Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Did You Notice That I Don’t Proof Read? – or – Sorry, You Ain’t My Typo Girl

No, I don’t proof read. Is there a space in proof read? Proofread. It doesn’t look right… let’s check. Huh. My dictionary, not the one with the scribblely red lines under misspelled words on my screen, but the one on my desk with the cover and the pages and the tiny print, the one that I actually use, says that proofread is a word. Holy crap. Whether I wanted to or not, I’ve learned something tonight. So, no, I don’t proofread my posts. In fact, I barely ever go back to read them at all; I just kind of lurch this crap out of me, and before I know it, I’ve clicked the post button for you to read. But on the occasion that I do go back and reread my literal upchuckage, I notice that I am probably chemically unbalanced, I also notice all of my typos, as I’m sure you have. I don’t really care that I leave out a subject once in a while, or maybe I don’t keep the proper tense throughout a story line, or a thought will end mid sentence as I suddenly want to write about something else, or I will commit my biggest grammatical error, the passive voice. I had a professor that nailed me on using the passive voice in every paper I turned into him. Gordon, you tabla playing mofo.

And speaking of thoughts that get cut off, I have to go get my boots that I left in the back of my buddy’s car that night last week when the bartenders decided that they weren’t going to serve a person wearing a tux in their bar because the modern trend is the wear plaid and look like a hunter and I looked like a guy in a tux, even though I’ve been wearing plaid since I was two and was only wearing a tux because I was coming from a ten hour work day which I was only at because I need money to go to bars to get served by bartenders. So I stormed out, and left my boots in the back seat of my buddy’s car.

In other news, I have good news, which I may or may not tell you later.

In other news, I want to rant about Christmas, which I most defiantly with catapult at you later. (That last sentence, that one right there, that was the passive voice. Damn you, Gordon. Damn you to literary hell.)

In other news, I wish I could visit my cousins’ new baby in DC with my parents. His name is Kai and I’ve been told that Kai is Swedish for Obsquatch, which means they named that little guy after me.

I’m off to get my boots, then I’m off to celebrate my reunification with my boots by taking them out for a bourbon. Each of them. And one for me. Shall I cheers you as well? Fine then. Screw proofreading, I’m more for cheersing. Consider yourself cheersed.


  1. That bar sucks ass; fuck em. The good news would be a nice change; to know that apart from shit being unloaded on you via a dump-truck on a semi-daily basis, every now and then a bartender dressed in a tux drizzles some champagne on you. I love your Christmas rants, so I never get too tired of those. Christmas rants are to you as Krumbine's brother is to Krumbine, wherein an inexhaustible resource of negative feelings and frustrations somehow manage to be typed out with more bites and punches than Mike Tyson dishes out when dealing with his undercooked Turkey Dinner on Easter.

    Oh, and I'm ashamed to admit I'm clueless about passive voice. I've forgotten all about the vague shit I knew about it ages ago. I wonder what Gordon would think of my crap. Can I have his mailing address if you have it? I think I'll send him some of my "masturpieces", like the one where you produce beer with your nipples, or the one where one of Miss P's ex-boyfriends goes out looking for a dog dildo.. an as yet unfinished tale written to work with that collage she put up ages ago. If I finish that, it'll probably be my pissteen chapel.

    Good fuck, have a happier new year! Cheers!
    *drinks his acid hard, and pisses out a curdly, smegmous substance*