Must. Control. Hysterical. Laughter. … And. Exacto. Knife.
Club Medicated’s incoming president wrote his first of 12 columns for me. He’s very proud of it. It’s titled, “Meet (Pride Fag).” Now, my readers know that I inserted the Pride Fag bit, but if I actually used that term instead of his name in the newspaper, nobody would be surprised.
Other than misused adverbs, made-up words and a flair for redundancy and “you’re telling me this because. …?”-inspired moments, I suppose it’s not the worst writing I’ve read. I’ll even look past his inserted Internet-speak (do you know how much I hate that kind of shorthand? Use English, asshat!). I’ll even look past his, “Do you care about me yet?” sentences that punctuate the end of every sentence … he’s looking for readers to fall in love with him based on his tales of woe.
And woe is me. Writing sample below — identifiying info changed to protect the insane:
“I was born a poor, gay, (Injun) boy in rural (southern state). This has possibilities for a book or maybe even a movie, eh? I wear each of those descriptors like a badge of courage. I am proud of who I am … I figure it is better than hating yourself.”
< Editorial commentary > This man is no more “Injun” than I am male. But he’s got the gay part right — as if anyone could have MISSED that! Yet he insists on pointing it out to EVERYONE who will listen. < / editorial commentary >
Pardon my French, but this is gonna go over like a fart in church with my readers.
And I’m not altogether that impressed myself.
Besides, don’t all great tragedies begin with, “I was born a poor (insert race) (insert gender)”? A quick Google search of “I was a poor” turns up 4,680 results. At least.
I sent a priority note to Cruise Director, asking if he really, truly read this piece before he channeled it to me. I started the e-mail with, “Great — 11 more months of this.”
And isn’t THAT the sad part, when you think about it? I can (read, have) to deal with incoherent writers (except for Scott, who is going to be my savior), but incoherent leadership is just another matter I cannot handle.
Oh, and Pride Fag punctuated his e-mail to Cruise Director with, “Oh, isn’t Dawn writing a story about me?”
Traditionally, we do stories on the incoming and outgoing officers, but I’m lucky I remembered to put on my scandalous underwear this morning. (That reminds me — I need to do laundry, ’cause I only have sleazy underwear left in my dresser, and not many, at that rate.) Ahem. Anyway, no, Dawn did not do the stories because Dawn has eight million other details to work on. Like making your column sound coherent.
Where is that Exacto knife that I can impale myself on? Oh, there it is. …