Like a Metaphor With a Name Tag
Photo Source Unknown Like a Metaphor With a Name Tag I tried to explain similes, which went over like trying to herd cats on roller skates, on ice, during a fire drill. A simile is like a comparison wearing a name tag, like a metaphor that insists on shaking hands and saying, “Hi, I’m like.” It works like duct tape for language—holding two unlike things together like a raccoon hugging a shiny object it does not understand. My teacher said, “Use similes sparingly,” which landed like telling a kid to eat just one potato chip, or like a librarian whispering at a monster truck rally. Similes pile up like socks in a dryer, multiplying like rabbits on espresso, escaping control like a balloon released by a distracted clown. A good simile pops like bubble wrap inside the brain, sparks like flint on steel, sticks like gum under a desk labeled “Do Not Touch.” A bad simile dies like a tax form read like a bedtime story to a caffeine-addicted ferret. Similes teach like a tour guide with a laser p...
