Monday, March 28, 2011
So. Ignorance, Laziness, Marketing: We bow before you, utterly, unequivocally, irrevocably defeated. We will fight you no more. Secretly, we've always wanted to sneak over to the Dark Side, as we have long heard it said that there would be cookies. We'll even join forces with you, and rule the galaxy as father and son! Wait. Not that. But you get the idea. We couldn't beat 'em, and never would, so we're ready to join 'em.
No longer will we bellow at the TV when news anchors tell us about fires caused by shortages in washing machines. We'll ignore stories from highly-respected global news outlets like Reuters and the Associated Press, telling us that Istanbul's main square had been teaming with tourists and shoppers when the bomber struck. We won't even notice when faced with headlines informing us that our recession is to be followed by a mancession, in which men will face more economic difficulties than women will.
We'll buy your insipid products full of cheesy and beefy, and the more modulicious they are, the better. I think, in time, we will even come to compare our fast to yours, and our ready will be more ready than your ready. We will make excellent happen.
But we won't stop there. We will abide by the rules of grammar, vocabulary and spelling in the new millennium, and stop fretting over each and every faux pas that heretofore would have made us bristle with angst. From now on, apostrophes WILL mean "here comes an S." Your and you're will be one and the same. There, they're and their? Why bother with three words, when just one (there, by the way) will suffice.
Now, before you go calling the Spelling Police Police on us -- we're not talking about the safe, silly havens of email, IM, Facebook etc.. We know that the rules have never really applied, there. No, we're talking about media and news and such - the professional communicators. Those are the victors in our little war. We surrender.
Now, if you'll excuse us, we have a bunch of noun's waiting to be used as verb's.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Another scintillating peek into the twisted - no, mangled - world of Crackbarry and Fleen:
By the time he had slummed and slurped and struggled his way to his 24th birthday, Dunsten's nickname had evolved from "Dun McCrack" to "Goin' Down McCrank" to "Goitervillanueva Cracklinberries" to "Smokin' The Crack" to simply "CrackSmoke." He had arrived at the Lake Wad School of Business Gloaming with an undergrad degree in Clown Arts (minor in Theology) and a burning desire to further his education and master auto-erotic asphyxiation.
He taped copies of his mother's latest letter all over his dormitory room, to inspire and propel him onward toward his goal of becoming Fleen's second-in-command.
"You stupid sod - why are you wasting your father's hard-earned ducats on that stupid circus degree? You'll burn in hell for this, you will! You could have been accepted at the horse
school, or even the sheep college - sea monkeys community institute, at the very least. But no.
We're ashamed to have ever found you by the side of the lane and brought you home to be raised by our dog, we are. Pooey on you, and write back soon, sweetie. Love, Mum" was all it said.
"Aw, sod off, mumsie," Crackbarry would say every night (excepting those on which he was too drunk to see or speak or both, and the rare night when he had co-ed company, or the time he spent the evening in the infirmary with that piece of balsa wood shoved under his toenail - ouch) as he
patted the note with his fingers on his way to bed...