Dumb as they come

Got a freelance story (that I didn’t commission) from someone who used to work at my very magazine. I see that years in journalism did nothing for her copy-editing and accuracy abilities — I am on paragraph three and have been on the Internet four times to verify facts and names. Painful, yes. Typical of a columnist, not a journalist, though. My head aches.

But how am I supposed to read past this paragraph? (Note: everything changed to protect the criminally insane.)

When asked if there is a connection between (happiness) and (taking a shit), (Lardass) leaves no room for doubt. “Absolutely,” he says, empathically.

I count five things wrong. In one fucking sentence.

In her e-mail containing the story, she remarked on something that drove her “bazurk.” No, I do not make this shit up!

And people wonder why I’m on the verge of going postal.

On iTunes: Pulp, “Like a Friend”

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