I have Words Gone Wild this week, and I know what to do with the damned blasfomys. And I don't mean sending them back to the cornfield, either. Nope, we're going to write poetry with them; i.e., you are going to write poetry with them. I do know, of course, that I have to go first or you won't do it. So I'm doing it. Damn it. So there. I don't care what style you decide on. It's totally up to you. Just ... write.
Here are the blasfomys with which we will write our poetic masterpieces:
And here's the stupid damn poem I ended up with.
Being thrust into the pit and forced to
Wallow in the prescence of mediocrity,
Having just peeked at the helariously
Shotty editing job hoisted off on me by
The regin jagua who calls herself an editor.
I could shoot her,
And quite ligitametly, for who
Could convict me for harning
The controversible dilettante who,
Five minutes from quitting time and
Having not yet made her quotent,
Blasphemously incorrectly red-lined me,
Leaving me rediculed and reviled?
I could shoot off her head and
Let her wear her diamond, neckless.
Oh, hell, I am apostate,
Her oppisite, becuse I have inheritated
Some firing neurons but little brawn and so
I've no love of being provocked by
Poseur twits who, without excuse, if they could write,
But no! Vock her and the screwy
Format she faulted me for.
Cloaked in gimme-gimme genes,
She genuflects at the altar of
A conspicuously empty brain pan.
Oh, God, now I can admit it to myself...
I am a fucking genious.
The Grammar Witch would also like to say a few words today.
What is up with nationally known physicians who go on TV and discuss the whoop-ing cough rather than the hoop-ing cough? Doc needs a little whoop-ass. And how about talk-show people who yack about some washed up actor re-prizing his role rather than re-preezing it? If you ask me, they all need to get a job. We have this local news anchor, a very annoying person in all respects, who aggravates the pee out of me by talking about sammon-ella when people eat bad food and get sick. She knows how to pronounce sammon, the fish, so I suppose she believes it must follow that the letters s-a-l-m-o-n are always pronounced sammon. Not so, honey!
People who for real and for true should know better continually grate on my nerves by uttering such grammatical oddities as:
"They gave awards to Jack and myself."
"They told my husband and I the car was totaled but we weren't dead."
"They had went right but ended up left of nowhere."
Well. They gave Jack an award. They gave me an award. They for damn sure didn't give myself an award.
They told my husband. They told me. I doubt seriously that they told I anything.
And ... they had went? What?! Make a career change, girlie. Broadcast journalism ain't for you.
And a Happy (and deliriously grammatical) Thursday to you, kids!