WAJ 3103 English

Question
In group, surf the internet for essay samples of different text types. Select at least
two text-types and compare and contrast the organizational pattern of text-types.

Answer

Text-Types
Narrative
Descriptive
The description of events in a story or
An item which describe something in a
the process or skill of telling a story to

skilful or interesting way.

audience
Elements :

Describes :

setting (where your story takes

event (how, what, when, who,

place)

etc)

time frame (when it takes place)

places

characters (who are involved)

person/persons

conflict (what the conflict in the

objects (types, senses, sizes,

story)

colours, etc)

climax (when the conflict is

resolved)
Fiction and non-fiction
Depends on the story line

Fiction
Formal types

===============================================================
The two text-types

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Narrative composition
Descriptive composition

Narrative Essay
Writer
Date

: Jeffrey Klassen
: January 23, 2007

A Drinking Experience to Remember

We all have experiences from which we learn. Some of them are
more painful than others. The most significant of these for me was the
time I caved to all the peer pressure I had received and decided to get
drunk.
It was a chilly fall Saturday night and my junior year in high
school and I had just finished another physically demanding game of
football for the school I attended. My family had gone over to a
neighborhood party to celebrate a new neighbor moving onto the
street, so I decided to walk over to see how everything was going.
I arrived at the party and I am greeted by a large number of my
neighbors at the door. They were all excited to hear how I was doing in
school and how I did that day in my football game. After the initial
greetings, I sat down at a table with some of the people at the party
and began to eat dinner. The host of the party, Rodrigo, walked up to
me at the table and asked, How are you doing? Good, I sai and he
asked me what I wanted to drink. Excited to use some Spanish I had
just learned at school, I replied, Una cervesa, por favor. This means
one beer, please. He was impressed, so he quickly handed me a
beer. I slowly sipped it down. I determined that I was in the mood to
drink more that night, so I went up to the cooler and slyly slipped one
out, stuck it in my coat, walked out the door, and consumed it quickly
throwing the empty bottle down the drain. Seeing how easy this was to
do the first time, I repeated it twice more, chugging each one quickly.
After about 30 minutes of this, I was nicely buzzed and decided I
wanted more alcohol, so I called up my friend Ryan on the phone. He
was excited to hear that I want to drink, so he picks me up and we go
back to his house. We got to his house and discovered that it was
vacant. His liquor cabinet was not. He started pulling out bottles,
looking for the good stuff. As he pulled each bottle out and handed it
to me to put on the counter behind us, I stole one or two shots from
each of the approximately ten liquor bottles. Then he came upon the
good stuff which happened to be a large bottle of Smirnoff Vodka and
handed it to me. By this time, my judgment was significantly inhibited
and I proceeded to chug a significant portion of the bottle. As we put
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the bottles back on the shelf, I seem to remember myself sneaking a
few more shots from a few of them. It was time to go home so that I
could get in bed before my parents came home from the party.
It is on the drive home that all the alcohol decided to hit me and
the rest of the night comes in brief clips and Ryans recount of the
story.
I stumbled into my empty house. Ryan and I went up to my room
so I could get ready for bed and he could use my laptop. The only
notable event that happened before I passed out on my bed was that I
apparently was humping my wall for a few minutes while Ryan checked
his fantasy football team. I told Ryan I was going to bed so he made
sure I got into bed okay and he left.
I pass out and everything is so-far-so-good. I would be asleep
well before my parents got home and all I would have to do was make
up a story in the morning to explain why I was feeling so horrible and
why I went to bed so early. No big deal.
I remember waking up feeling horrible and puking all over my
bed. I decided to try to get my sheets into the washing machine so that
I could clean the puke off of them. I got them down the stairs and into
the washing machine. I hear later that I actually got the washing
machine started with the correct amount of detergent. I began to feel
horrible again, so I ran up to the bathroom right next to my room and
empty my stomach of more of the nights party juice. I did this just to
hear my parents come inside, see vomit I had trailed behind me on the
way to putting my sheets in the washer, and yell up in alarmed voices
to see if I was all right. I passed out.
I wake up five hours later in a hospital room containing my
terribly upset parents, an exasperated nurse, and a catheter that had
just been painfully removed from one of my more vital organs.
Needless to say, my parents were not impressed with my
behavior. They told me that I had been brought out on a stretcher in
front of more than 20 of my neighbors who I not only live around, but
do weekly landscaping work for. I had been humiliated in front of two
dozen of my friends and customers and I had let my parents down. All
the trust they had in me, I broke over one stupid night that did not
even turn out to be any fun. Largely because of this event, drinking
plays a minimal role in my life today.
Descriptive Essay
Writer
Date

: Misty Lane
: October 22,1997

The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly

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When any thought of cynicism arises, it conjures an image of bitter
thirty something divorcees, single alcoholic fathers, or disillusioned old
maids. However, this disease is rampant now among "Gen X'ers", and
it is certainly no surprise with the miasma of food, cars, money, drugs,
and of course sex that assaults early twenties men and women with
the frenetic pace of a moving el-train. Yet there is no better example of
the reason for American youths cynicism than the meager choice of
sex partners in the nineties. The problem is not quantity, but most
definitely quality. Sexual partners, especially for women fall into three
categories: the mechanical, the sensitive, and the "Oh (My God What
Have I Done)." Note, however, that there is essentially no "good"
category. Is this an oversight? What do you think?
-6-

Mr. Mechanical is tall, suave and polished to fine sheen. He could be

wearing anything from loafers and a braided belt to a black leather
jacket and combat boots, but you can bet he put more thought into his
outfit than you did. His theme song is "I'm Too Sexy," and his opening
line is, "Where have I been all your life." You will run into this gem at
your local bar, and after buying you several very expensive drinks with
a suspiciously high alcohol content, he will you that, "you are the most
beautiful woman he's ever seen." At the end of the night, when
confronted with your apartment door he breezes in as though he's
already been there before. When he opens your refrigerator to make
himself a drink, he sees two oranges, leftover pizza, and a jar of
mayonnaise, and then asks if you keep the champagne in the freezer.
Mr. Mechanical then asks for the "grand tour" of your 800 square foot,
one bedroom apartment, just so you can maneuver yourselves toward
the bedroom. He sits down on the bed, crosses his legs, and waits with
a Mona Lisa smile. His lovemaking is as choreographed as a broadway
musical. He takes exactly three minutes time on each major erogenous
zone, removing clothing with each step, yet somehow deftly removing
his own clothing as well. He can unhook any type of bra, blindfolded, in
the dark with just his teeth. Now comes the inevitable penetration
which always lasts exactly fifteen minutes. There is no, "Did you ?"
because he naturally assumes, "of course you did." Afterwards he talks
for exactly two minutes then falls asleep on your pillow. When you
wake in the morning there is no evidence of his presence except a rose
on your pillow with a note that says, "talk to you soon," but don't count
on it. In fact, the only time you ever hear of him again is when you find
out he was with your best friend the previous weekend.
Next on the list of losers is the sensitive man. You meet Mr. Sensitive at
a private gathering; he wouldn't be caught dead at anything as gauche
as a club. He has careless hair and an air of " what's the point" about
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his appearance. He is not necessarily beautiful in a conventional sense
but he is immediately intriguing. Mr. Sensitive hasn't much to say, he is
rather bored with the whole contemptuous affair. His gaze makes you
feel as though your emotions and thoughts are written on your
forehead in neon. Goaded by a sick sense of self-destruction, you can
not help but attempt to draw him out repeatedly(and unsuccessfully).
Feeling vaguely dissatisfied and perversely attracted to him, you run
into him at a few chance encounters orchestrated of course by
yourself. Finally, he gives you his number. When you do call, he spends
several nights in a row, talking with you until the sun comes up. He
reveals his entire psyche to you with an intense vulnerability that
makes him utterly irresistible. The sensitive usually man reveals in
these heartfelt conversations that he is either, an alcoholic, broken
hearted and lonely, or tragically disillusioned by the world at large. He
looks at you as though you can fix him and his wrenching sense of
angst. He seems to think your thoughts are incomprehensible, unique
and he's finally found hi soul mate. The sexual encounter begins with
more promise than the coming of spring. He is an exquisitely attentive
lover, not even beginning with his pleasure until you have found yours.
He worships every part of your body, while professing his undying love.
After this cosmic experience, he holds you all night. This man doesn't
stay the night, he stays the weekend. Sounds to good to be true? You
should go with that feeling, because Tuesday he calls to tell you that he
can never see you again. Apparently, he doesn't deserve to be loved
and will only bring you endless pain and suffering. You can almost
believe it until you look down at your caller ID box and see that he is
calling you from your other best friend's house.
Last and most certainly the least is Mr. Oh (My God What Have I Done).
Physically, Mr. Oh can be like Mr. Sensitive or Mr. Mechanical. He has a
playful goofiness about him that draws you to him in the first place. Yet
Mr. Oh doesn't understand that "needy" is not a heady cologne. He
pursues you with the relentlessness of a government assassin seeking
JFK. His mounting volume of late night phone calls brings him no
shame. This is someone you would be with only if you were on the
rebound from a torrid love affair, a recovering drug addict, or grieving
for the loss of a close family member. If this is your scenario, you
finally consent to the onslaught of his sheer determination. The basic
premise of your rationalization is that, he wants you so bad, its got to
be good. This mode of thinking, given time to reflect on the act
afterwards, will cause you to long with a fiery intensity for a frontal
lobe extraction. Mr. Oh is so afraid you'll change your mind, there is no
foreplay to speak of. Penetration is immediate, as is the climax five
seconds
-7-

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later. It is done quicker than you can say, "Was it good for you?." Then
the final humiliation ensues when he rolls away and says, "Next one's
yours, babe." You make up a frantic sounding excuse, such as, you
have to train for the iditerod at five A.M., and literally shove him out
the door. You're so disgusted by the whole experience, you spend the
rest of your life avoiding him, even if this entails transferring schools,
quitting your job, or hoping to God that you witness a crime, just so
you can join the witness protection program. Of course, he's so
distraught by your rejection, he can only find solace the next weekend
with your third best friend.
I can only hope, dear reader, that his bitterness and cynicism is not an
infectious disease which will latch onto you with all the savageness of a
rabid wolf. On the other hand, perhaps you can consider this a timely
warning against the mad melee of sexual slackers that make up ninety
percent of the male race. The choice is yours, and no, I'm not an angry
girl. Whatever gave you that idea?

ISL Week 12