Monday, January 9, 2017

Wrap Me in Bubble Wrap and "I'm With Her" Signs

It’s Monday in America and the left is outraged. The cause of this outpouring of outrage is people like me. One of the left's little pet causes is making sure that disabled people's feeling's are always bathed in happy sunshine. I guess they think our lives are horrible without their constant reminders of how "beautiful" and "perfect just the way we are" we are. Meryl Streep's speech at the Golden Globes gave the left another chance to remember how angry they were that Trump had the unmitigated gall to mock a disabled person. A disabled person of all people! It gave them an opportunity to engage in more self congratulatory back slapping about how open minded they are about disabilities compared to their Neanderthal counterparts. It's just so unbearably disgusting for someone to make a rude comment to a disabled person! Wow! According to the pity drenched left, mocking a non disabled person, while it's in poor taste, can be forgiven because normal people have the capacity to fight back. The outrage over Trumps derogatory comments towards Ted Cruz’s wife never reached the same level of indignation as the disabled reporter incident because she's a normal looking, middle aged woman. She does not matter.
We, the disabled community matter to the left because they view us as weak, pathetic little people whose fragile egos must be protected at all costs. To pick on a disabled person is to pick on someone that is clearly beneath you. And that’s just not right! Right?
What the left doesn't understand is that the term ableist applies not only to the bullies who demean us by calling us names and mocking us (and are frightened by how oddly attracted they are to us), but also to those who demean us by thinking we're so pathetic that the tiniest bit of shade thrown our direction must be rebuffed with the most full throated outcry imaginable.
This idea that disabled people are so weak that we can't withstand stupid jokes is utterly repulsive to me. I would rather someone call me names than shower me with pity and wrap me in bubble wrap. At least if someone makes fun of me, I have a chance of winning their respect by hurling grossly inappropriate insults right back. When someone thinks you’re so pathetic that a dumb joke made by an orange, ignorant blob will shatter all the self worth you’ve managed to pile up over the years, there's no way to earn their respect. You will always be nothing more than a pathetic sob story.
You know what I, a person who is deaf, has a facial disorder, and went through over 15 surgeries, did when Trump mocked the disabled woman? I laughed. I fucking laughed. Because Donald J. Trump is an idiot.
The “empathetic” left needs to stop coddling us like we’ll break at the slightest touch. We’re stronger than they think we are.

Saturday, January 7, 2017

Improve Your Writing with Donald Trump

As a writer that has only the slimmest grasp of the English I'm always trying to find ways to improve my prose. One of the best ways to understand what makes a clear, well constructed sentence is to fix bad ones. But where does one go for a consistent source of bad writing? Sure, there will be the occasional slip up in the local newspaper and some novels will have snippets of broken prose where I can only assume the editor was drunk, but there is nowhere to turn for consistently flawed writing. So I, in flushed desperation, turned to grammar books and style guides, but the exercises within are always, without fail, mind numbingly dry. (One exception: The Curious Case of the Misplaced Modifier) It seemed that all hope was lost. It simply wasn't possible to find a consistent and enjoyable source of editing exercises. Until, standing on the presidential podium, hairpiece wafting in the wind, sunlight glinting off his orange skin, wearing a bright red hat, stood the one man capable of making grammar fun again: Donald J Trump.
Donald's Twitter is an everlasting font of misplaced modifiers and passive voice and almost every tweet makes me giggle. I found the grammar coach I had been searching for. The rules for editing his Tweets are simple:

  1. I cannot change the content of the tweets. Only the construction.
  2. I must adhere to the 140 character limit.

For example, let's modify two of his recent Tweet storms:

Now, to translate that into English: 
Having a friendly relationship with Russia is a good thing! Only fools would think otherwise. When I am president, Russia and the US will work together to solve the many, much more pressing issues facing the world.

In English:
Wow, the ratings for season 14 of the apprentice, where I, the ratings machine hosted, destroy Arnolds first season! This is what you get for supporting Kasich and Hillary! 

Who knew that an authoritarian billionaire, who has never read a book in his life could be such a wonderful writing coach! #MAGA

Friday, January 6, 2017

Think of a cute title to put here, Greg

I don't know what to say to you, deep, unfathomable internet. I'm sitting on my bed smelling like a wet dog with an underlying hint of semen, thinking of something profound to say, an idea that stirs the calloused heart of Al Gore’s miraculous creation. But I'm an idiot. You don't know me, you glorious concatenation of fiber optic cables and porn and memes and router boxes, but I am an idiot. I think I've been wearing these same pants for a week. That-my god, that could be where the smell is coming from! I’m wasting megabytes. I’m just splooging words onto the screen, and wondering if there are little dudes beyond the flashing light, annoyed that they must lug my pathetic heap of MB’s around when they could be flirting with a hot 0 or getting their tiny group of 1’s together for a drinking sesh instead. There could be. I dunno. Like me, most people have no clue what’s going on. (Except for Marvin Gaye) Scientists: not a damn clue. Preachers, red faced and howling: lost as any of us. So why wouldn't there be a vast, self aware sprite conspiracy that rises to the very top of Google. The CEO, a collection of shimmering data in fairy form, barks out orders to her henchman. They're afraid to look in her eyes because she might see the lust roaring in their irises. They hurry, gathering together the tiny blue collar sprites for gigabyte hauling duty. It's a job none of the little tykes want, but times are hard and I'm digressing. I need to focus. Focus! On the blog, son! I just tried to hit the tab button to like, indent you know, and nothing happened. The cursor just shot across the screen like a drunk sailor on a go-kart. I don’t know how to operate any of these buttons. What does this button do? Ah. It makes all the text pink. Now I can't see a blasted thing I type. That's not going to help. This post is already a waste of every one's time. I’m just a wall of screaming words. The pressure, oh God, the heavy pressure of coming up with something pithy to say. It's like a funny girl who’s asked to be funny on the spot and all the jokes and funny faces she knew, she swears she knew, escape her mind. OK, I need to take a breath. Breathe, Greg. Good job! You need to breathe to stay alive. Remember this. It is key. If I keep up with this nonsense, I will never stumble on The Profound Post that I know is somewhere in my head, hidden behind my panic and self doubt. It will come to me. Hold on, it will come. Hey, but maybe it never will and I’ll be reduced to a steaming puddle of broken sentences.  This is stupid, this is all so stupid. If all I’m capable of is vomiting up words and watching the green-yellow, strangely beautiful puke slicks slide down the wall, what is even the point? Huh?! I'm running out of time and running out of words and this can't be the first post can it?! Wait! Idea! I’ll just use this as a placeholder until I come upon an idea worthy of being the hallowed first post, then with all haste I shall delete this tangle of letters. I love you!