Awful writing in store

This is part of an awful story I wrote, detective novel style, as part of a class called, "The Best Worst Story Ever." The point is, be overly descriptive, and just write horribly. Without further ado, here I go.

It was a dark and sunny night. I sat with my feet on my desk, pushing around my .3 mm hospital-swag ball point pen. I was tapping my size nine collectors edition Brad Pitt loafers as I contemplated my next case. My mind was like a river that went in a loop. Never ending. It was a case to figure out just which evil-doer killed my associate's friend's cousin's uncle's daughter's dog walker's grand mother on the father's side.
My name is James Banzai, and I'm a Private I. Investigation is my profession, Danger is my mother's maiden name. Rain drops ricocheted off the windows like bullets ricocheting off a Kevlar© bullet proof vest. The wind howled like the blast of air after four-wheel drive, making the curtains swing like a monkey trying to reach that last banana, or a five year old on a futon couch. The windows rattled like the same five year old shaking a birthday present that happened to contain a game of connect four. But who knew that that five year old would grow up to be such a notorious evil-doer.
The grandmother was killed on Friday the fourteenth of November. Apparently she was hit (and killed) by a golf cart sporting an Oklahoma license plate, and bright, day-glow orange fins and a bumper sticker that said, "God is my lawyer." Apparently not, because the owner of this bumper sticker did not stay around long enough to see who they hit.

heheheh. Did you enjoy that? I should hope not. More . . . soon. . .?