"Hi Evil Editor," the aspiring author said, his voice squeaking like the brakes on a '73 Plymouth Fury I once owned. "I know your time is valuable, so I'm gonna cut to the chase like a Bowie knife through a lamb spleen. I've written a novel I think you'll find as riveting as a Native American on a skyscraper I-beam. It opens with a fireworks display of ennui, progresses through a flash flood of pathos, and closes in a tsunami of tuna and salami sandwiches. Think cocaine on steroids."
"Interesting," I replied. "Let me see if I'm understanding you. It sounds like you're saying your novel reads like a war of attrition between landlocked nations from opposite hemispheres, with the emotional impact of a Carpathian mongoose on the South Beach diet."
"Were you even frigging listening to me?" he yelled. "It's more like the feeling you get when you watch someone with a lot of facial piercings eat cheese that's gone bad."
"Ah, I see. And I like it. It's like last night when I saw some hot shot showoff request chopsticks in a Chinese restaurant just to impress his date and then drop a hunk of General Tso's chicken in his lap."
"Exactly. Except this is more like a Mu Shu pork accident."
"Mu Shu pork? Sorry, dude; I've already got two of those in the pipeline."