spot Mr. Report Siht was writing his ultimate work of inane, ultraviolet works of literature, on the other end of our [[InsignificantLittleBluePlanet diminutive azure planet of no cosmic importance whatsoever]], a particular random, utterly unremarkable reader of literature who was usually referred to as Mister [[TheEveryman Jonas Quinn Averageson]], who had, at this current time of nine-forty-five at night just returned after an extremely large in length distance traversed in his black, very, ''very'' slightly rusted Honda Civic fossil fuel-powered automobile from his place of current occupation, where he is paid exactly nine-fifty an hour to detail, with {{egregious}} amounts of justifying edits, exactly which character in Series/DoctorWho he thought deserved to be called a [[DarthWiki/RuinedFOREVER show-ruiner]] extremely similar to [[TheScrappy a small puppy that called himself Scrappy-Doo, very exhausted and very frustrated after a particularly high in temperature argument with an]] [[PointyHairedBoss unreasonable, though low in intellect, figure of dubious authority who will very, very soon be replaced by a Mister Fast Eddie]] (completely forgetting that this overly particular slice of life factoid was probably in absolutely no way at all relevant to the [[MythArc grand scheme]] of this very "plot", though he, Jonas Quinn Averageson, probably at this moment in space-time was completely unaware that there was at the moment a certain troper living thousands of miles away narrating each and every little thought, no matter how trivial it seemed to be to everyone, for the sole purpose of adding word count to this already excessively long entry describing the use of over-flowery prose in various works of fiction, but never mind that), eyed Report's newborn magnum opus with [[HighPressureEmotion a sudden, hot-tempered fury building up at a sizeable alacrity]]. "This disgusting piece of pretentious trash is [[UnusualEuphemism frakking]] inconceivable and it is an insult to all literature, even Fanfic/MyImmortal, that this pierce of gamma-ray prose filled shiat would ever get [[VanityPublishing published]]," he immediately [[strike:[[HaveAGayOldTime ejaculated]]]] exclaimed with an incomprehensible amount of quickly-rising exasperation, his half-rouge, half-emerald orbs of eyes still scanning the two-thousand, five hundred and sixty six piece of trash-er, I mean, slice of literary heaven. "I really, really, '''''REALLY''''' wish with all of my cardiac muscles in my heart that person who's work I am currently reading attempted, no matter how impossible that task would seem to be for the person I am currently referring, to actually get to the point in a reasonable number of compendious sentences without using [[SesquipedalianLoquaciousness excessively flowery and annoyingly lengthy expressions]], because if I'm hypothetically forced to proceed any further with this complete and utter nightmare of an encyclopaedia entry, it may quite possibly drive me to the point where my emotional state causes me to [[ExpospeakGag rapidly lose eye-liquid]]!"

-> "Oh, my blimey Lord, or Buddha, or Jesus, or Brahma, or Shiva, or Vishnu, or Satan, or the Great Horned God, or the Wiccan Goddess, or Apollo, or Jupiter, or Zeus (Even though you and Jupiter are one and the same), or Juno, or [[{{Juno}} The Other Juno]], or [[Series/DoctorWho The Bad Wolf]]," he mused, saturating the air with his entire wistfulness, while his unceasingly flickering cathode-ray tube of a monitor began rapidly displaying the laggard starting of his currently ambiguous "world-wide collection of computer networks connected by phones, fibre optics and cable lines" surfing program in the immediate preparation for transferring his extremely long-winded masterpiece he calls his work of art to a favoured collection of digital pictures and Unicode, Comic Sans MS-based text of his, an exceedingly vast, all consuming collaboratively maintained repository of all knowledge dedicated solely to the pursuit of identifying and cataloguing any plot devices, clichés and other oft-repeated themes in a multitude of different works of fiction. "For me, that is I, the infamous and [[DarthWiki/SoBadItsHorrible often mocked and much hated]] writer Report Wolfeschlegelsteinhausenberg Siht, it is [[SpockSpeak indeed]] very, very troublesome for me, Report Siht, head of the DepartmentOfRedundancyDepartment for me to find overtly flowery, unnecessary figures of larynx vibration and vocalization considered by the vast majority of the population of this planet, Earth (or Sol III) in the date of June 10 in the year 2009 A.D to be vastly unsuitable by my fellow troping comrades for such a strictly utilitarian device as a encyclopaedia of tropes and clichés in various works of fiction on a personal, digital desktop computer that was invented around six decades (or sixty years) before this particular {{Filler}}-filed sentence escaped from my full, blood-red lips. We, the writerfolk of the Earth were very significantly more productive [[NostalgiaFilter in the vast, vast decades and years and weeks and seconds before the time of today]], when our much-receded capability to apply creative epithets to our works of literature was not hindered by [[ScienceIsBad by the slow but eternal and inevitable march of technological progress]] and throngs of [[UnpleasableFanbase ungrateful readers]] spending {{Egregious}} amounts of their distasteful lives in expectation of our newest manuscripts, only to [[SnarkBait mercilessly pick apart their the flaws that said readers think they have unconcealed while reading my manuscripts]] with their friends, family and other acquaintances!"

-->'''MarkTwain''', "[[http://www.mtwain.com/A_Cure_For_The_Blues/0.html A Cure for the Blues]]"