Happy Motherfucking Thanksgiving
In keeping with the tradition of my last post, there's a little unnecessary swearing to brighten your holidays. Cock, cock, jism, Grandma! (I'm looking at you PJD.)
Sorry about the Tourette's. I've pretty much spent the last 72 straight hours copyediting a new beer magazine (BeerAdvocate! The first of its kind!) under heavy deadline and penalty of death. Time to let off a little steam and drink my absent landlord's whiskey.
Let me tell you about copyediting. Copyediting is cool. It's kind of like solving a jillion little puzzles, plus, you get to learn all the things about the English language you should have been taught at some point, but weren't, because this is America, goddammit, and only pinkos and faggots learn proper hyphenation and comma (commie!) usage.
But 72 hours straight of it, and you end up with a sentence like this:
"Weizenbock--a big Bold beer of heading promisely,."
So, I'm taking a 2:30 am whiskey and water break. The beer porn I'm editing gave me such a hankering for Oatmeal Stout earlier that I wandered around in the cold, holiday rain (ah, just like that awesome Dan Fogelberg song about bumping into an old lover at the grocery store. Lover is such a 70s word, don't you think? It reminds me of hairy armpits and cocaine.) searching for something to quench my powerful thirst, alas, to no avail. Instead, I bought the makings for oatmeal cookies, which I will create tomorrow after I put this project to bed. Perhaps I will eat them while drinking a Red Stripe. That's about as close as I can get to Oatmeal Stout out here in Jersey City.
I don't even really like beer (in the sense that I appreciate it more for the happy, slutty feeling it gives me, than for the actual taste), but I'm sold on this magazine. It's made me crave something I never really think about. If you're even slightly interested in beer, you'll enjoy BeerAdvocate. Just don't come crying to me about split infinitives and whatnot, you hippies.
Sorry about the Tourette's. I've pretty much spent the last 72 straight hours copyediting a new beer magazine (BeerAdvocate! The first of its kind!) under heavy deadline and penalty of death. Time to let off a little steam and drink my absent landlord's whiskey.
Let me tell you about copyediting. Copyediting is cool. It's kind of like solving a jillion little puzzles, plus, you get to learn all the things about the English language you should have been taught at some point, but weren't, because this is America, goddammit, and only pinkos and faggots learn proper hyphenation and comma (commie!) usage.
But 72 hours straight of it, and you end up with a sentence like this:
"Weizenbock--a big Bold beer of heading promisely,."
So, I'm taking a 2:30 am whiskey and water break. The beer porn I'm editing gave me such a hankering for Oatmeal Stout earlier that I wandered around in the cold, holiday rain (ah, just like that awesome Dan Fogelberg song about bumping into an old lover at the grocery store. Lover is such a 70s word, don't you think? It reminds me of hairy armpits and cocaine.) searching for something to quench my powerful thirst, alas, to no avail. Instead, I bought the makings for oatmeal cookies, which I will create tomorrow after I put this project to bed. Perhaps I will eat them while drinking a Red Stripe. That's about as close as I can get to Oatmeal Stout out here in Jersey City.
I don't even really like beer (in the sense that I appreciate it more for the happy, slutty feeling it gives me, than for the actual taste), but I'm sold on this magazine. It's made me crave something I never really think about. If you're even slightly interested in beer, you'll enjoy BeerAdvocate. Just don't come crying to me about split infinitives and whatnot, you hippies.
posted by Screwsan at 11:23 PM
2 Comments:
If I can't cry to you about split infinitives, then who? Lynn Truss? E.B. White? William Safire? Nobody? Yes, that's it--nobody. I will shed no tears at the sight of a split infinitive; I shall boldy go into that brave new grammatical world. I will be comforted in my journey by the wise words of Merriam-Webster's Collegiate Dictionary: "[T]here has never been a rational basis for objecting to the split infinitive."
Hey, you red state follower...don't mock those with a deep love of the em dash and the proper use of the semi-colon. I happen to sleep with my copy of the Chicago Manual of Style, and a grand, seventies-style lover he is, complete with thick mustache and tight white bell bottoms. Ooh, I'm warm now...
By the way, when the magazine comes out, will you sign it? You'll officially be the most famous copyeditor I know.
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