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Perverting Pernicious Pronouns

Check this story:

Trans Teacher Wins $60,000 Settlement Because Co-Workers Wouldn’t Call Her “THEY”

“They” is the nominative PLURAL pronoun of he, she and it.

That said, however, “they” is commonly and correctly used in place of the definite masculine “he” or the definite feminine “she” ONLY when preceded by an indefinite SINGULAR antecedent, such as “whoever.”

For example:

“Whoever the histrionic thespian may be who is taking feigned offense over correctly appropriated pronouns, they need to reassess their teaching skills and learn correct grammatical applications.”

or perhaps…

“Whoever decided to give this charlatan $60,000 for no discernable reason, they need to contact me so I can tell them to whom they should write my check.”

A grammatically-correct solution:

Rather than adulterate the already-difficult-to-formulate-properly English language, maybe we should consider a solution that’s already at our disposal. A more appropriate pronoun grouping choice would be to resurrect “thee,” “thou,” “thy” and “thine.”

“Thou would not have to resort to litigation if thou would adopt an archaic form of Middle English prose to represent thine definitely indefinite nature for when others refer to thee.”

And they all lived happily ever after.

Lightning Rod

In case you haven’t guessed already, I hail from the world of IT. No, I’m not talking about the pronoun. —No such luck for you. Instead, I speak of that freakish world of programming, network administration, and all things web. Yeah, that’s right—I’m talking about the primordial pool of Star Wars want, untoward Dilbert fascination, and socially-inappropriate references to anything math that I so willingly jumped into twenty years ago. Twenty years of my life that I will never get back, by the way. —It bears mentioning.

Did I say “freakish world?” Why yes, I did. And for those readers who are slow on the uptake, hence the category designation.

Before I venture out onto a self-loathing rant detailing my directionally-challenged career path and apparent free-willed self-integration into aberrant human sub-cultures,  I will, instead, right my path and talk of Bill “the Chinese Dude.” Now, before you get all up in arms and scream “racist,” take a flippin’ chill pill.  And for the love of God, remember where you are.  Now we can’t describe people using their notable physical traits and obvious racial lineage?—all in an effort so that others may get a visual image of those whom I speak? Piss off! I can and I will. Feel free, however, to shackle yourself to the forever doldrums of abject stupidity. Bury your head into the timeless whitewashed sands of surreality where despite your claims of diversity orientation, you still bitterly cling to your want for homogeneity. That’s your call. I’ll have no part of it. And by all means, get the f*@k off my site. Go here instead.

For the rest of you who still remain, sit back while I unravel a story of surreality upon you that will leave you rocking in a corner, sucking your thumb, and ruing the day you ever sat your butt down behind a computer. And since I willingly prostituted myself to serve in the world of IT, I promise you that there will be many more to follow.

Bill was (or still is, I suppose) a diminutive man of maybe 5′ in height a nary a pound over 105. Of course, I may be exaggerating his Lilliputian demeanor because I am a robust man of size, character, and personality. But tough, that’s the way it is. You’re living vicariously through me at the moment, and if you can’t handle that, go here.

I digress…again. For the sake of brevity, let’s just call him “Wee Bill.” There, that’s not offensive. And so we roll on.

It was a dark and rainy day at the hut…

“The hut?” you ask. But of course. This was one of my first assignments after I left my “permanent” staff position. It was 1996 and I was now a “consultant.” There were millions of us. We infested the IT sector like geeks waiting for William Shatner to put his drunk down and make his appearance at a Star Trek convention. Together, we crawled along the floorboards sucking up whatever excess hours would come our way. Most wouldn’t generate anything that even resembled a “deliverable” —an industry term for a product; something tangible that could justify our existence. Being the consummate man of character that I was (and still am), I always did present my deliverables in a timely and exemplary manner. And that, by the way, is how I won my first assignment at “the hut.” But that’s another story for another post. Be patient for God’s sake. And get off my flippin’ back. I’m starting to hate you.

Anyway, it was a dark and rainy day back at the hut. The socially-distressed lemmings were all huddled back behind their computers, selflessly allowing their retinas to become permanently damaged by their unwavering desire to create more and more pointless code. After all, in the end nobody gave a damn. When a company is acquired by a bigger fish, the small fish’s code is obsoleted and surreptitiously switched, keeping only the pretty company logo on the disk. That was start-up America in 1996.

Again, I have to digress. But don’t take that as an apology. I go off on tangents. Get used to it, or visit one of those other sites I gave you the links to.

The hut was ablaze with the maddening clamor of keys ceaselessly being clicked away by their masters of all things code. Or, at least, that’s how the sheepish misanthropes of the digital realm would prefer to think of themselves. Ultimately, the cruel truth of their lot would prove too burdensome to bear. Reality sucks, after all. Anyway, the mindless f@*k chimps were clanking away at their keyboards. To be truthful, it was actually pretty quiet. But who cares? It sounded good on paper. I was perched behind my computer working on my third mountain of ne’er-to-be-read system documentation. The infernal “user guide,” as they refer to it in the business. As an aside, the IT manager—a jittery little man who made himself lashless by nervous habit—once summed up my existence there as fulfilling his need for thud factor. That’s right, the weight of my words could be measured in both substance and physicality. He was quite happy with it. The manual I was writing was the typical dry, dislodge-my-orbs-from-their-sockets-lest-I read-another-word bastardization of the English language that I am embarrassed to call my own. Fortunately, I can take solace in the fact that no one had ever read it. The thud factor was just much too great.

Anyway, I was just finishing up chapter 10 of the manual, “Kill Me Now, This Software Sucks,” when I got an email. Everybody in the hut, actually, received that same email. Well, if it was addressed to all—from the lowly receptionist all the way up to the self-important network engineer with hair growing atop his nose—surely this must have been important. Oh, and indeed it was. Bill “the Who”—or Li’l Whoville Bill, if you will—was the sender. An accomplished software engineer to be sure, Li’l Whoville Bill, if you will had made a name for himself with his unrelenting tenacity, polished charm, and brilliant engineering acumen. Or not. But nevertheless, the email was from him. Again, it was a dark and rainy day at the hut and Li’l Whoville Bill, if you will was deeply concerned about the safety of his coworkers and their possessions, more specifically their automobiles. You see, along with the rain, lightning was striking all around. It was a veritable electrical storm. Lightning lit up the sky like camera flashes at a Mary-Kate Olsen movie premiere. Okay, maybe not Mary-Kate, but you get the idea. This unnerved Li’l Whoville Bill, if you will greatly, prompting him to send his ominous warning written in his native Chinese-English vernacular (and I paraphrase):

“You need to put your lightning rods away in your cars to protect them from the storm.”

A hellfire mandate from one of Satan’s minions, to be sure. Nonetheless, there was a long pause while all in the hut engaged in their own personal translation; a quiet transitory period that all had experienced when speaking with almost anyone from the software development staff. Slowly but predictably, realization settled on the hut and its bereft inhabitants. For Bill the Learned, Bill the Masterful had thought that the radio antennas on cars were, in actuality, lightning rods. You know, because cars need lightning rods. Just ask Ben Franklin. But even if they had come equipped with lightning rods, why put them away during times of…lightning? Wouldn’t that defeat their purpose? Well, I guess we’ll have to ask Bill that question.


The Gym: Porky Pig Strong Man

Alright, I went to the gym last night and, of course, was made immediately irritated at first sight of a cancer that has been plaguing gyms since their inception. Over zealous trainers? No. Poorly maintained equipment? No. Nasty locker rooms? Again, no. The real cancer of gyms is the consummate fat guy wearing a tank top with excessively stretched arm openings revealing the excessive girth within. I don’t need to see that. Nobody needs to see that. The specific clown to whom I refer was tan. Excessively tan. Ridiculously tan. As a matter of fact, any tan at all right now is an absurd notion. It’s the beginning of May in St. Louis coming off long string of cold, rainy days that offered no opportunity to get any significant sun. The notion that anyone has a tan right now is more than implausible, it’s laughable. This clown looks like the brown leather couch in Sigmund Freud’s office. Please. It really is borderline visually offensive. Actually, to me it is visually offensive, but admittedly, I’m overly sensitive to abject stupidity. But I’m straying from the point somewhat. Fake bakes really deserve their own blog entry, so I digress.

Though you probably have a good idea of the type of clown I’m talking about, I still need to give additional specifics. In addition to his overly bronzed, corpulent physique and bad gym attire, when walking this oversized burnt donut hole did so with his arms held far away from his torso. Picture it; imagine it in your mind’s eye. We’ve all seen it. His muscles are so excessively large that his arms cannot even come to rest along his sides? I think not. But that’s the image that he’s trying to convey.

And of course he walks at a brisk pace, all the while lumbering from side to side. This is the stride of the hard ass whose self-gay physical perfection is impervious to pain, threat, or damage from one of the insignificant wimps wasting time—and getting in the way—in the weight room. Without blinking an eye, he’d walk through a brick wall if one stood between him and the Smith machine. He means business; he owns that gym. There are many colorful, descriptive terms that come to mind right now to characterize him, but I believe “buffoon” to be the most applicable.

Another disturbing and ridiculous characteristic of these clowns is that they inevitably start slamming the weights around in an obvious attempt to draw attention to themselves. Failing miserably in their wasted efforts to effect praise and adulation from admiring onlookers, they default to Plan B: grunt or even yell as loud as they can when lifting daunting amounts of weight. Guess what Porky, you’re still fat.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t address the quintessential barbed-wire tatoo encircling the thick mound of wobbly flesh posing as a bicep. Oh, I see, so this is a remnant of the years you spent in Iraq and each barb represents an insurgent you killed? Of course not. No, this was nothing more than just another fat gym guy lifting his courage through his umteenth Busch beer and running to the tatoo parlor so the illustrated man with a needle could create yet another barbed-wire tatoo, presumably with his eyes closed at this point. Just another self-gay, look at me inspired moment from a guy who couldn’t get a three-legged goat to look at him much less a woman.

Fat gym guys (those who migrate straight to the free weight room) have bought into the self-perpetuated myth of the following erroneous formula:

Fat = Muscle

Sadly for “Ox,” the porky gym guy, this is not the case. Moreover, if it were true then the necessity for a gym in the first place would be nonexistent. Sure, you’re big, but your musculature is about as developed as the Pillsbury Doughboy’s. So, lay off the doughnuts, beer, and Zagnut bars, and get on a treadmill instead of taking up (too much) space in the weight room. And please, give us all a break and leave the attitude at home because like your massive chest, it’s fat, bloated, and full of hot air. I speak for everyone when I say “you are a huge, gaping hole.”

Live. Laugh. Vomit.

Alright, we’ve all seen them. You know who they are. They’re those women who slap “Live. Laugh. Love.” all over their Facebook pages. When you have the grievous misfortune of entering their homes, it’s stenciled in paint over the header of a doorway or on alternating steps going into the basement. It’s disingenuous tripe and it angers me when I see it. I get physically ill—my gut bound in hateful knots—when conftronted with those three insidious words. It truly is an assault on my psyche; a vicious attack on my serenity. In short, it fills me with hate.

But it’s not limited to “Live. Laugh. Love.” For that was just the precurser; the spark that set these seemingly sentimental rubes aflame with an insincere passion for life and meaning. These bumper sticker romantics attempting to gain meaning and self-worth by pasting phony, empty twaddle for all to see. It’s simply an empty attempt to advertise how wonderfully caring and insightful they are. “Look at me, aren’t I so creative and sentimental?” And like I said, there are many more. Too many, in fact. One is too many. Here are just a few of those threadbare gems:

We cannot do great things. We can only do little things with great love.

Give me a flippin’ break. We cannot do great things? Didn’t Patton do great things when he commanded the Third Army and smashed the German flank during the Battle of the Bulge? No doubt achieved by Patton with great love, but it hardly qualifies as a “little thing.” The sentimental fools who spew this nonsense only attempt to lower the bar and marginalize effort and achievement. Speaking of Patton, here’s one of his quotes—a quote which is decidedly above the drivel of the “Live. Laugh. Love.” crowd;

“A pint of sweat saves a gallon of blood.”

Now, doesn’t that just pull at your heartstrings? I feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Here’s an extended version of the original:

Live your life at it fullest
Laugh at all the things that don’t matter
Love with all that you have and more

What? Really? All this achieves is to take pithy worthlessness and enrich it with even greater quantities of manure. Speaking of manure, here’s some more equine excrement:

Love me without fear.
Trust me without wondering.
Love me without restrictions.
Want me without demand and
accept me for who I am.

Alright, I’m done torturing you. Frankly, it’s difficult for me to even cut and paste this prattle here.

So, what the hell are they trying to say anyway? After all, when they paste the “Live. Laugh. Love.” tripe for all of us to see and to experience intense gastric distress, isn’t what they’re really telling us to do a little redundant with common sense and everyday reality? It’s like stenciling “Take a Crap” above your mantle. Honestly, we all know and we all do, so don’t shove it down our throats. I live angrily; I laugh at people at Wal-Mart; and I love beer. So, why are you telling me this? Pointless. I suppose that, however, sums up your existence.

Mega Movers

Alright, nothing brings out my ire more than those ridiculous electric carts that were introduced to the consumer marketplace, particularly at Wal-Mart. Yeah, yeah, they’re supposed to be used by little old ladies with hip problems or people with broken legs, etc. But au contraire, for I had never seen such people taking advantage of these devices to help them cope with their handicap. Oh no. But how could they? After all, these insidious machines are consistently being monopolized by the restraint-challenged flab masters, replete with their characteristic, ever present french-fried surplus of swollen adipose and sheer heft.

And how about those little electric carts that handily allow these oversized, Twinkie-stuffing immobile mountains to extend their coach potato ways to the supermarket? You’ve got to hand it to the remarkable engineers who designed these mega movers, giving them the power and structural integrity to withstand and move hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds of pounds of skin-retained Jell-O.

Since they are no longer accessible to those little old ladies with hip problems and are now the mobile domain of the ample, perhaps the manufacturers should outfit them accordingly. Obviously, these less-than-svelte individuals are out for quantity, so a trailer should probably be supplied. And since these folks have an aversion to walking or performing any manual task, it would be a good idea to outfit the mega mover with a reaching stick or mega lift: a remote operated front-end loader with bucket that’s fully articulated and able to dump large volumes of boxes, cans, baked goods, etc. into the trailer. What a tremendous win for sloth that would be.

I’d seen specs on these machines that boast a cargo capacity of 250lbs and a rider capacity of 500lbs and they were actually proud of this! I hate to break it to them, but there’s no way that will fly in the marketplace. I’ve seen the folks who sluggishly traverse the middle of the aisles with these machines and many of them are well above that 500lb rider limit. There’s simply no way their mini mover can compete with the big boys. Back to the drawing boards, engineers.

Let’s talk about sharing our “shopping experience” with these heft monsters. We’ve all been there, hopelessly attempting to deftly navigate our carts down an aisle and around one of these three-toed, indolent slouches. It’s not bad enough that their elephantine girth rolls in accordion-like folds over the sides of the seat and well into the aisle, but they insist on maneuvering the mega mover down the middle of the aisle making safe passage a veritable impossibility. Really? So, now you wish for all those around you to be encumbered by the results of your uncontrolled gorging, as well as yourself? Do you really foment such hatred and spite for the self-controlled that you feel you have to heave your bulging corpulence into their paths at every turn?

Riding these mega movers only perpetuates the problem. It’s a vicious circle of sloth promoting massive weight gain. Get off your bounteous asses and give up the cart to the old lady with an actual unpreventable physical ailment. She was the original intended user, not the gluttonous laggard.

I say that these machines were originally designed to make the lives of the little old ladies coping with bad hips easier, but the truth of the matter is that these same folks would have nothing to do with them even if Jabba the Hutt wasn’t occupying them. They refuse to have their independence curtailed and to be reduced to having to accept defeat. Their mental fortitude eclipses the attitudes of the self-entitled slugs who are perfectly content to witness their already misshapen carcasses degrade to the point where their tits dangle inhumanly past their knees and to watch the folds around their mid-sections multiply exponentially. These shrill shills of entitlement and gluttonous self-indulgence are more than just mere metaphors as to what’s wrong with America today; they are what’s wrong with America. More than just wastes of space, these aberrations of human form spill out into the space of others and, in fact, offer nothing more than a visual assault on the senses of the right thinking.