Bulwer-Lytton contest "won"

The winner of the 21010 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest for seriously bad writing is won by a Seattle woman, Molly Ringle.  As she wryly confesses, she only writes bad fiction when she fails at good fiction, and she would rather not say how often that happens.

The sentence that snared her the prize is truly gross, a marvel to behold:

For the first month of Ricardo and Felicity's affair, they greeted one another at every stolen rendezvois with a kiss - a lengthy, ravenous kiss, Ricardo lapping and sucking at Felicity's mouth as if she were a giant cage-mounted water bottle and he were the world's thirstiest gerbil.

I was intrigued to find when I went onto the Bulwer-Lytton competition site (where "WWW" means "Wretched Writers Welcome") that there are a number of categories, and much eloquent evidence that there is more than one seriously (or hilariously) bad writer out there.  Scanning through the various winners, runners-up and "dishonorable mentions" had me rocking with laughter.

Three favorites:

Please Mr. Fox, don't take your magic back to the forest, it is needed here in Twigsville!" pleaded little Isabel, but Mr. Fox was unconcerned as he smugly loped back into the woods without answering a word knowing well that his magic was only going to be used to make sure his forest would be annexed into the neighboring community of Leaftown where the property values were much higher.
-- Pete Watkins, winner: Children's Literature

As Holmes, who had a nose for danger, quietly fingered the bloody knife and eyed the various bady parts strewn along the dark, deserted highway, he placed his ear to the ground and, with his heart in his throat, silently mouthed to his companion, "Arm yourself, Watson, there is an evil hand afoot ahead."
-- Dennis Pearce, Runner-Up: Detective category

The wind whispering through the pine trees and the sun reflecting off the surface of Lake Tahoe like a scattering of diamonds was an idyllic setting, while to the south the same sun struggled to penetrate a sky choked with farm dust and car exhaust over Bakersfield, a town spread over the lower San Joaquin Valley like a brown stain on a wino's trousers, which is where, unfortunately, the story takes place.
-- Denis Doberneck, Runner-Up: Purple Prose.