Near 500 words: Grammar-ing rhymes with hammering

Note: For all who wanted the mystery, “The Great Squirrel Caper”, it’s in the works and on its way. 

In need of a writer, I’m your man. I can make a screwdriver sound sexy. You want to spunk up your orange juice, just pour in some vodka. Then turn it with a screwdriver and that screw goes write in. Folks, as you can see. I have those mixed metaphors down pat. And talk about similes, well, we shouldn’t gossip.

If you want your house to stand, you want to use a screwdriver that’s going to drive in them screws good and hard. (Now get your heads out of the dirt. I’m not talking sex here. ‘Course if I was, same words might work in reference to condoms.)

When it comes to clichés, I’m your man. My philosophy is why take the road not taken when you can hit the hammer of the head and take the easy way out. That road not taken is going to have a lot of weeds and burrs. Who knows? It might even have some lions and tigers and bears, oh my. I know I would prefer being a cowardly lion than a dead one. So I’m taking heart and using my brain. I’m taking the Yellow Brick Road. If it was good enough for Dorothy, it’s good enough for me.

I just want you to know I got those parts of speech all wrangled and branded. Why, ladies and gentlemen, there isn’t an -ly adverb I haven’t used. And talk about split infinitives. Isn’t “to boldly go” so much sexier than “to go boldly”.

I think so. And so did James Tiberius Kirk. Otherwise he wouldn’t have written it in the Captain’s Log so many times. And after taking so much gup from Spock over “to boldly go does not compute”. Of course, it computes. It’s write there in the Captain’s Log. It may not be logical, but it sure is a Kirk-ism. Absolutely.

There I did it. I managed to put in an interjection. Don’t you think it spices up my writing a punch?

Unlike grammarians everywhere, I have a passion for the passive. When you think about it, you never want to take a pass on the passive if you want to be passionate. Why I used to date a girl who was all the time asking me, “Where were you last night?” If that ain’t passionate, I don’t know what is. And she said it so passionately. In spite of everything.

Uh-oh. I done gone and done it. I can hear them grammarians chomping at the bit, telling me not to use a sentence fragment. Here I go fragging my sentences all over the place. I can see the smoke coming out of their ears. Well, all I have to say is there just ain’t any pleasing some people. Like Abe Lincoln said, you can please some of the people all the time and you can please all the peeps none of the time. That leaves no time left for pleasing moi.

Anyway. (There I went and did it again.) If you’re looking for a writer who can write all formal like, I’m not your man. My motto, after all, is why not end a sentence with a preposition. Everybody does it. Oh, I know what my mother would say. “If Everybody jumped off a cliff, would you?” Of course, I wouldn’t. It’s a cliff, and I am afraid of heights.

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A Rock ‘n’ Roll Monologue 

Wine, women and song; that’s what Frank used to say. And he should’ve known since he used all three. Me, I’m into sex, drugs and rock and roll. Same difference, you might say. Only a little bit rougher. You dig. Like Pete Townshend’s fond of saying, “Won’t get fooled again.”

Well, the times they are a-changing, and that’s my guitar flying through the air. Just to let you know, I never was into Nirvana. Too much bang-your-head-against-the-wall-boys noise. It’s Knopfler and the Straits ‘cause we are the Sultans of Creole, we are the Sultans of Swing. Now, that’s guitar, man. A Stratocaster. I love Eddie Cochran and all those Summertime Blues. But as Pink Floyd used to say, we’re still learning to fly.

Cut my first CD last year. A bit Uriah Heep, Black Sabbath without the Oz. Man, that Lita Ford was bitchin’. She and Joan Jett were out of this world Runaways. Called the CD “Teeth.” Peter Max, the Maxman, offered to do cover art. Maybe a werewolf. But Richard Avedon did it for us, you know. Now he’s on the other side. He died, man. Went to that Photographic Studio in the Sky, man. Groovy.

Hey, Paul is dead. Yeah, and Sergeant Pepper ain’t feeling so good his own sweet self. Richard’s up there with the Ansel. Ansel Adams, don’t you dig? I’m not a frogman, goo goo g’ joob. Hey, the Troggs were super deluxe. Wild Thing. I met that groupie in a bar and went round the world and over the moon. Yeah, and I’m talkin’ Keith too. Knew the Stones. Think she was doing jumping jack flash for Mick and Keith.

Janis sure could blast. Had a great set of pipes. Down at Monterrey. Blew Mama Cass out of her pipes. Well, that’s what’s happening with the Sounds of Silence. Simon and Garfunkel, they broke up. You don’t say. Me and Julio down by the Schoolyard.

Way, man, we done that CD. Sold three million. Got Duran-Duran-ed on MTV. Right up there with the Elvis, man. That’s Elvis Costello, not the King. Graceland, you don’t say. Sun Studio in Memphistown—Elvis and Johnny and Jerry Lee and Carl all putting on their best Johnny B. Goode in his Blue Suedes. Groovy.

Wine, women and song to you too, man. Don’t forget everybody’s trying to be my baby. And I’m outta here. See ya.

Grammarlogically Speaking

“I didn’t mean–” her daughter spoke back at her mother.

“Of course, you did,” her mother disagreed with her. “You wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t mean it.”

“But, Mom,” the daughter pleaded her case.

“That’s what you’re always saying,” the mother was announcing her victory. “There’ll be no ifs, ands, or buts. Not in my house.”

“How about a however,” her father said with a smile on his face.

“That’s as bad as a yet,” the mother was not happy about his however. It usurped her authority. It was bad enough that her daughter wanted to give her a hard time. Now she had to take on two members of the family instead of one. “That’s a nyet if ever there was one.”

“And yet,” he came back at her.

“What’d I tell you about starting a sentence with ‘and’.” The English teacher in the mother was coming out big time now.

The daughter was happy for the reinforcements. “Even though—“

“Now hold on,” the mother was not accepting the challenge with ease.

“Oh,” the father chipped in. “now you’re pulling one of those now-hold-ons. You know how we hate those. That’s hitting below the belt.”

“You think?” the mother wasn’t having none of his sass either.

“So you want to conjugate,” the father had a big smile on his face. “You think, you thought, you thunk.”

“Thunk?” the mother was not believing what she was hearing. “I thunk not. It’s you think, you thought, you had thought.”

“I spent a long time thunking it,” the daughter was trying to catch up with her parents.

“That’s enough,” the mother came back.

“Oh, now we’re getting a that’s-enough,” the father.

“You know you’re all wet,” the mother said. She had completely forgotten where the argument had started, forgotten enough to use a cliche’.

“So it’s going to be water pistols at ten paces,” the father said.

Cat Time

Around my house, there are two kinds of time. Regular Time reserved for such trivialities as getting to work, watching the news, going to church, eating dinner, sunrise and sunset. Stuff like that.

The second kind is Cat Time. For those who are owned by a cat, you know what I mean. There’s the come-and-see-what-I-caught-you’ll-be-proud-of-me time when you are right in the middle of finding out who murdered Grandma on your favorite tv show.

There’s the I-want-to-sit-on-your-lap time. I am sitting there in my comfy chair, zoning out on that new episode of “Game of Thrones”. The bowl of popcorn rests on my lap, all buttery and salted the way I like it. Kitty wants on my lap right where that big bowl of popcorn sits. For the last six weeks, I have tried to persuade her that I have a nice lap. Now she has taken me up on my offer. Of all times.

I move the popcorn out of the way and she jumps up on the lap. Now you would think she would lay down and leave well enough alone. Oh no. She has to make sure I know who is in charge. She starts kneading. For those of you who are not cat owners, here is Wikipedia’s definition of cat kneading:

“The cat exerts firm downwards pressure with its paw, opening its toes to expose its claws, then closes its claws as it lifts its paw. The process takes place with alternate paws at intervals of one to two seconds. They may do this while sitting on their owner’s lap, which may prove painful if the cat is large or strong or has sharp claws (as the claws tend to dig into one’s lap). Though cats sit happily on a hard surface, they only knead a soft or pliant surface, although some cats reflexively “march” on hard surfaces instead of kneading them.”

As you can tell from this information, my lap is a soft, pliant surface.

The time I hate the most is the I-want-out-I have-to-go-chase-something time. This usually occurs at 4 am around my house. I say, “Go ‘way. Let me sleep.” I hear this retort, “You don’t want me to go way. I know how to miss the litter box.” When the god speaks, I must respond. No matter what.

In most religions, there is a place for repentance. Cat owners know that does not hold with kitty. No matter how much I beg for forgiveness for that one time that I did not respond to kitty, there is no repentance on earth that will be accepted. I broke The Commandment: Cats rule. Even if I wear sack cloth and ashes and present kitty with special treats for months on end, kitty shall always hold it over me. Lest I transgress a second time. God help me if I transgress a second time.

I have come to one conclusion about cats and their times. This is their revenge for that moment of weakness we called them the one word they truly hate. And believe me. There is no revenge quite like Cat Revenge. So what is The Word? Cute as in “Honey, we just have to have him. He’s so cute.”

If you didn’t say it, you thought it. Cats know. They read minds.