Get a Hare Cut
A friend recently recommended a blog or two to me.
Wait. Fuck. Let me start over.
Hi. I haven’t posted in awhile. I recently rediscovered this thing called…um…shit…oh! LIFE. Yeah I’d had one on back order for awhile and it finally showed up at the door a few weeks ago. It’s been nice to leave my self-imposed exile, to step out into the bright, wide world and remember what Vitamin D feels like (it feels like the sun, FYI. But not like, burning hot plasma and gas, it feels like the sun on your skin…fuck it, you know what I’m talking about.) and in general, have been living a much more fulfilling life. Hell, I’ve even found it difficult to be as sarcastic as I so desperately enjoy being.
Those of you who follow me on Twitter (if you don’t, you really should, it’s like…constant orgasms. And a lot of ellipses.) probably noticed things like “camping” and “not on computer” and “sex with forest creatures” show up in my Tweets. You may have even noticed that I haven’t been nearly as sardonic as normal, and this is something I haven’t taken to without noticing. For a long time I have been, in my opinion, defined by two things:
1) My overarching love of commas, parenthetical asides and ellipses.
2) Being a sarcastic man-bitch.
Imagine, if you will, an Adonis-like man standing proudly above the plebeians, bronzed chest glistening with sweat and diet coke…now imagine me. It’s pretty similar, no? Yes. Muscularity notwithstanding, I have had a hard time being less sarcastic and being generally agreeable and positive. Actually, that’s not true. It’s been really easy. Which has been emotionally hard for me. Despite all the challenges I’ve faced as a direct result of my recent possession of the faculties to enjoy my life outside the realm of mocking the internets, I was, on this day, as I write, here in this chair, with commas aplenty, dragged back down into the depths of loathing and abhor-ration.
Since you're A.D.D. like I am, check this out:
You're welcome.
What could possibly end such a great run of happiness? Why, what else?
There. Their. They’re.
Let’s be clear here. “They’re going to get their guitars from over there.” There. Get it? It’s not “Their about to take they’re pants off and put them over their.”
Annnd we’re back. A friend recently recommended a blog or two to me. Generally, I take any type of recommendation whatsoever with a salt shaker’s worth of salt. As in, it took my dentist eleven years to convince me that it was a good idea to brush my teeth. And let me tell you, was he right! I made out with SO many more lady-types post-brushing. I’m also sort of warming up to this whole “showering” concept. It needs not be said that I’m a tough sell when it comes to getting me to see things your way (people who know me will surely disagree, praising me as the most agreeable person they kn…I’m sorry I just can’t finish that without suing myself for libel), especially when it comes to the topic of so and so being oh-so-funny and having just the funniest opinions and onions and what not. Fourteen worldwide studies from the top scientists around the globe have effectively confirmed that I am the chief master of all things hilarious and have final say as to what is and is not funny. David Cross in person? Not funny. David Cross on stage? Funny. Kramer? Funny. Kramer’s actor-person-counterpart? Not funny. See how good at this I am?
I reluctantly ventured over to blog number one, The Bloggess. Funny. Sure. A few chuckles emitted from my gullet, as they are wont to do. The eponymous Bloggess has a speak-first-ask-questions-later policy that I admire. So, blog number one, congrats. You’ve got another reader. I may even click on your AdWords if you make me chuckle enough and show a little cleavage. Related: she did end up showing cleavage.
Blog number two. The reason why I simultaneously love and hate the internet. Every Tom, Dick and Harry with a computer can have a “voice” on the internet. As I take liberty to subject you to my ranting and raving and generally bloviate about whatever soap box I happen to have washed with that day I cannot be judgemental without being hypocritical. So, label me a hypocrite (it won’t bother me) and let’s move on. This second blog, this…this internet monstrosity. Let’s be honest here, there (or they’re, or their) are barely a handful of intelligent people on the internet. Just look at any YouTube video’s comments section and you’ll see what kind of intellect the internet is populated by.
A "gagalogist's" opinion.
This is part of why I approach internet people with a grain of salt (times 1.8 million grains). I take a quick tour through the generic Wordpress blog (don’t even get me started on how complicated Wordpress is to use versus how the final product ends up looking) and click on a post that contains the word “Poop.” Sounds like a winner! Poop is my favorite palindrome, and delights me even when it is used by a 5 year old to tell me what is lurking in his drawers.
Hey! He goes to a bar! So do I! He lives within walking distance! I wish I did! He likes bourbon! So do I! We’re practically the SAME EXACT PERSON! And then comes a story straight out of the annals of the “‘How I Met Your Mother’ Scriptwriting Playbook,” in which we are enlightened as to why you should never sleep with the bartender at your favorite bar. Never mind that we don’t have Neil Patrick Harris here to soften the blow of this awfully overplayed idea (no pun intended) and never mind that it’s not even HIS STORY. I’m still tolerating it.
While I’m handing out sanctimonious platitudes, let me clarify that I have always been one to support free-flow writing and even intentional misspellings. However, Strunk & White exist for a reason.
Midway through the fourth or fifth paragraph comes the following quote:
“…have come to the conclusion their are hookers out there just waiting to be saved by a mild-mannered accountant…”
Can you spot which word doesn’t belong? A cookie for the winner! It’s in my van…c’mon! I have puppies!
Their are hookers? THEIR ARE HOOKERS? WHOSE HOOKERS ARE THEY? WILL THEY NOTICE IF THEY’RE GONE FOR AWHILE UP TO MY APARTMENT? WHERE ARE THE HOOKER’S THEYS AT? I hate caps lock, but you get it. Idiocy.
And just like that, I’m back. Sarcastic, hating most of the population (particularly anyone who is overly passionate about…pretty much anything) and just generally looking for deplorability and debauchery to slide into. A big whopping thanks goes out to the moron over they’re who has dragged me painfully to the depths from which I came. Speaking of coming, well, insert a sex joke here (hear).
What’s the moral here, kids? If you don’t want to look like an idiot, spell words correctly and use proper grammar. Know your homophones and avoid homophobes. Take your vitamins and avoid hormones. And Social Distortion is never, ever, ever good music.
Welcome back, me.
