Stripping Grammar Naked, Part Two

As you perhaps know, I learned how to write well by reading bad writing: specifically, online porn. After years and years of frequenting websites specializing in dirty fiction, I’ve encountered literally every mistake a young writer can make, and I’ve catalogued them so I don’t fall in the same trap.

If you’d like to improve your own writing, see if you can spot the errors in the examples below.

1. Mark really liked Stan, and he was determined to make him a boyfriend.

Unless Mark has been raiding graveyards, this statement is too ambiguous.

2. Ray was so glad Heinrich was the one out of the millions of people in the world who had taken his virginity.

I hope this is just a misplaced modifier, because, you know, probably the hundred thousandth person would have realized Ray had done it before.

3. It was just as I suspected! Phillip was burying the bone under my very own nose!

Avoid clashing colloquialisms. Here, for instance, it sounds like the writer is going to get a condition even Proactiv can’t cure.

4. Edwin put batteries in the massager and then rubbed the man with the tiny blue tool.

This is another misplaced modifier, unless my second husband is dating again.

5. Otto sucked greedily on his partner’s lips while his cock did the same thing down below.

I really don't have anything to say about this, other than Otto must be handy to have around when your Oreck breaks.

6. Carter was shameless! He blew me, the guy with the half-inch dick, and then Wolfgang.

Watch out when you're making lists, because from the way I read this, the author is only describing two guys.

7. When the security guard approached, Steve dropped his shorts and shot off due north.

Either the writer needs to use more concise verbs or somebody else uses a compass when they masturbate. Obviously the correct sentence is, "When the security guard approached, Steve dropped his shorts and evacuated."

8. The second time he asked me for a hand job I had to break it off.

What? What? You know, if you want to turn people off, just tell them his dick was so hard it could have knocked out a Nazi.

9. Wayne and Mike used to walk their dogs wearing tiny shorts that showed all their equipment.

Either this is a dangling modifier or my Snowflake ought to be grateful I’ve only bought him a little hat.

10. That night, Walter proposed, and soon he and Tadzio were planning their wedding reception. “We’re going to need some hors doeuvres,” Walter said. “After I take a dump, will you help me pick them out?”

I’m hoping the addition of an unrelated phrase horribly distorted somebody’s meaning. Otherwise, you know, if you want people to regret coming to your wedding, find a DJ who likes the Beach Boys.

Anyway, I hope you found this lesson fruitful. As I said, I recommend reading porn, if only for the writing lessons. It’s all those 12” dicks and gallons of cum that I find a little hard to swallow.

"Just put your arms out and think happy thoughts!" Peter says.

Wendy looks at him: at his bulging eyes, at his veiny legs, at his too-short tunic. "Actually, you know, I've got an early class tomorrow," so Peter says okay and flies home.

This looks like some weird Photoshopped joke, but I swear it's straight off of Google, and there's a thousand more images just like it. I saw it in an ad on Towleroad where it was being touted as the perfect side dish, and I thought, wait: I realize Americans are fat, but are we really considering butter a course these days? My sister eats it with a fork, but I thought it meant she was weird.

I've been staring at it for much of the morning, but I'm still mystified. I'm leaning toward the idea that these are microwave bags of mashed potatoes, except maybe they've added so much butter that they're legally obligated to call them "butter." But then what about the phrase "Made with 100% real mashed potatoes"? Obviously this is a bullshit line, like Taco Bell saying their tacos are made with 100% real beef. After you joke that yes, it's probably best they don't make tacos with imaginary beef, you realize it doesn't mean anything, because aside from that 100% real beef they could have added 100% real sawdust for all you know.

Essentially, it's saying it's made with mashed potatoes. Which must mean it's not mashed potatoes, because when you buy soup, it doesn't say "Made with 100% real soup!" on it. But this can't be butter because of the phrase "Tastes as good as homemade!" as the top. Surely they're aware that my sister is one of the few chicks around with her own churn. And if this is butter, what's the phrase "With butter" doing on there?

Just when I think I've decided, I slide my eyes down to the bottom.

To make this "Homestyle Creamy Butter" "With butter," you've got to add butter.

I decide to pick up a box for my sister's Christmas present, and think about something else.

A New Hampshire man has been accused of sexually assaulting his neighbor’s horse.

Police said they were sent out on a call concerning a man putting his hand and arm inside a horse’s vagina. They found Marian Wegiel, 63, in the corral and arrested him. He has been charged with cruelty to animals, fourth-degree sexual assault, third-degree criminal trespass and second-degree breach of peace.

Wegiel's attorney says he's a “decent human being" who has been “churchgoing all his life.” Wegiel denies abusing the horse, and says he was "comforting" it after it had been scared.

Ohmigod, this is ridiculous. It seems like every day there's another God-fearing saint in yet another preposterously bizarre sex scandal. Frankly, it frightens me to hear about stuff like --

Dude. No. NO!!!

Well, Okay, Then. I Guess It's Cool.

Mazda today announced the recall of 52,000 vehicles due to possible spider infestation. The Yellow Sac spider, whose bite is considered dangerous, has been discovered weaving webs in the car's fuel system, causing blockages which could eventually cause the gas tank to crack.

Asked why the spider was only infesting Mazdas, Communications Director Jeremy Barnes replied, "Apparently, the spider likes to go zoom zoom."

So, every few years the government does these sex studies to find out who's boffing who. I'm not sure why it took three years to release the report covering 2006-2008, but it's out, and it's interesting. Just judging from the data, though, it seems that maybe the government wasn't quite as interested in us gays as the heteros. For instance, take a look at one table detailing exactly who does what.


Let's reconstruct the instructions to the interviewer using the data presented here.

1. Ask "Are you male or female?" Record answer.

2. Ask "Are you sexually attracted (a) only to the opposite sex, (b) mostly to the opposite sex, or (c) other?" Record answer.

3. Ask "Do you identify as (a) heterosexual, or (b) homosexual/bisexual?" Record answer.

4. If interviewee replied "heterosexual" to 3, ask "Have you had sex with anyone?" Record answer. If yes, ask "Was it the kind of sex where a man puts his penis in a woman's vagina?" Record answer. Ask "Was it the kind of sex where somebody's genitals are stimulated by somebody's mouth?" Record answer. Ask "Was it the kind of sex where a man puts his penis in a woman's bottom?" Record answer. Say, "Those are all my questions for today. Thanks! You've been very helpful."

5. If interviewee replied "homosexual" to 3, ask "Have you had sex with anyone?" Record answer. Say, "Thank you, but I've heard more than enough."

Two dope-dealing Staten Island brothers have been busted for growing a groovy garden of illegal foliage so intense that cops who raided the place got stoned.

The marijuana farm run by Keith Harrigan, 47, and 49-year-old brother Craig took in $1 million a year. "You almost got a contact high by just going into the house," said a law-enforcement source.

Police handcuffed the two men and took them to Laserium.

Dear Sarah,


Hope this helps,
RomanHans

The good news is, John Galliano hasn't alienated all of his high-society clientele with his anti-Semitic outbursts.

The bad news:

SCOOP! EXCLUSIVE PHOTOS OF HUGH HEFNER'S WEDDING!

Okay, it's really Halloween at the Playboy Mansion, but I bet if I photoshopped in some chick in a white miniskirt nobody would suspect a thing.

It Takes Twenty-Five Products to Make Gwyneth Paltrow Look Healthy

How did celebrity makeup artist Pati Dubroff get Gwyneth Paltrow to look healthy at the Academy Awards? Simple, Dubroff says. Rather than hiding that fabulous face behind a mask of cosmetics, Dubroff amplified her natural beauty with just twenty-five different products.

"It's a fresh-faced look I recommend for any woman," Dubroff insists. "With the light application of a moisturizer, Clarins Instant Smooth cream, sheer foundation, light-reflecting concealer, cream blush, cream bronzer, blond eyebrow pencil, blond powder shadow, taupe-gray cream eye shadow, champagne-sand cream eye shadow, taupe-gray matte powder eye shadow, bone color matte powder eye shadow, silver shadow, gold shadow, black mascara, individual eyelashes, eyelash glue, black liquid eyeliner, translucent face powder, peachy powder blush, powder highlighter, cream highlighter, rosy-toned lipstick, lip liner, and lip gloss, you can look healthy too!"

World Class Music

In the annals of popular music, the name Sylvia isn't exactly bold print. The single-named star, however, broke new ground in music as the first person to combine the protest music of the 1970s with sex, deftly mixing calls for the end of the Vietnam War with double-entendres, innuendo, and guttural moans.

While Have You Had Any Lately? only reached #14 on the charts, it succinctly answered the question, "Why didn't Bob Dylan and Donna Summer ever sing a duet?"

Have You Had Any Lately?
How long has it been, my friend, since you made a friend?
How long will it be, my friend, till you set me free? Oooh!
How long will it take, my friend, for your guns to cease?
How many boys have died, both Americans and Vietnamese?

I wanna know -- Ooh!
I wanna know -- Aah!
Have you had any lately? Good God!
I'm talkin' bout peace -- Ooh!
I'm talkin' bout peace -- Aah!
Have you had any lately?

All right now, let me ask you:
How many mothers will watch each year, protesting fear?
How many stomachs growl each day in sufficient pain? Ooh!
How long will it take, my friend, for the world to see
that this is a jungle -- it's not fit for humanity.

I wanna know -- Ooh!
I wanna know -- Aah!
Have you had any lately? Good God!
I'm talkin' about peace -- Ooh!
Have you ever made peace -- Aah!
Have you had any lately?

Now take this.
You took a mother's child who was born to be free.
You gave him a gun then you showed him your enemy.
Then guess what? Then he died for your so-called cause.
Now tell me: was it worth his life -- you should have given yours!

I wanna know, know, know, know, know.
I've got to know:
Have you had any lately? Good God!
I'm talkin 'bout peace -- Ooh!
Have you ever made peace -- Aah!
Have you had any lately?

Now now now,
My mama wants some.
My daddy needs some -- Mmh!
They haven't had any lately -- Good God!
My sister wants peace, peace, peace.
My brother wants peace, peace, peace.
They haven't had any lately.
Now now now,
My husband wants some.
I ain't had none -- Aah!
We haven't had any lately -- Good God!
Hippies want peace -- Aah!
Junkies need peace -- Ooh!
They haven't had any lately, now now now.
The world wants peace, peace, peace.
Just a little peace, peace, peace.

Sadly, Sylvia faded into obscurity with the failure of her follow-up, "I'm Gonna Make You Come (To Understand The Harm Caused by Unlicensed Weapons)."

Fabulous. Fabulous, fabulous, fabulous. Of course, being a gay man, you know I'm going to be entranced by the Oscars. But this year it really blew me away!

I was hooked from the pre-show chitchat on the red carpet. Loooved what's apparently become a new trend. Stars have always borrowed designer clothing or million-dollar necklaces in exchange for casually dropping the designer's name. Well, this year the stars actually wheeled housewares and home appliances down the red carpet. It looked like year-end clearance at some fabulous Wal-Mart.

Sharon Stone plugged her gown -- Armani, of course -- but also showed off the $20,000 worth of hand-carved Baccarat barware she was carrying. "Isn't this decanter lovely?" she asked Susan Holt of Access Hollywood. "A fourth-generation crystal craftsman etched every single one of those lines!" Jenna Elfman wheeled a high-efficiency Amana washer/dryer down the red carpet topped by a fuchsia bow that matched her Dior gown. "It uses half the water of a regular washer," she blabbed to Carmena Fischer of Entertainment Weekly. "And saving our planet's resources is what it's all about!"

From the opening bell it seemed like the telecast was itching for a fight between old Hollywood and new. They showed clips from Gone With the Wind, and later Salt. They played music from West Side Story, and later Randy Newman sang.

Yup, it's unanimous: It's new Hollywood by a knockout!

I laughed when Christian Bale defended Melissa Leo by saying he's dropped the F-bomb "plenty of times" before. That's real class, turning everything into a story about you. It certainly shouldn't have prompted Ms. Leo to run back onstage screaming, "Motherfucker! Cocksucker! Whore!" Luckily James Franco defused the tension by saying Winter's Bone had pulled out of Rabbit Hole and was now pounding on the King's Peach.

And I loved loved loved Kirk Douglas. How did he never win an Oscar? Heck, with his naughty asides to Ms. Hathaway he almost convinced me that he could still get an erection. I shed a tear for those long-gone times when you didn't move your face because you were a gladiator, not because it'd been disabled by Botox. Note to Nicole Kidman: Spartacrissy!

Kirk totally stole the show while somebody -- I think it was a female -- tried to accept some award. Note to Kanye: after you have a stroke and an eye job, we'll cut you some slack too! There was a standing O at my house when they finally dragged him offstage.

Anne Hathaway and Gwyneth Paltrow proved they could be singers if -- ha! -- the acting didn't work out. That song about Hugh Jackman was so funny I'm sending them a ditty about Adam West as we speak. And didn't Jennifer Hudson look pretty? That woman is a fabulous role model, showing everybody she isn't giving up her singing career because of a man. No, she's ditching it because of success.

Anne congratulated Hollywood on its diversity, and she got that right: straight white women played more lesbians than ever this year. It's like we were janitors at some high school: there were lesbos everywhere we looked! Okay, so there weren't a lot of African Americans in the program. In fact, I only saw two, one of whom was dead. But all those cute black kids more than made up for it. I'm sure Oscar isn't saying that, like dogs and cats and child stars, they just don't age well. Besides, hiring a hundred black kids for an hour is even better than hiring a grownup dude full-time.

For me, though, the absolute highlight had to be that closing montage of all the good bits from the new movies. I can't wait to see the King's Speech now! That narration was so, so moving! The king didn't stutter once during his --

Oh.

Like Melissa Leo said while wheeling her Amana Radarange back down the red carpet, "Shit-eating, motherfuckin' cunt!"

Metamucil is a big company, and they must spend lots of money to advertise. Maybe they'll fork over a small pile of cash, then, if I share this fabulous new contest with my readers.


Win a Heart to Heart with Dr. Oz! Mehmet Oz, M.D., is the award-winning host of The Dr. Oz Show, and he probably did something even before Oprah discovered him. Well, one lucky person will actually win a chance to speak to Dr. Oz!

Oh. Sorry. I guess I should have warned you first so you could brace yourself.

I can already hear your excitement. "What?" you ask. "Are you fuckin' kidding me? Why, ever since I was a small child I've dreamed of talking to a medical professional. I think my grandfather did once, though the doctor's reply was something on the order of, 'I'm on vacation; do I really have to be subjected to grilling by a bellboy?' I knew America was a fabulous country, but I didn't realize that I could actually win competent medical advice!"

Yes, imagine the envy of your neighbors as you float into the rarefied stratosphere of folks with adequate medical coverage like Donald Trump and Paris Hilton, who can actually speak to doctors and get replies back, and don't solve their medical problems by Googling phrases like "+arm +'shooting pain.'" If you overcome million-to-one odds, Dr. Oz might actually speak with you for an hour or more, and -- although there is no guarantee -- he may actually glance away from his Blackberry while he's talking.

Needless to say, there can only be one winner, and if Dr. Oz says something like, "You need an appendectomy stat!" it doesn't actually bind him to performing any kind of treatment or taking the slightest bit of interest.

By now you're probably saying this is too good to be true. "Are you sure this isn't just an appointment with Dr. Oz? And he'll keep me waiting eighteen hours before I'm finally met by some Jamaican woman whose only qualification, as far as I can tell, is owning a pair of blue scrubs?"

No, you will actually meet with Dr. Oz, and you'll get to ask him anything! Now you can confirm that something's definitely wrong when your eyeballs move independently. Now you can ask if it's okay that your testicles are as green and hard as hand grenades. Now you can find out why the creams you buy at Rite Aid won't stop that weird cauliflower growing on your ass.

Enter every day, and good luck to you all. Me, I'm just pleased as punch that one of my readers might get to see a real live doctor, though maybe not quite so thrilled that seeing a member of the medical profession in America is valued right up there with all-expense-paid trips to Disney World. I think that's why I'm shaking right now, though if I don't win I'll never know for sure.

Former Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin will be adding another stamp to her passport in March, when she takes a trip to India.

And when she comes back, look for her new book, "Tweet, Flay, Gov."

Well, I made a New Year's resolution that I'd find a way to make money off this blog, and now it's time to give it a try. I saw a commercial on TV last night for Golden Corral, that $10 buffet place, and I think if I reprint it here and a lot of people read it maybe they'll send me a check. The commercial went by really quickly so I might have gotten some of the dialog wrong -- and I purposely made the announcer a little more sensible, because it really cried out for an opposing viewpoint -- but I did my best.


STARTING FEBRUARY 15, GOLDEN CORRAL IS A SEAFOOD LOVER'S PARADISE!
SCENE: Mom, Dad, and two kids are standing on a white stage talking to an invisible announcer.

MOM: We're real seafood lovers. Who's got the best seafood tonight?

DAD: How 'bout some tilapia?

ANNOUNCER: Tilapia? Whoa, you're fuckin' shooting for the stars, dude. Let me get this straight: you're seafood lovers. You can ask me for any fish in the universe. Sea bass, tuna, halibut, swordfish. And you ask for a bottom-feeder that usually comes from the country that soaks children's toys in lead paint?

MOM: Maybe grilled? Or with a zesty sauce?

ANNOUNCER: Zesty sauce. Fine. Forget that, according to Wikipedia, farm-raised tilapia is just slightly worse for you than frostbite. How about our new Jalapeño Glazed Tilapia, drizzled with Jalapeño Glaze and garnished with jalapeño slices?

DAD: Sounds awesome! Do you have any more tilapia?

ANNOUNCER: Sadly, yes. Our new Sweet Pecan Tilapia is fried to a golden brown and topped with pecan pieces, adding some small semblance of flavor to a fish that has absolutely none of its own.

DAD: Mm. That sounds delish!

MOM: What about me? Do you have anything a woman would like?

ANNOUNCER: Sweetie, those two dishes aren't exactly covered in eyeballs. Well, we've got Seafood Newburg, which is pretty much a croissant on top of some kind of marine life.

MOM: Fabulous! And do you have a seafood salad for a real seafood lover?

ANNOUNCER: No. Our seafood salad is a blend of vegetables and Surimi crab, which contains about as much real crab as an Almond Joy. But Dad, I've got great news!

DAD: Wait. Gulp. Do you mean . . .

ANNOUNCER: Yes! Surimi is a processed fish paste made of many undesirable fishes, including tilapia.

DAD: Hooray! We're hooked!

ANNOUNCER: Awesome! And make sure to come back next month for Golden Corral's Meat Lover's Paradise.

DAD: Oh boy! Will they have bologna?

ANNOUNCER: Dude, shut up and get in the fucking car.

Day trip to Philadelphia. Back tomorrow.

When Absolut vodka invites you to a Lady Gaga afterparty, you go. You don't stop and think, "Well, I was going to eat that leftover Chinese, and then watch Face Off on TV." You decide whether you're going to dress hip or stylish, and then you hit the road.

I went for stylish. Unfortunately, the dress code was sports coats for males and meth tramp togs for females.

Now, I hadn't hung around a lot of heterosexuals recently, but I was shocked by how much they'd changed. Really, now Jon Gosselin lookalikes deserved two stick-thin, scantily-dressed Asian models? Really, now women couldn't cross their legs without the tops of their nylons being bared? Now unattractive dudes making out with smokin' hot chicks throw their hands in front of their faces when photographers appear?

The club, La Pomme on West 26th Street, could have been part of the problem. The decorator was obviously instructed to make the place look posh on a $700 budget, and that price included decorative plywood wall details, giant murals of kissing women, and twin stripper poles.

Rudolfo and I got there around elevenish, just in time to hear the DJ play every song recorded in 1972. I know it's not smart to go out before midnight, but I didn't realize they actually punish people who do. Eventually the place filled up, and the music went Top 40 and really loud. It was definitely an improvement: when it's loud enough to shake your clothing, even Katy Perry sounds okay. Two professionals took to the poles at precisely 11:45, trying to look sexy without actually moving. It was annoying, like watching a marching band walk an entire parade route without playing a note. At 12:15 the whistle blew and suddenly they were lithe Fred Flintstones racing to little stone homes.

By now, though, the party was in full effect. Chicks were holding their cellphones at arm's length to snap pictures of themselves having fun. They vastly outnumbered dudes, and not one of them weighed more than ninety pounds or had more than six inches of fabric below her waist. The lines for the stripper poles rivaled the ones at Space Mountain.

I was horrified. Rudolfo was thrilled. "We're walking on the wild side!" he crowed.

I smiled and got another Absolut Wild Tea, which is delightfully floral with undertones of lemon. And when disaster appeared, as always, it took a female form.

We'd noticed Cronkite the minute she'd walked in. She looked fun-loving and quirky, and moved just slightly faster than a mouse with its tail caught in a trap. She worked the stripper pole like a champ when all the other girls just grinded against it and moaned. When she'd worn off most of the silver, she turned her attentions to us. Rather than introducing herself with, "May I join you?" or "Is this seat taken?" she leapt on us like a golden retriever. She spat dialogue way too fast to be intelligible, though we hadn't seen her with a drink. "What are you guys doing," she yelled, "sitting here all gangsta?"

Rudolfo hollered something in her ear, and then she turned to me. "Really?" she asked excitedly. "He's your BOYFRIEND?"

A little pink butterfly fluttered in my stomach. That's a bit premature, I thought, considering it's our first date, but who I was I to argue with employed & hunky? "Yup," I said. "Totally. We're walking on the wild side tonight."

"I LOVE gay guys!" she said. "All my friends are gay guys! But let's make sure once and for all."

And that, kids, is how a forty-year-old Sicilian architect and a blogger who looks like Abraham Lincoln got their first lap dances.

Cronkite didn't actually wait for a reaction below Rudolfo's belt, because every inch above it was screaming "You seem like a delightful woman, but please GET OFF ME." He was leaning so far back, in fact, his head was in a different time zone. Thinking me a more likely prospect, Cronkite changed seats and my gay life flashed before my eyes. What happens if I get an erection? I wondered. Does it mean I'm bi? Will I have to download different porn? Will I have to buy ugly shoes? Somewhere a bird chirped and Cronkite's attention was diverted, though, and she climbed off and scampered away just as Rudolfo declared, "I'm on fire."

Really, this puzzled me. He didn't show the obvious signs of combustion. He wasn't engulfed in flame. Just judging from outward appearances, in fact, he could just have easily have been saying, "This rumaki is so tasty!"

"Are you sure?" I asked.

He turned and showed me the shoulder of his jacket, where he'd backed into a candle. "I put it out pretty quickly," he said. "Luckily it's fire retardant. It just kind of melted."

An odd smell enveloped the room, and reality smacked me like a hammer. "Is that coat polyester?" I asked.

Rudolfo scowled at me. "Are you really asking about the jacket before asking me if I'm okay?"

We stared at each other, without a word, and then pretty much simultaneously decided to hit the road. While we were cutting through the oblivious crowd, a man veered into our path with a camera, but we threw our hands in front of our faces and ran for the door.

Two days ago:

Open Letter to Westboro Baptist Church

We, the collective super-consciousness known as ANONYMOUS -- the Voice of Free Speech & the Advocate of the People -- have long heard you issue your venomous statements of hatred, and we have witnessed your flagrant and absurd displays of inimitable bigotry and intolerant fanaticism. . . .

ANONYMOUS cannot abide this behavior any longer. The time for us to be idle spectators in your inhumane treatment of fellow Man has reached its apex, and we shall now be moved to action. Thus, we give you a warning: Cease & desist your protest campaign in the year 2011, return to your homes in Kansas, & close your public Web sites.

Yesterday:

Today:

Kacey Jordan told Radar Online that she just had an abortion. She claims Charlie Sheen may have been the father but adds, "A week earlier I had been with another celebrity, so it could of [sic] been his. I get pregnancy very easily."

Well, I think that's understandable. I mean, Custer surrended at Little Bighorn, and he only got pounded by a couple hundred dudes a day.