Hello, unwitting bystander, I am a murderer of the English language and my little slaughterhouse here is a shallow graveyard. The body count, so far, stands at a shocking 141 posts and 3 pages. I can’t stop.
Committing these grisly crimes against humanity is nothing short of a compulsion. It’s such a rush when a stray gawker wanders in and their jaw drops. They mill about, eyes popped out of their heads, repulsed and mesmerized by the stomach-churning remains. Participles dangle. Infinitives are split in ghastly, unnatural ways. Syntax is so butchered dental records couldn’t identify it. But the poor punctuation suffers the worst.
You want to know what’s truly disturbing? The mangling goes unchecked — a new victim turns up practically weekly — and no one thinks to stop me. Or even investigate. What kind of world is it where a person wielding terrible ideas and terribler grammar has ready access to publish buttons? Words have meaning and substance and purpose, you know. Shouldn’t a license or certification or a quiz, at least, be required before you’re allowed to shoot your mouth off publicly?
The truth is, I’ve been masquerading as a mild-mannered writer for decades. Ha, I’m no writer. I’m a dork with a thesaurus, aka an imposter. Surprise! Yet I’ve never been questioned. Never been asked for I.D. How can that be? I’m getting away with murder, dozens of them. What I do to language is disgraceful and wicked, but instead of begging forgiveness, I’m planning my next execution. So consider yourself warned.
I’ll bet you’re wondering, ‘where the Hell are the grammar police?’ Good question. Try Dunkin’ Donuts.
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