Hurling forth a vomitus litany of vile curses and libellous epithets, the horny green toad boggled its bulbous eyes and then slammed the door in the face of the loathsome weasel that had had the gall to come to his burrow trying to sell him, at exorbitant price, a full set of totally irrelevant body-building equipment.
While keeping an eye on her pot of split pea soup as it simmered, bubbling gently, on the kitchen stove, Miss Penelope Frogmore knew that if she could just finish knitting her grandnephew's pair of bright red socks, which she had begun this morning, then her mind would achieve the peace and quiet it needed to focus on solving the awful murder of poor Colonel Jenkinson, who had been found cruelly stabbed to death down by the village lake, just two days ago.
In the dead of night, as the old grandfather clock began to strike the dying hour of four in the morning, an owl, most likely a common barn owl, screeched, a fox barked in the nearby woods, and Anne found, when she woke up in a cold sweat of terror, that the only sound she could make was a strangled, 'Urk!'.
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Does it take talent to write badly, publish it, then sell it worldwide?