I Haven't Been Writing

 Those of you who know me IRL or follow the Always Drunk Facebook page know that last week we suddenly, sadly lost our beloved junior tuxedo cat, the Chongers.

July 9, 2009 - February 8, 2023

He was the best boy, and losing him just derailed me. I had so many things I was planning to write here, and just like that, they were gone, as if he took my thoughts with him when he passed. Losing a loved one will do that.

So I haven't been writing. I know that's not how a "real" writer is supposed to deal with sadness. We're supposed to write our way out, over, and through our troubles, use them and bend them to our will like the creative geniuses we are (or aspire to be). 

But sometimes tragedies don't look like inspiration, and troubles don't act like a muse. And sometimes I just want to be sad when something sad happens. So I haven't been writing.

Tomorrow I'll go to the vet - the same vet that saved the Chonger's life shortly after he joined our family in 2020 - and get a little box containing his ashes. And I'll be sad all over again that he left us so unexpectedly. I'll put in on the shelf with the other little boxes containing the ashes of other sweet kitties who left us. I know there are those who will think these boxes are a waste of money and shelf space. And that's OK. I couldn't argue the point if I wanted to. Because I haven't been writing.

This right here, this isn't really writing. This is me filling some space with some words, just to let you know I'm still here. I can't wait to get back to bringing you dumb little posts about monkeys or politics or pooping in a box, which is something else I haven't been doing - but I will. And I'll write about it. Whether you want to read it or not. Because that's what writers do. I guess.

Anyway, tonight I'm snuggling with my Siamese Kitten, who I never expected to outlive the Chongers, but here she is and here we are. Never assume you know how life is going to unfold and who will be there as it does. Love everyone you can. Don't be afraid to say it.

And don't be afraid to write it down.

(Totally Faked) Death of a Writer

 Drunkards, have you been following this whole Susan Meachen saga?

It's a page-turner, a barn-burner,
a WTF of epic proportions.

Susan Meachen was a writer. Is a writer. May yet be a writer, but probably not. Let me explain. 

You're forgiven for not having heard of her - she was an "indie" author, a self-published creator of e-romance novels. She ran an online group of supporters and fellow writers called The Ward. And in September 2020, Susan Meachen's daughter took to Facebook to announce that her mother had tragically committed suicide.

The small but close-knit online community of Meachen fans expressed shock and grief at her passing. There were tributes, a surge in book sales - and at least one GoFundMe to raise money for the loved ones she left behind. While she wasn't well known outside her niche audience, her life and premature death clearly made an impact on her friends and readers. It was all very sad.

It could have come straight from one of her books.
Or not. I don't read a lot of online romance novels.

And then, on January 2, Susan Meachen popped up on her own Facebook page and announced, "lol jk." 

BITCH WAS ALIVE THE WHOLE TIME.

Not only that, but dig this: Two months after she supposedly croaked, she set up a new account under a different name and...volunteered to take over running Susan Meachen's online community.

I don't get to use this meme often, so yay!

Ever since this turn of events - which likely is more compelling than anything she actually wrote - her friends and fans have been going crazy. Accusations, exclamations, recriminations. People were confused. People were pissed. And with good reason. Susan Meachen had left behind a community of people who genuinely cared about her, who genuinely grieved for her. Who genuinely donated in the memory of someone who straight-up took their money and let them believe she was dead.

If you want to read a well-written and thoughtful summation of the Susan Meachen story, please click here. Because the rest of this post is going to be petty.

So...I haven't ready any of Susan Meachen's "perfectly flawed romances," as she called them. But I've read a few excerpts that are available on Amazon. Guys...they're not good. 

The romance genre takes a lot of shit, because romance novels are typically formulaic, over- or under-written, and less than intellectually challenging. But like other genre fiction - horror, Western, science fiction - romance can be done in a way that is engaging and enjoyable. It requires an author who understands the conventions of the genre. It also requires a disciplined editor and a focused marketing effort.

As a self-published author, Susan Meachen arguably understood the romance genre. But she operated outside the structure of a publishing machine dedicated to churning out well-written, professional product. And it shows.

Here's the first paragraph of a book called "His Wicked Way":

This is not polished writing. This is a paragraph of exposition that could have been several pages of action and dialogue, with maybe a flashback thrown in and some mood-setting descriptions. And what the hell are "unknown riches"? Instead, the pages following this introduction are a steady stream of run-on sentences, flaccid passive voice, and statements that whoosh by without structure or pacing. 

I don't expect literary excellence from romance novels. I do expect writing that doesn't beat me over the head with mediocrity.

I don't mean to beat up on Susan Meachen. After all, during her lifetime (which apparently is ongoing) she managed to complete a number of novels, which outpaces my total output of zero novels. But Susan Meachen had a niche: She wrote pulpy stories for an audience that supported her. Much as I write silly blog posts for an audience that for some reason sticks with me. I don't pretend for a minute that her efforts were one bit less worthy than mine, and I give her full marks for exceeding my output of long-form stories.

I also would never denigrate or dismiss the struggles of another human to survive and thrive. If Susan Meachen was suffering, I feel for her. Even now, after she's callously deceived the people around her, I have sympathy for the situation she placed herself in (into which she placed herself...never mind). 

But Jaysus, she done fucked up. And I've seen no sign that she feels any remorse for her actions. 

My promise to you, Drunkards, is that I will never pretend to be dead. When I go, I'm all in. I expect the same from all of you. 

But I really want to try my hand at romance writing now. Maybe "The Wind Below." Or "Our Trembling Knees." Or "He Came Cummingly."

What do you think?

Journey to the Center of the Meme

Today I saw an evergreen social media post entitled “Did You Know These Things Had Names?”

It’s one of those internet chestnuts that have been floating around for years with no attribution to an original source. Which is a terribly annoying paradox of the internet, namely, the more popular and universal (and memefied) an image or text becomes, the less likely it is that its creator will ever receive proper credit. “We love this, it belongs to the world now,” say millions of people (cough, Boomers), who in any other context would swear they oppose socialism, as they click the Share button on Facebook. And off it goes, taking the first step on a journey to the de facto public domain.

As a would-be writer, I find the memefication process both frustrating and somewhat inspirational. Writers, artists, photographers - anyone who falls under the 21st-century umbrella of “content creators” - all want to be recognized for their work. It’s partly an ego thing, but it’s also very much a money thing. Let’s face it, even when John Lennon wrote “Imagine no possessions, it’s easy if you try,” he backed it up with an ironclad copyright. If his lyrics were to go the way of “Amazing Grace” or “Moonlight Bay,” Yoko Ono would find herself possessing bupkus. And Hell hath no fury like an Ono screwed out of her piece of John’s legacy.

That’s the money part. The ego part is simply this: Most anyone who creates wants their creations to be seen, and by as many folks as possible. There might be a million people who claim to have created the “You Had One Job” meme. But somewhere out there is the person who actually did - and even though they’re absolutely anonymous, they see their creation shared in a thousand different variations a thousand times a year. That’s got to be a rush. It’s slightly less notable than knowing you’re the babysitter who first read a ghost story to little Stevie King, but it’s pretty cool nonetheless.

With that in mind, here is the unattributed “Did You Know These Things Had Names?” meme:

After I screenshotted this bad boy, I decided I would try to trace it to its source. As this particular meme contains more words and therefore presumably required more research to create, I figured there had to be a recognizable author attached to it somewhere. So I went a-digging.

The earliest version of the “hey, here are some funny names for obscure things” trope that I could find via Google was from 2014, and that was a Buzzfeed listicle by Dave Stopera. Which suggested two things: One, that it almost certainly didn’t originate with him; and two, that it was probably a Reddit thread at some earlier point.

A Reddit search told me, much to my surprise, that this list of words apparently wasn’t an aggregation of other people’s fun facts that Dave claimed as his own. Huh. So I kept looking.

A bit more digging led me to a link to a 2019 article from Reader’s Digest Canada (which is an actual thing) called “18 Things You Never Knew Actually Had Names.” It was attributed to “Emily DiNuzzo, with files from Mitchell Symons from the book The Weird World of Wonders.” And it consisted of a list of words that more or less mirrored the meme.

Interesting (or maybe not) aside: Emily’s article got around, also appearing in the American, Australian, and Asian editions of Reader’s Digest. But the Canadian website is the only one that actually attributes the contents to Mitchell Symons. Even a worldwide legacy publication like Reader’s Digest has contributed wilfully to the memefication phenomenon. 

Ask your parents about Reader's Digest,
Drunkards under 40.

In any event, this was a clue! So…who is this Mitchell Symons? Turns out that was an easy Google. He’s a British writer who worked for the BBC, wrote a column for the Daily Express, and wrote questions for the first UK version of Trivial Pursuit. He’s also written a slew of books in the “amusing but useless knowledge” genre, including Where Do Nudists Keep Their Hankies?, How Much Poo Does an Elephant Do?, and Why Do Farts Smell Like Rotten Eggs? Sort of like the “Imponderables” books by Dave Feldman (Do Penguins Have Knees, etc.), only with weird British humor.

Answering this question is outside
the scope of this post, sorry.

Symons also wrote a book called There Are Tittles in This Title, also known as The Weird World of Words (note to Reader’s Digest: not The Weird World of Wonders). Now, I haven’t read or even laid eyes on this book, but it’s well represented on booksellers’ websites from Amazon to Goodreads. And nearly all of them feature the same promotional blurb to describe its contents, which includes the phrase “useful lists of things you never knew had names.”

Without actually reading the book, I can’t say definitively that those “useful lists” form the basis of the meme. But since Emily DiNuzzo copped to using Mitchell Symons’ book (albeit with a bastardized title) as a source, and since online listings for that book seem to describe the meme to a T, I’m going to say pretty confidently that this popular list of obscure words is in fact the work of Mitchell Symons. And I’m here to give him credit for what has up to now been an anonymous bit of internet content.

Really, was that so difficult? OK, it was a borderline obsessive search that few, if any, other people would bother with before smashing the Share button. But I feel good that I’ve helped to de-anonymize a single meme.

The De-Anonymizer is on the case.

Unless I’m wrong, in which case I’m contributing to the internet’s other main problem, which is gross misinformation confidently put out as true.

But that’s a topic for another day.

Let's Just Give This Nonsense Another Try

 Happy 2023!

In keeping with the situation, I'm sure.

Drunkards, I haven't posted here in almost a year and a half, and I'm really, really sorry about that. Surely I'm more sorry I haven't written a post than you are that you haven't read a post. I get that. 

But because I should care more about whether I'm writing than about who might possibly read my words, I need to get back at it. And here in the year of our arbitrary timekeeping mechanism 2023, I'm going to try.

To start off, just a brief anecdote. 

My Precocious Daughter, who was in, I think, the fourth grade when I started this blog, graduated from high school third in her class and is now a graduate student in a Very Large City. I'm so freaking proud of her, you guys, and I miss having her around. She's been home for the holidays, which has been wonderful. (More on me being an empty nester in a future post.)

Lol, the eggs have long since fled this nest, though.

When she got here, shortly before Christmas, she still had one final paper to write, which she banged out over a couple of days, with all the frenzied energy of a graduate student who has left their final paper to the very last moment. Although I never went to grad school, I remember the energy required to make those deadlines as an undergrad. I remember actually having that energy. Wild.

Anyway, although PDaughter is working on a degree in High-Tech Whizbang Stuff (the actual name in the catalog, I believe), she also is taking film classes, being a film junkie of the highest order. Her final paper was in this area. She let me read it when it was finished.

Damn.

My kid can write.

Like, she's a better writer than I am.

The paper was a review of a movie I feel confident few of you have seen, by a director I feel confident few of you are familiar with, in the context of a critical framework I feel few of you have considered. I'm not being condescending to any of you amazing readers, I'm just saying that this paper was...niche. But PDaughter nailed it, and it was interesting and informative even to me, who felt pretty much in over her head while reading it.

I am delighted that my kid is a talented writer. I'm also fucking mortified that I've allowed age and stress and discouragement and alcohol to turn me away from the one thing in my life that I've ever been good at. 

Other than composing for the theremin.
Wait, that wasn't me.

So I'm going to give this blogging thing another shot. Please be patient if I start off slowly. There might even be a few Best Of posts while I figure out if I'm capable of reconnecting to my writerly self.

Oh, and there may be poetry. It's the only thing I've written on a semi-regular basis over the last 18 months. (The one I've linked to is much older than that, however.)

And monkeys. Because I still love monkeys.

And I love all of you. Let's do this.

Advice to a Failed Blogger

 The biggest news story of the week, obviously, is the Former Guy's blog shutting down.

Obviously.

The absolute spate of news outlets covering the demise of the "From the Desk of Donald J. Trump" feature of TFG's website are equivalent to BuzzFeed's never-ending series of listicles about "Celebrities You Forgot Were Couples Back in the Day." My initial reaction - "Why yes, I had forgotten that Keifer Sutherland and Julia Roberts once were engaged and had the same hairstyle" - almost immediately gives way to "Why am I reading this when I could be doing something I care about, like sleeping or trimming my cloven pinkie toenails?"

Like apparently the vast majority of humanity, I didn't actually visit Trump's blog myself. I'd read screenshots of his brief, badly written "posts" on Twitter, along with the comment threads imploring the screenshotters not to "give him air." This was a trifling and dull portion of my daily social media consumption, and now that it's come to an end after 29 days, I neither mourn it nor miss it.

On the other hand, why pass up an opportunity
to use this absolute classic of a photo?

Apparently "From the Desk of..." was getting fewer than 15,000 interactions a day, which isn't surprising, since it was a static series of short, bloviating proclamations rather than a true platform that allowed engagement with supporters, detractors, trolls, bots, or any of Dan Scavino's 600 shadow accounts.

I don't think this has the force of law behind it, but without
a retweet from Kayleigh McEnany, HOW DO WE KNOW?

Nonetheless, 15,000 eyeballs, while a paltry number compared to, say, almost any other public figure on the planet, are still considerably more than I get here in my little corner of the internet. Yet unlike the twice-impeached former occupant of the White House bathroom, I've been here for more than 10 years and I'm not letting a little thing like being roundly ignored by vast numbers of people bruise my ego to the point of giving up. 

Still, would it kill you to tell your friends?

That combination of longevity and self-delusion, I think, makes me qualified to advise any number of former POTUSes on running a blog that, if not successful, at least continues to exist. Granted, this is after the fact. But if we're to believe spokesman Jason Miller, aka the violent, cheating drugger of women who looks disconcertingly like a Tootsie Pop with some schmutz on it, the 86ing of "From the Desk of..." is merely clearing the way for a new, bigger, bolder, and totally not imaginary future Trump platform.  

With that in mind, I hereby appoint myself Definitely Official Blogospherical Advisor to the One-Term Guy. And here, based on an in-depth analysis of his previous online activity that lasted, like, at least a half a cup of coffee, is my critique and advice for running a blog when you're a rando that nobody cares about:

1. Use more GIFs. TFG's blog posts haven't disappeared; they've just been absorbed into the "News" section of his website, such that "news" to actual factual content is now what "non-dairy topping" is to actual whipped cream. That means I've been able to review his past posts, and honestly, they're pretty lacking in visual interest. Where are the memes? The amusing photoshopped images? For corn's sake, where are the GIFs? Whether you say "giff" or "jiff" (or, as I suspect, "fig"), you need to use more of them. Here's one of my favorites:

2. Play up the humor. While sarcasm and satire are worthy literary devices, there's such a thing as being too subtle. You need more laff-out-loud lines like this to keep readers coming back.

That's gold, I tell you. And now let's combine it with #1 above to create a truly memorable moment:

3. Titles are important. Put some thought into how you name their posts. A catchy title can mean the difference between boffo engagements and utter apathy. I mean, look at this series of posts:

Bo-ring. A good title is punchy and memorable and most important, reflects the content of the post itself. For instance, I would give a post like this...

...an eyeball-grabbing headline like "I Made Soup Out of Some Words!" or "This One Simple Trick to Dupe the Lowest Common Denominator of Your Base" or "You Should Stop Right Now and Read This Desperate Cry for Relevance from a Deluded Old Man." See how much better that works?

4. More guest posts. I know that the glamor and prestige of blogging can make it seem that you're the center of the universe. But it pays to sometimes share the spotlight, to provide novelty and a fresh perspective to your readers. Guest posts do just that, and they also expose you to fans of your guest. Win-win! I suggest featuring the comedy stylings of this guy, who does hilarious videos from the clubhouse of a local apartment complex while pretending to be on mountains of cocaine:

Fair warning: This guy will charge you five hundred smackers for his funny content. But a billionaire blogger can easily afford that, right?

5. Don't get discouraged. There will be many times when you'll want to give up on the blogging game. You'll look at your underwhelming numbers and wonder why you bother. You'll be convinced that no one cares what you say, or that people who used to say they were your staunch supporters actually consider you a laughing stock and wish you would go away. Don't you give in to your discouragement. Keep on believing in yourself, even if you're literally the only person who does. Remember that you're capable of creating masterpieces like this:

Some writers have to wait years for their talent to be recognized. Don't forget that Vincent Van Gogh was dead before anyone realized that he was an artistic genius. I'm not saying that's a route you should try. But remember that the internet is forever, and if that's how long it takes for people to give you your due, then so be it. Keep cranking out that content, even if it's criticized, derided, or more likely ignored, and let posterity render the judgment you deserve. Because it will.

You're welcome. And to conclude, here's a picture of the 1990s throwing up on Keifer and Julia.

Like, share, and comment blah blah blah.

Homeowner Homeowner, Sell Me Your Home

 Ah, the letter to the homeowner: That charming tradition whereby a prospective buyer attempts to sweeten their monetary offer on a house by penning a heartfelt note designed to elicit warm feelings and/or cold, hard guilt from the seller.

In a normal housing market, the letter to the homeowner is intended to help the seller decide between two interested parties; a bonus gesture designed to tip the balance in favor of the more "deserving" buyer. But in today's incendiary real estate environment, the letter has become not only de rigueur, but a critically important part of the buyer's offer. Nowadays, just as no self-respecting parent-to-be would think of revealing their embryo's gender without a catered banquet and a fusillade of exploding color-coded watermelons, in 2021 no prospective homeowner would simply dash off a few sentences about how the period-perfect kitchen reminds them of baking kringles with their Aunt Daisy in the mid-1980s. Bo-ring.

To assist loyal readers who may be struggling to avoid losing out on the perfect house to some wanker with a sob story for the 47th time, we hereby present the following template suggestions to help craft a persuasive, compelling, and not-quite-legally-gaslighting letter.

***

...We understand that you may have higher offers. But we anticipate that you, just as we do, value other things more highly than mere dollar amounts. Or credit scores. Or active bankruptcy cases. Or orders of garnishment. Things like...hope. 

***

...When we saw the upstairs bonus room with its locking separate entrance and wire-embedded safety glass, we knew we had found the perfect home for our little Oswald, one that we would love and the state would sign off on.

***

...We love this house, and we know our Belgian Malinois, Mr. Peppers, will love it too. Mr. Peppers is 18 and has lived in a 2x3' metal crate in our small apartment since he was a puppy. His hips are bad and his emphysema has recently gotten worse. We've tried to make his life as pleasant and comfortable as possible, but with no outdoor space of our own, we've had to resort to carrying him to the roof our building in a duffel bag twice a week to listen to the air-conditioning units run. Having a beautiful yard like yours to romp in would let Mr. Peppers be truly happy in his brief time left on Earth.

***

...For the first time in 17 years, my wife wakes up with a smile on her face thinking about the possibility of living in your lovely home. She's virtually stopped writing poetry about flesh-eating bacteria and is taking the first delicate, halting steps toward using indoor plumbing again. I truly believe that if we were given the privilege of buying your house, she might even take the pins out of the voodoo doll of herself that she keeps in the mailbox. And all thanks to what we presume will be your generous acceptance of our offer.

***

...Our search for a home has been long and difficult. We've been living on a broken pallet behind the Dollar General since being evicted from our sub-sub-sublet in the bad part of town. Our deep-seated faith has helped us endure, however, and we hope that soon we'll be able to take our glow-in-the-dark crucifix out of the plastic trash bag that holds all our possessions and hang it proudly in our (oops not yet, haha) new home. We remain, hopefully, yours sincerely...

***

...Your home truly spoke to us. Specifically, the voice behind the dining room wall that told us none other would move in to this place and survive a single cycle of the moon before the payment of the ancient blood debt. Therefore we feel that our offer of $22,000 below asking price is both fair and generous. We are eagerly awaiting your response.

***

...This house deserves to be filled with the laughter of children. Our children. Not the misbegotten hellspawn of the other bidders, who we're sure are lovely people when they're not allegedly running illegal sweatshops or printing counterfeit euros on the backs of their own innocent babes, activities of whose knowledge the law might construe as complicity should you sell your house to them. 

***

...After being the low bidder on 23 homes in the last three months, we were beginning to lose hope. Attached please find candid before-and-after photos of our family upon making our offer on your house. I assure you the gallows, while homemade, was fully functional. Also note the smiles and tears of relief in the "after" photo. The children can finally sleep soundly at night. Please let us know if we can provide further information. 

***

...and please rest assured that accepting our offer will not only give a hard-working family a shot at the American dream, it will also result in the prompt release of your grandmother at the previously agreed-upon location. Thank you for reading our letter.

Happy house hunting. May all your pony walls be non-load-bearing.

I know, I know, I know.

I haven't posted in almost three months.

I'm a slug.

Pictured: Me.

Thanks to those who have reached out, inquired about my well being, bitched at me. All responses are appreciated.

Here's what's been going on:

Precocious Daughter is now a college freshman. She lives on campus. Yes, she's only 20 minutes away, and yes, she visits at least once a week ("visits" meaning "comes over to be fed and steal any household cleaning products she doesn't want to buy herself"). But still, my only spawn is now an adult college student, and our relationship has fundamentally changed forever. Possibly that's put me in a new headspace, I don't know.

I've got a pretty big new freelance gig. I'm ghost-writing a book for a former employer. I'm stoked to be a part of it, I appreciate the income, and I'm not gonna lie, it's a resume-booster for me.

I've been mulling a shift to a freelance career. There are external reasons for this (message me), but at this stage of my life, without a child to support or a mortgage to pay, it feels more right to me than it has at other stages. Starting a freelance career when almost all of your writing/editing credits are anonymous corporate work is hard, you guys. I'm working on it.

I'm intensely missing the experience of writing and copy-editing for the amazing Knot So Subtle blog. I'd give anything to turn back the clock and take a more active role in keeping it going. I am trying to contact Tammy Hough, founder and chief editor, but no luck so far. I'd jump at the chance to revive it or to participate in the launch of a similarly exceptional women's blog. Let me know if you hear anything.

Finally, I've been doubting if it's worth writing here. The feedback I've received from many of you is inspiring and deeply appreciated. I'm prepared to let this be my legacy (until I can't afford Internet service any more). It doesn't appear that a Powerball win is in my future, so I'm willing to keep posting nonsense to whoever wants to read nonsense.

Love you all.

P.S. Can I crowdfund a dollar amount equal to winning Powerball? Asking for a friend.

Verb Tense, It's A Thing, And Other Frustrations

I'm supposed to be teaching a technical writing course at my IRL job.

Great. I've done a lot of training over the course of my career (now in its 15th decade, or maybe it just feels that way). I do technical writing/editing every damn day.

I got this.

Is that a participle I hear dangling?

I've basically got the entire course mapped out in my head. All I have to do say out loud the internal monologue I give daily while I'm editing other people's reports. I pretty much know it by heart.

On the other hand, that's maybe not such a great idea.

I'm pretty sure my co-workers know when I'm having a particularly frustrating time wading through a piece of technical writing one of them produced. Just as I have no problem humming and even singing out loud when I'm in a good mood, I have an entire verbal repertoire to express vexation, ranging from unintelligible grunts to muttered strings of profanity that would make Popeye proud.

Arf arf arf, stick a hot poker up yer rectum,
Bluto, arf arf arf.

I AM A DELIGHT TO WORK WITH, PEOPLE.

Anyway, if I were to produce a training script from the things I say to myself (and occasionally murmur, not exactly under my breath then a few feet above and beyond the threshold of hearing), it might not pass muster with HR.

It would be awesome af, however, and probably super-entertaining. And I'll bet my students would never forget Chuck's Rules of Not Writing Like a Third-Grade Troglodyte When You're Supposed to Be a Grown-Ass College Graduate.

Here goes.

1. Hello, class. I wrote my first book in the third grade. It was about snakes. It wasn't particularly well researched, and the language was not especially nuanced. Yet it contained fewer grammatical errors than the average so-called professional report by an apparently educated and experienced scientist that crosses my desk every goddamn day. Let's talk about how the fuck that can possibly be.

2. First of all, the reports we produce in this company are at least 65% boilerplate language that should never change. I find it amazing, therefore, that so many of you are inspired to delete the perfectly structured template verbiage and replace it with six sentences in a row that begin "The property was..."

3. "Is" and "are" have two distinct and different purposes in the English language. One property perhaps "is" located adjacent to another. Several properties "are" located adjacent to another. The verb "to be" is, you know, foundational to our system of grammar. How is this so fucking difficult that you literally never get it right?

4. Look, you dumb shit, you can't simply sprinkle commas and semi-colons into your sentences as if they were merely two different colors of confetti. WORDS ARE NOT CONFETTI. Jeez. How the hell is it that I understand the function of semi-colons to separate compound clauses and/or indicate inequal yet related grammatically complete thoughts, but you don't, with your fancy-ass degree in something sciency/engineeringy?

5. FUCK YOUR SPLIT INFINITIVES ALL TO GODDAMN HELL. Honestly.

6. Perhaps this is a bit political, but I don't believe that corporations are people. So please....for fuck's sake...don't say "ABC Co. services their customers," or "BigAss LLC installs their products..." Companies, corporations, organizations are "it." Fuck Citizens United, the linguistic purists of America agree that a company is a goddamn "it." If you write, "The Client says they provide..." I'm gonna jump down your throat with a fucking dictionary. Think about it, OK?

7. How DARE you begin a sentence with a numeral? "6 drums are located"? REALLY? "Six." The word is SIX. God. Damn.

8. OK, this. This makes me feel actually murderous. WHO THE HELL taught you to write "five-feet" or "two-miles"? I want to know who this person so I can wrap an actual garrote around his or her motherfucking neck. If I had a nickel for every misbegotten hyphen I had to delete, I'd live in Jamaica instead of in a North Texas suburb correcting your lame-ass mistakes.

9. This entry is directed to one specific person whose reports I'm obliged to edit weekly. If something - a drum, a piece of equipment, a goddamn chicken - is located in the central portion of your site, it's located in the central portion of your site. Not "near the central portion." Not "along the central portion." Not "by the central portion." And I swear to JF Christ that I will die of a heart attack changing your dumb-ass attempts to write it any other way.

10. Listen up, you assholes: Acronyms are spelled out once and parenthetically defined, after which the acronyms are employed EXCLUSIVELY.  The presiding environmental entity in the State of Texas is the Texas Commission on Environmental Quality (TCEQ). If you insist on spelling it out - and writing the goddamn acronym - at multiple points in your report, I will eat your skull in lieu of popcorn at my next movie night. GOT IT?

So yeah. That's my average day working with purportedly educated scientists.

My teenage daughter knows more about the basics of sentence construction than they do.

I hope they thrive under the Trump presidency. Meanwhile, we'll be readying our places as members of the tribe of Holy Fuck, At Least We Respect the Foundational Knowledge of Our Civilization.

Cheers, Drunkards. Write well. It's the best thing, I promise.

Please Read This Rejected Nonsense

If you follow my Facebook page for this blog, you know that I recently submitted a piece to hip, cool comedy website McSweeey's Internet Tendency. And it was rejected.

But you guys, it was rejected really nicely. With a brief, concise, but quite constructive explanation.

I literally have never felt so positive about a rejection, you guys.

If you don't currently follow McSweeney's Internet Tendency, you totally should. It's chock-full of smart, satirical, arch, hip humor that somehow manages to be not cloying and precious more than 80% of the time.

Anyway, whereas McSweeney's declined to publish my piece, I will now post it here on my little old blog.

I thought it was funny. I hope you do, too. If you don't, I'm probably going to ignore you, because how else can I justify continuing to write? Right?

*****

On the Reason I Was Unable to Complete My Humorous Article Conflating the Speech Patterns of Holden Caulfield and Donald J. Trump

(An Unpublished Submission to McSweeney's Internet Tendency)

Dear McSweeney’s:

First, I think you’re terrific. I really do. A lot of internet sites, they’re phony, you know? They want you to think they’re smart and funny and all. But when you look at ‘em close - and I mean really goddamn close, not just with one eye or when you’re thinking about the ballgame or the stock market or something - but really good and close, they’re phony. Not good. But I like you, McSweeney’s. And I mean that. I never lie about things like that.

Here’s the thing. I wanted to write something for you. That’s what I started out to do. Write something, send it in. Maybe you would publish it or maybe you wouldn’t, I don’t know. It’s your lousy website, you know?

What I wanted to do - what I was trying to do - was come up with this funny piece about Holden Caulfield and Donald Trump. You know? Like, “who said it? Holden or Trump?” I’ve seen things like that on McSweeney’s before. And they made me laugh. Not always. I mean, Christ, I don’t just go around laughing my head off at everything I read. I have standards..

So anyway, I thought I’d give it my best shot. I do consider myself a pretty smart person. I figured I could write something for McSweeney’s. I mean, you look at some of the people who write for McSweeney’s every day. Every day. Like that’s all they’ve got to live for is seeing their name on some stupid article on the internet. Losers. But I thought, hey, I’m a smart guy, and if those guys can do it I sure as hell can. So I gave it my best shot.

This is where is gets a little screwy. I was writing - and you know, I write everything down in a notebook I keep with me. I write in it daily, almost every day, without fail. I get off on words, I guess you could say. And in case you didn’t know, I have the best words. Ask anyone.

So I’m writing. And I’m writing, you know, Holden Caulfield would say this, and Donald Trump would say that. And it’s funny, right? It’s funny goddamn schtick. I spent a lot of time on it, and I thought it was good. I thought it was pretty beautiful, in fact. I imagined that all my friends would read it and laugh like it was just about the funniest damn thing they ever saw. Not that I need my friends to do that. I’m pretty sure I don’t have any friends who read McSweeney’s, anyway.

But you won’t believe what happened next. I can hardly believe it, and it happened to me. I’m going along, writing to beat the devil, and I stop to read back what I’ve written. That’s what you do. Probably you don’t know this, but that’s what writers do. And I’ll be damned if I couldn’t figure out who I’d meant to say what. Like, to my mind there was no difference between what was supposed to be Holden’s words and what was Don’s. I swear to God, there was no difference at all. Sad.

What it was, see, I didn’t know what to do. As I said, it was supposed to be funny, but now it seemed sorta creepy, me not knowing who was supposed to have said the things they said, you know? It was weird. I was kind of mad, if you want to know the truth. Here it was supposed to be funny, but instead it went off the rails and everything.

Anyway, long story short, I went out instead and had a few drinks and hired a prostitute.

And that, McSweeney’s, is why I didn’t finish my article like I meant to. Maybe I’ll try again in a few days. Maybe, I don’t know. I’m sure I will. And you know what? It will be goddamn tremendous.

With love and squalor,

Chuck Baudelaire

Three Hundred Fifty-Five Days and Counting

So I haven't posted lately.

Turns out 2017 is not yet appreciably less difficult than 2016.

It's gonna be a long year.

First there's the whole thing about Donald Trump being inaugurated as President of the Goddamn United States in just 10 days. That's a problem for me. Even without the whole Meryl Streep brouhaha.

I love her, political views be damned.

Then there's the fact that right now I'm filled with anger that I'm not sure I can even define. I feel as if I'm a disappointment to myself, to my daughter, to my co-workers, and that makes me angry, at them and at myself. I can't really explain it. But 2017 has started off as a bit of an emotional quagmire for me.

Also, I'm locked in a battle between hope and despair. I suppose I'm not alone in that battle. I'll bet lots of you reading this are struggling with the same conflicting emotions. You're not alone, people. I understand. I don't have any advice to give about how to choose one over the other. Do you? If you do, I'd love to hear it. If you don't...I get it. Really.

Finally, I feel as if I'm slowly strangling to death the one gift I've been given in my life...the ability to write. My head is so full of ideas these days, but I can't translate them into written words. I'm in sort of a panic over this. What if the ability never comes back? What if I'm doomed to entertain all of my tortured, complex thoughts within me forever, and never drag them onto the written page where they can be shared, and possibly tamed? I wish I could  regain the marvelous affinity for the written word that so overwhelmed me when I was younger. I hope it returns. I hope I'm not destined to be one of those dull people who never express themselves but only yearn to be heard, to no avail, their entire lives.

If you have any ideas, I'd love to hear them.

So yeah...2017 is presenting some challenges. It's not as if we've lost David Bowie all over again, but still I'm feeling put upon by this new year already. 

If only I had something to write about, I'd be so happy.

Share if you have any ideas. I'd be happy to write for you.

Men Can Be C*nts, Too

Ah, the social media are aflame with indignation.

No, Mr. Vice President. Indignant, not hold-me-back-Imma-kill-him
enraged. Dial it back.

And what is today's source of approbation and feather-ruffling?

It's this charming article on some website you never heard of by some guy you never heard of entitled "Why I'll Never Date a Feminist."

Here's the link, if you want to experience several mildly revolted chuckles.

Yes, it's another piece bashing feminism, written by someone who manifestly has no clue what feminism is but has decided it must be the key to his inability to have a fulfilling romantic relationship with a woman, it simply must be.

I told her she was smart for a chick, and now
she's mad. Goddamn feminazis, amiright?

That's why the author chose the provocative, aspirational title "Why I'll Never Date a Feminist" instead of the infinitely more accurate "Why Strong, Independent Women Aren't Attracted to Me After Hearing Two Minutes of My Uninformed Blather About How Strong, Independent Women Are the Devil."

Simply put, this article contains so much misinformation, so many tired stereotypes, and such a high level of casual misogyny that I seriously combed the website that published it to make sure I wasn't being duped by an unusually convincing satire page. Nope, it's for reals, although it's the kind of website that puts up a poll like this one:

This makes the classic leading question
"Have you stopped beating your wife?" seem
nuanced in comparison.

Anyway, I'm just going to thoroughly trash all this guy's angry, creepy assertions about feminism and, really, women in general. Because after all, people who berate feminists are essentially publicly casting their vote for a feminine ideal that is submissive, weak, and inherently inferior.

By the way, at this point I don't give a damn if you agree with me or not. My dander is up, people. So up.

You guys. I think I finally found the tattoo I want.

Let's dig into this dude's clueless rant, shall we?

If you look for a reason to hate men, chances are you’re going to find it.
Boom. Opening line. The old "feminists hate men" canard. Truth bomb #1: Feminism has nothing to do with hating men. I suppose there are women who identify as feminists who "hate" men. But feminism didn't teach them that. Truth bomb #2: Feminism has NOTHING TO DO WITH MEN. It's about empowering women. Which includes not allowing men to make every damn thing about them. That's not how equality works.

Men’s Rights Activists have taken flight with a new philosophy called "Red Pill" which aims to point out how derogatory, hypocritical and vindictive third-wave feminists can be.
Ah, yes. "Men's Rights." The "All Lives Matter" of gender politics: Let's pretend that when people whose rights have been violated demand their rights, our rights have been violated EVEN WORSE. I wonder if feminists won't date you because you consider them derogatory, hypocritical, and vindictive. Naaaah, must be because we really are derogatory, hypocritical, and vindictive. Le sigh.

By the way, click on that Red Pill subreddit link at your own risk. It probably won't make you hate men, but it will make you question why angry, disrespectful tools are given free reign on the Internet.

Women are more likely to graduate college, they live longer, are less likely to die in the workplace, less likely to go to prison and extremely less likely to die in war-time combat.
All that sounds pretty pro-woman, right? Go Team She! Until you realize that this sentence is presented a evidence that "[the justice system] fails men." Again, these are all positives (with the exception of the combat statistic, because until earlier this year military women weren't allowed to have active combat roles), which have been turned into negatives because we're succeeding in all these areas for the sole purpose of emasculating men. Obviously women get no intrinsic reward from success; all that matters is outdoing those icky men.

It's soooooo obvious.

People who are more loyal to their gender and not their significant other don’t make good partners.
I have no clue what this even fucking means. "People"? Who the hell are these "people"? This person (who is a feminist, have I not made that clear?) is loyal to people who are intelligent, kind, supportive, and loving. Those traits are by no means exclusive to any gender identity. Neither is being shallow, bitter, and ass-faced dumb. By the way, the writer spends his entire article being "loyal" to his own gender. What's that about you "rejecting" feminists? Riiiiight.

It’s evident that gender politics is hurting our culture. More marriages are failing and women are reporting that they’re unhappier now than ever.

Oh, marriages are failing because of gender politics! Of course! It has nothing to do with both men and women repudiating the outdated notion that marriage is forever, no matter how miserable you are. Nothing to do with both men and women realizing that they can be independent and self-sustaining. Nothing at all to do with the fact that divorce rates have actually been steady-to-declining for years now, you lie-spreading asshole. And as for women being unhappier than ever? Speaking anecdotally, I'm a) happier than I've been in many years and b) recently divorced.

Maybe one day, men and women will stop trying to eliminate the lines between us and realize it’s the differences between the sexes that make romance, family and love an enjoyable experience.
And we finish with the classic fallback myth about feminists: That we want men and women to be the same. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. I don't want us to be the same. I don't want to have a penis, and I sure as hell don't want Drummer Boy to have a vagina. I don't want to look like a man, talk like a man, pee like a man, because I'm not a man. I'm a woman. And I'm a feminist. And I love being with a man, in all his sweaty, ball-scratching glory. I love being with my man specifically, because he's an amazingly good person who happens to have naughty bits that complement mine. I think everyone deserves an amazingly good person with whom they're romantically and sexually compatible.

And I think no one should be with a hate-filled jackhole who blames an entire gender for his/her own feelings of insecurity and fear. Not cool, random writer of this ridiculous article.

Your mileage may vary. But this feminist thinks men and women who aren't complete assholes are awesome people.

You Supply the Topic, I'll Supply the Moderately Entertaining Post

You guys, I've made a new blogger friend. She is The Booklynite, and she's like my twin, if I were younger, prettier, more exotic, and lived in Brooklyn.

Uncanny, right?

You should check out her blog because it's smart and funny and has a lot of swearing. I know you guys like that stuff. Yet you still come here regularly. It must be the swearing.

I really am pretty good at it, goddammit.

The Booklynite and I have exchanged a few emails, and she has very kindly invited me to write a guest post on her blog. (Which, again, you should totally check out.) I'm psyched. No one has ever asked me to write a guest post. Well, now the Booklynite has, so all y'all can go fuck yourselves.

I mean that with so much love.

Here's the thing. I don't know what to write about. I want it to be something good. I want it to be something her readers will appreciate, as well as something that will make my loyal Drunkards wander over and take a look. I want it to be funny, because funny is basically all I've got.

On the other hand...come over here...a little closer...let me let you in on a secret...

*I don't necessarily want to give her my A stuff, because that shit is in short supply and if I accidentally write something brilliant, I want to be here and not there*

Now back off, you're too close.

Go away, kid, you bother me.

For that reason, and in a bald-faced attempt to engage my 12 readers, I'm going to let you all choose the topic of my post for The Booklynite. I'll write about almost anything: monkeys, squirrels, TV, octopuses, the election, sloths, marmots, Donald Trump, guinea pigs...you name it, I'll lay down some marginally literate and borderline humorous prose. I'll pick the topic I like best and run with it. And give you a shout-out, of course. I try to give people credit, even when I'm stealing their ideas.

Let me know in the comments what you think I should write about. I'll go there, I swear.

In the meantime, do check out The Booklynite. Because she was nice enough to stalk me, and I want to return the favor.

Ideas, people. Let's hear 'em.