It took decades, but I finally entered the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, by far the world’s greatest contest of bad writing. My entry:
The jar was oozing, and the ooze was jarring: a dank fetid oleaginous slime that slapped and slithered across the bourgeoisie marble countertop like loathsome Gerber’s Lovecraftian Puree…
Admit it: that prose is foul.
Personally, I think it soars…fowl as it were.
That’s not bad itself, in Bulwer-Lyttonspeak. So, pretty bad.