I have a pet peeve to air out. I’m always irked when people complain about something not being “proper English.” I maintain that there’s really no such thing; that English is only ever “proper” in a particular context, be it formal, academic, conversational, etc. What’s your proper take?
Tony Martins
Dear Mr. Martins:
I’m glad that you asked this particular question. The absolute worst thing that anybody could ever do to their life is get a master’s degree in English literature. (King Joffrey from “Game of Thrones” has a master’s in literature.)
This flimsy credential will give the holder an inappropriate amount of external confidence and entitlement but actually fill them with a crippling sense of insufficiency and self-loathing because they failed to advance any further in the world of academia. These “masters” think they’re better and more gifted than their less-certified peers but will have realized, deep, deep down in the burning pit of their anger hole that in failing to summit Mt. PhD they’re really not exceptional, just pitifully bound to the notion of external validation. Inevitably, they will take refuge in small, cruel pedantry, rattling on about things like “proper English” in the midst of the most benign, innocuous social encounters. They’re all a bunch of fuckers. There’s no such thing as proper English. We practically communicate through hieroglyphs now, okay? Get over it, fuckers. Whenever somebody says that you’re not using “proper English,” what that person is actually telling you is “I hate my life.”
Please send all letters for Bitter Writer to mm@michaelmurray.ca or post in the comments section of this page.
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Game of Thrones
Littlefinger never trusted Rob Ford, but then again, he never trusted anybody.
“Tell me, where have you hidden it?” He hissed at the stout, bastard Stark warrior.
“I’m not answering your dumb face questions.”
“Always the wily fellow, you are quite the adversary, Mister Ford, quite the adversary.”
Littlefinger, his hands pressed together in contemplation turned his back to the great man. “Perhaps these ladies will help to stir your memory?” He clapped his hands together and two of the most stunning women Rob Ford had even seen in his life walked so softly, so beautifully into the room as to be practically levitating. “Jesus,” Ford stammered, “are they models or cheerleaders or something?” Littlefinger snorted, “They are from the land of Seks Guzellik, home to the most breath-taking women the world has ever seen, trained in the arts of love from, oh, a very tender age. They are yours, Rob Ford, yours, all you have to do is tell me where it’s hidden.”
A look of uncertainty came across Ford’s porcine features, “Frig,” he said, “frig.”
Homeland
It was completely quiet. That was the first thing Carrie noticed, the complete noiselessness that enveloped her, enveloped them. It was awkward. She felt that he was maybe giving her the silent treatment, which was odd, because Rob Ford had invited her into his Escalade. It was also eerie—a sense of foreboding seemed to loom.
She was always thinking of him. She thought of him when she woke in the morning, when she took her pills after she showered, as she picked out her clothes, as she passed through the security gates at Langley, as she came home in the evening, as she lay in bed trying to sleep. RobRobRob. She could not remember the last time she wasn’t thinking about him, and in that way she believed that she knew him intimately. They had been driving for ten minutes—although it seemed more to Carrie—before he said something, “You need to meet my brother, Doug.”
Crepúsculo (Twilight)
Etobicoke es un lugar hermoso, aunque algunos lo ven como una ciudad sangrienta. Soy Rob Ford y yo 26 y tener un corazón del tamaño de una pelota de fútbol. Tengo ojos rojos y mi sed no es agua en absoluto, sino más bien precisa sangre. Yo soy un vampiro, una manera diferente, alrededor de uno. Tengo una dieta muy baja en la sangre comparada con otros vampiros, mientras que matan cinco humanos para satisfacer su sed diaria, estoy satisfecho con la sangre de un humano y puedo vivir con eso durante dos días. Vampiro Rob Ford, tengo un montón de autocontrol y soy muy selectiva con mi presa. Yo puedo ser un vampiro, pero tengo sentimientos.
The Flintstones
Roughly, Rob Ford took Wilma by her red bun. Wilma shrieked, but nobody came to her aid. Fred and Barney were bowling. Rob Ford laughed, high-pitched and nasally, and put his hand on her breast, palming it like a football. He thrust his tongue, that golden tongue that through great oratory had so often dazzled Bedrock, into her ear. “No, Rob Ford,” Wilma whispered, and then even quieter, “no.”
