The Wittery Blog (The Witty Writer Marketplace)

(Guest Blog by Soxless)

There were two brothers in my class at school. I shall call them “Con” and “Frank”, because those were their real names. We were clever for our age, and always spelled graffiti correctly, and we also figured out that if “Con” was short for “Constantine”, then “Frank” must have been short for “Frankenstein”.

They had an age difference of 18 months. None of us could figure out why they were in the same class, and they were both evasive when asked. That reticence to speak about their being in the same class was their only common trait. They didn’t look alike; they seemed to have an unusually high number of “uncles”; they didn’t hang out together; they didn’t speak with the same accent, and they were, linguistically, in a different class.

Con was refined, eloquent, and polite. Frank was boorish, rude and profane. Frank was even ruder and profaner than the rest of the class, who were street urchins. Our language may have been in the gutter, but Frank’s was firmly embedded in the sewer. He was so crude that Con often had to “translate” for him. This is a real conversation that happened. I remember it clearly, it happened on the 31st April, twenty years ago to the day.

Frank:  F**king homework.

Con:  Goodness, hasn’t Mr Smith set rather a lot of learning reinforcement for tonight.

Frank:   Smith’s a Ba****d.

Con:  Mr Smith‘s parentage is disputable.

Frank:  That mother-fu**ker Smith gave me detention too.

Con:  Mr Smith has Oedipal tendencies, and administered a rather harsh and unjustified punishment to me.

Frank:  Con, stop using big words or f**k off.

Con:  Frank intimates that I should either refrain from the continual use of words of more than one syllable, or indulge in sexual activity whilst travelling.

Frank:  Con, you are really pis*ing me off now.

Con:  My dear brother is beginning to realise that he is becoming progressively more irate, and that could lead to an incident of incontinence.

Frank:  Don’t be a w**ker.

Con:  Please refrain from indulging in hedonistic, individual, self-pleasure.

Frank:  Holy f**k.

Con:  Immaculate conception.

But what of Con and Frank now? None of us know for sure, but of course there are the usual rumours: the consensus seems to be that Con went on to become a priest in England, and that Frank became a lawyer, and is currently defending Con against scurrilous claims made by one of his ten-year old parishioners.

Soxless is an alien: externally he is a project manager and statistician, while internally his organs are those of a fun-loving writer of comedy. His writing career got off to a flying stop when he was first rejected by Suite101, but he has now written around 100 articles for them. (He got accepted on the second attempt, after reading the application instructions properly). He is the proud owner of one low-mileage wife, and the proud property of two sons, both of whom hope to graduate as delinquents sometime soon.

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(Guest Blog by Mike Reynolds)

Never again will a woman need to stand in front of a mirror changing her hairstyle from bee-hive to bob, or will a man need to strategically place toilet paper on cuts caused by frantic last-minute shaving sessions.

Nowadays, as long as you have opposable thumbs or an application on your phone that will let you type words even if you lack the opposable thumbs, you can be a successful dater.

I may have been one of the last ones who had to meet the people they were dating, or wanted to date, face to face and I remember well the awkward conversations that developed:

“Would you like to go on a date with me Andrea?” I would ask confidently, shifting my eyebrows from side-to-side in a debonair fashion. “I would very much like to spend time in your company, escorting you about town and perhaps beginning what could become a fruitful long-term relationship.”

“Are you serious Mike?” Andrea would reply, causing my eyebrows to cease their twitching. “Jane Austen couldn’t make you sound more ridiculous.”

“I just wanted to know if you wanted to maybe go steady,” I would continue, adjusting my cravat, trying to gain back some of my confidence. “No pressure of course, we would have plenty of time to discuss procreation and all that goes with being in a serious relationship”

“Mike, you sound so stupid and pretentious, why can’t you just say ‘do you wanna get dinner?’” Andrea would continue, taking no note of my fancy raiment.

It was at this point I would get so caught up in emotion that my stoic determination to come away with a dating agreement would turn to porridge.

“I shaved for you today,” I would yell then run away, arms flailing and tears streaming down my shaving induced, bloody, pock-marked face. “And my cravat cost more than your face!” I would yell for good measure.

Now, from the comfort of their toilet, people can type a message to anyone they find remotely attractive and ask ‘doin’ anything?’

In fact, people are now encouraged to say as little as possible. And with social networking being as popular as it is, you need little more than a tenuous connection—say, a friend of someone who knows someone else’s friend’s friend for it to be acceptable to ask them on a date—a far cry from even five years.

Then, approaching a woman with such tenuous ties to your close friend circle was more stalker than socially acceptable. Again, my memories clearly demonstrate my disadvantage.

“Excuse me Diane, would you be interested in going out to get some dinner with me one night?” I asked over the telephone (although still wearing a cravat for confidence).

“Who is this?” she would ask, not recognizing my voice from the time we spoke at a party weeks before.

“This is Mike, we met at Bryan’s party weeks ago,” I would explain.

“No, I don’t think so,” she would continue to deny.

“Sure we did, you told me to stop staring at you,” I’d race to say, hoping she’d catch on.

“Oh right, we were calling you Creep Out so I guess I didn’t put two and two together.”

“Good talking to you again Diane, I’m just going to hang up if that’s ok?” I would ask, tears now dripping onto the cravat.

“Alright Creep Out, say hi to Bryan for me.”

“Sure.”

All in all though, I survived. I’m now married with a child and couldn’t be happier. I’m just saying, it would have been easier if I could have done my work from the bathroom.

Mike Reynolds didn’t date much—he was too busy writing. And not having many friends. He’s always looking for more writing opportunities and always looking for material with humour-me potential.

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(Guest Blog from Soxless)

Having just watched the film “Lost in Translation”, and been numbed by its banality, I really (no, really) want someone to push a long needle through the soft tissue in my neck. It isn’t a death wish; I would just like to know that there is still some sensation left in my body.

The only redeeming feature of this film is that it reminded me of real events when translation really is funny. Some of the “translations” are literal, and others a bit more lateral, but this note will be my protest at the critics’ positive views of the drivel that I have just been subjected to.

As a young engineer, who spoke no German, I was working on a technical translation with Mel. She was fluent in German but spoke no engineering. Together we were tasked with translating a German technical manual. Some of the German phrases didn’t lend themselves to direct translation, like “Dimensions without engagement”.

Between us, we managed to guess (correctly) that this means “dimensions not binding”. One phrase that caused a problem was tougher to work out. The speed of a conveyer was controlled by a “water-operated sheep”. Now there was a test! It turned out that the conveyor was not driven by farmyard beasts, but by a “hydraulic ram”.

There is generally a lack of directness between people, especially here in the Western European islands (that’s Ireland and Great Britain). Avoiding direct talk by translating it into a “softer” phrase even has its own noun, “euphemism”.

For example, let me translate the word “joyrider”: a thief who takes your car, drives it more quickly than he is able to handle, crashes it, then makes a claim on your insurance for “trauma”, and then hurts an innocent bystander who also claims off your insurance.

The legal system, ironically, is awash with these “soft” phrases. When a judge hears two opposing accounts, and tells one witness “I prefer the version of events given by the other witness”, what he really means is “you are a lying xxxxxxx!”.

Let me translate “xxxxxxx”: not only were your parents not married, but it is highly unlikely that your mother even knows who your father actually is.

Soxless is an alien: externally he is a project manager and statistician, while internally his organs are those of a fun-loving writer of comedy. His writing career got off to a flying stop when he was first rejected by Suite101, but he has now written around 100 articles for them. (He got accepted on the second attempt, after reading the application instructions properly). He is the proud owner of one low-mileage wife, and the proud property of two sons, both of whom hope to graduate as delinquents sometime soon.

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(Guest Blog from Christopher Reilly)

In today’s hurly-burly world of the Internet, instant messaging, Skype, chat, and the ubiquitous e-mail, one method of communication still brings feelings of warmth and genuine appreciation to the lucky recipient, and that is a well-written thank you letter. Grandmothers covet them, friends love them, and business associates will be impressed with your excessive brown nosing.

One handicap to today’s would-be writers is their crushing ignorance. No worries. I’m here to show you how to compose the perfect thank-you with this simple, 5-part guide to the Art of Writing Thank You Letters.

The Greeting or Salutation

“Dear Jim and Gina…” This classic greeting has gotten a little stale. Instead, use their cutesy nicknames, especially nicknames uttered behind their backs. Example:

“Dear Zipper Boy and Squid…” You’ve gotten their attention and spoken to them on a personal, superior level. They’ll love it.

Express Your Gratitude

Here you will thank them for the gift and say how much it means to you. Remember that there is no reason to lie or make things up. You can always find something to see in a positive light. Example:

“It was so nice of you to make me stay at your house during my recent trip. When I walked in and saw you two for the first time in many years, I was gobsmacked at your appearance. Stunned really. You looked like…survivors. It warmed my heart to know you were hanging in there, just getting by. That’s chutzpah!

How do you stay so thin, Jim? I could see your skeleton. Remarkable, considering your age. Are you involved with a religious cult?

Gina, your love for animals shines from you like a beacon. It must be your letting the dogs hump your legs for hours. (ha ha) By the way, there are people who will come to your house and pick up that stuff from the back yard. Might want to have them take a quick run through the house too. LOL.”

Discuss Use of Gift

Here you’ll discuss how the gift or service benefited you and improved or affected your life.

“I really got a thrill staying at your home. The thrill of imminent danger, you know? It truly infected me. The doctor says it’s nothing that a month in the hospital can’t cure! (Just kidding!) My visit made me realize how good I’ve got it, and you’ve inspired me to see a dentist for the first time in years. What shade of yellow was that? (ROFL)

Mention Past and Future

“By the way, Jim, your mother kicked the bucket last week. I heard she’s leaving everything to the cat. There goes your future.”

Closing

“Thanks again, I guess. When I got home, I thought,  That’s the last time I’ll ever see THEM.

Your acquaintance,

Jim”

Sign it, send it, and you’ll feel great, and you’ll be helping to revive the dying Art of Writing Thank You Letters.

(Christopher Reilly’s witty words have graced National Public Radio, Stage Plays, Award-Winning Corporate Films, and are running rampant across the wild Internet with very little supervision. Many of the words find themselves on the pages of his popular blog, The Crusty Curmudgeon (thecrustycurmudgeon.com). He writes about anything he finds peculiar or odd, which accounts for his relationships with the opposite sex.)

Footnote: Thinking of using Christopher for your project?  Be warned – he rocks. We’ve availed of his services ourselves and have found him a consummate professional who is  attentive to his clients’ needs. He gets the brief, runs with it and delivers on time.  It is a total pleasure to collaborate with this guy.

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(Guest Blog Post by Brenna Hillier)

I will tell you why I quit my well-paid, low effort, guaranteed-future office job for the glamorous lifestyle of a bum. I quit because of Mrs. Scerrick.

Mrs. Scerrick didn’t have a tongue like a lash. A lash is not hardcore enough for Mrs. Scerrick. If she wields any kind of weapon with her oral parts, it is an iron flail, probably with ground glass glued on; both for an attractive glittering quality and to rip your flesh open to the very bone.

Mrs. Scerrick worked in Human Resources. Human Resources has to be the definition of a misnomer. Human Resources are the people that fire you in order to pay for a foosball table for the executive lounge. They refuse your request for leave to go to your wife’s funeral because you took a sick day on a Monday in 1992. They pass you over for promotion in favour of a bloke who spends three quarters of the day on the phone to his girlfriend in Mesopotamia because his name is more memorable than yours. They are not human. They do not relate to humans. God forbid they have, you know, relations with human beings, for the resulting spawn would be most unholy.

I was always under her eye because I was unlucky enough to be the only woman under forty in an office otherwise composed entirely of pale, blinking men and menopausal tyrants. I stuck out like a sore thumb because I didn’t look like a sore thumb, either due to the sprain-like angle of a World-of-Warcraft posture or a thumb-like middle aged spread of stomach towards bosom and vice versa.

I think Mrs. Scerrick felt I didn’t belong in this department. I agreed. I didn’t. I was capable of normal human emotion. I should have been transferred somewhere less soul destroying, like Sales, or Accounts, where they only chew on your soul, not actually digest it and have mud-slinging fights with the resulting fecal matter.

Whatever the reason, and I suspect it was simply that I was not interchangeable with a dozen office mates, she singled me out the feel the full weight of HR’s power.

HR do have power, you know, because they have a lot of bits of paper. As far as I can work out, they spend their time sitting around in meetings and congratulating each other on writing impossible goals down on bits of paper. Then they title these bits of paper “employee assessment guidelines” or “company policy” and suddenly someone is asking you why you went to the toilet when it was not a designated break time, and why it took you fourteen seconds longer than the allotted seventy three seconds.

What finally broke me was the day she caught me at the water cooler, where I was drinking a cup of water. She appeared beside me as suddenly and menacingly as a spyware pop-up advertising outrageous sex acts and the fact that your five thousand dollar computer just turned into an expensive doorstop.

“Are you on a break?” she demanded, and before I could reply, continued, “Because I see on your schedule that your break runs from three-fifteen to three-twenty-five, and it is now three-forty.”

“I had a meeting at three fifteen,” I explained, and when this did nothing to quell the hellfire blazing behind her contact lenses, added, “With HR. So I started my break as soon as I got back. That was about three minutes ago.”

The hellfire continued to burn, perhaps even to increase in intensity, so I went on adding further short clauses to my excuse, hoping that one of them would do the job.

“Urm. I checked the schedule. Nobody else is on break. I made sure. I asked my team leader. I asked at the meeting. The meeting was with HR,” I said again. “About my performance. It was fine. All the right boxes. Ticked. Everything.”

Have you ever seen Aladdin? Isn’t there a bit where there’s some sort of giant snake arching over its prey? This was much like that. My knees had been slowly collapsing throughout, and my arms had independently drawn closer to my chest like hamster paws. She, on the other hand, had brought her face closer and closer in pursuit of mine, with the effect that she was now hovering over my crouched form, poised to strike.

“Are you aware,” she actually hissed, flecks of spittle hitting my face, “that you are drinking that water on company time? I ask you, is it actually necessary to drink water?”

I squeaked. I fled. Or rather, I scuttled. And the next day, I quit. Because the awful truth had been revealed to me. With her profound ignorance of human needs, she had let the cat out of the bag: HR was staffed by aliens. I was getting out before they decided to shut off the unnecessary oxygen.

(We rarely let Brenna Hillier appear in public because her tinfoil hat frightens horses, but when she emerges, she usually twitches. She will write on anything given half a chance and a permanent marker, especially blogs, news feeds, tweets and stainless steel fridges.)

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You’ll forgive the formality of this form letter, but my needs are specific and, as such, I will be reviewing the responses of several mortuaries.

I suppose that some sort of dress code is as good a place to start as any. Suits and ties for the men. No bow ties, unless they wear one all the time (their business associates should be able to confirm if this is true). The absolute worst scenario would be if someone smuggled a spinning bow tie into what should be a solemn occasion.

As for the ladies, I think black dresses. I like those black veils, too. They’re kind of sexy in a grieving sort of way. I can be flexible on the hem length depending on the season. No tube tops, though, no matter how hot it is, and no stripper shoes, unless the griever is actually a stripper and just getting off her shift.

Body viewings make people hungry, so a spread of cold cuts with cheese would be nice. But don’t let anyone make a plate and bring it up with them while they’re viewing me. In fact, I’d like a sneeze guard installed. Station an attendant nearby with some paper towels to discreetly Windex as necessary.

Speaking of the coffin, I’m thinking something traditional, like solid gold with elephant ivory handles. If somebody remarks that elephants are endangered, look disappointed in them and say, “He’s dead, man.”

The prep of my body is important, because it will determine everyone’s last thoughts about how handsome I am. I would like to have a slight smile, but not so much that it appears like I’m bragging that I’m dead and they still have to go through some horrible disease. And don’t make me wear the jersey of my favorite team or put any of their stupid paraphernalia in with me—they had their chance to win while I was alive. If I need a haircut, this is not the time to go for a new “look.”

Some people may want to touch me. Please shake up one of those hand warmers and wrap my hands around it so that they’re creeped out if they do. Don’t get ambitious and install a spring mechanism that makes me grab someone and not let go. Just the hand warmer.

Nobody in my family should perform the eulogy, because that would make it look like I don’t have friends. And no friends should do it, either, because I owe most of them money, and they might make a joke about it. Instead, hire an extremely attractive model no one knows. Everyone will wonder who this “mystery woman” is. Introduce her (mumble the name so it can’t be Googled) and when she’s in front of the gathered throng, she should shakily unwrap her “speech,” and then, before she starts, break down. Then get her out of there, fast.

If Mike Ditka is still alive, I’d like him to do a brief walk-through while muttering under his breath, “best ballplayer I ever saw.” If Ditka isn’t available, then Simon Cowell (“best singer”). But no autographs. Whose day is this, anyway?

The music should be heart-wrenching and despairing but hopeful. I’ve attached lyrics for a song I’ve written entitled, “How Will We Ever Do Anything Without You?” Please get Sheryl Crow to arrange and sing it. Don’t scrimp and get a Sheryl Crow look-alike, because people can tell.

Obviously, none of this will be free, which is why I’ve attached a list of friends who I don’t think I owe quite as much money to. Tell them I was just mentioning how much I liked them when I started to cough and stop breathing.

I look forward to your prompt response.

Bob Merlotti

Bob Merlotti is neither old nor sick, just planning ahead. He has written award-winning comedy for years and has won every major advertising award, including a few he has smelted himself. Visit his website at www.merlotticommabob.com and be sure to click on the black light. Why? Because it’ll blow your mind, that’s why.

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