Monthly Archives June 2001

On Censoring

Posted on June 2, 2001 by Porter Mason

It’s time for another edition of Porter’s Grammar and Style Shack, where I, Porter Mason, teach you how to improve your writing. And boy howdy does your writing need improving. Especially if you are Ayn Rand.

Today’s Lesson: Censoring

It’s good to censor yourself. It’s always a tough thing to do, but I think you’ll find that if you learn to censor yourself properly, you’ll become a better writer. I know, I know. You want to make sure you hold on to your “artistic integrity” and “street cred” by leaving in potentially offensive sentences. You want to appear “edgy” and “cool” to all your high-brow readers. Well, here’s a newsflash: you don’t get popular by being offensive, and you don’t get a paycheck unless you’re popular. Name me one writer or artist who ever achieved fame and fortune through controversy surrounding his/her offensive work. Can’t think of one can you? That’s because all the great masters in any field know the secret to being successful is sticking with the status quo and not upsetting anyone. So, you’re better off just censoring yourself, conforming to the masses, and comprimising your creative vision for a few extra bucks. Ruffling feathers doesn’t make the hens lay eggs. Great adage, huh? I just wrote it myself. It’s brilliant, I know. That’s why I am the teacher, and you are the student. Never forget it.

So…censoring. Why do it? Well, there are some offensive phrases that you’re better off leaving out of a sentence so as not to upset the reader. For example, consider the sentence:

“Excuse me for a moment,” said Jillian, “I’m going to go pee in the toilet, you whore-slut.”

The phrase to censor here is “in the toilet.” Your audience will probably assume this. And they will be upset at you, the writer, for thinking they wouldn’t. “Of course she’ll pee in the toilet, you clod,” they’ll exclaim. “Where else would she pee? You idiot! I hate your writing! I think I’d rather read Atlas Shrugged!”

Readers can be harsh. But the problem is easily solved, just censor out the unwanted phrase. In this case you would simply write:

“Excuse me for a moment,” said Jillian. “I’m going to go pee, you whore-slut.”

Problem solved, the sentence is now non-offensive. Here’s another example, try to see if you can spot the phrase that can be censored:

“Au revoir, asshole! Why don’t you get your head out your ass and shut the hell up!” commented Joe.

That’s right, the unnecessary phrase is “au revoir.” It’s French, and if it’s one thing all readers hate, it’s the French. Even French readers don’t like to read French. So we just censor it right out. The sentence will be much better off without it. Witness:

“Asshole! Why don’t you get your head out your ass and shut the hell up, bitch!” commented Joe.

See? We even had room now to add in “bitch” at the end! Oh, the wonders of censoring!

Now, it’s sometimes also the case that you can remove whole sentences from paragraphs. That’s right, sometimes a sentence is better left off the page. Let’s take a look at this example from a book entitled Winky, Why One Man Remained Alone:

Winky waited for Delilah to return. For seventeen years, Delilah never so much as made a damn phone call to the house because she was a smelly buttface. God damn her and all her assheaded idiotic skanky shenanigans. Delilah was clearly a whore-slut, a two bit ho-banger. Winky never got over this damaging abandonment. He would remain alone for the rest of his life because of it.

So what should we censor? Well, think about it like this: when you were reading the passage, which sentences made that little voice in your head called Your Better Judgement stop and say, “Hey, this is wrong.” Thought about it? Got it? Know which ones to censor?

Yup, that’s right, all those silly sentences involving Winky. The paragraph is better written as:

For seventeen friggin’ years, Delilah never so much as made a damn phone call to the house because she was a friggin’ smelly buttface. God friggin’ damn her and all her friggin’ assheaded idiotic friggin’ skanky shenanigans. Delilah was clearly a friggin’ whore-slut, two bit ho-banger.

Oh mama! Now that is one tight paragraph! That reads like a bestseller! We cut out all that tripe about Winky, and the paragraph just opened up a lot, huh? And see how we got a chance to use a great modifier: “friggin’.”

Now, I know what a lot of you are thinking. What about the title of the book, Winky, Why One Man Remained Alone? We just censored all of Winky and why he remained alone. So what’s to be done about that title? No problem. We just censor it! Some possibilites are:

One Friggin’ Man
Friggin’ Alone
Friggin’ Why
or
Delilah the Whore-slut

Wow! Those are some great titles! Somebody better call that New York Post bestseller list! (Note: When you think of four great titles for one book like we just have, you really should just write three more books, so as not to waste any of these great titles.)

So there. You now know why censoring is so important, and you have the skills to make it happen. So get out there, and friggin’ get writing unless you are the whore-slut Ayn Rand!

Porter

On One Cat’s Addiction

Posted on June 3, 2001 by Porter Mason

Fluffers was a good cat. He never worried his owner. He never ran off. He didn’t hang around with strays.

But just like so many other bright young cats his age, Fluffers had a problem. A problem that would one day kill him.

It all started back when he was about three years old. He was playing with a small rubber ball on the kitchen floor. He rolled it to and fro, fro and to. Suddenly, his front left paw slipped on the cold linoleum, and he began to fall toward the floor. He threw his front right paw out to stabilize himself, but it landed on the ball, which then shot across the kitchen. He was now completely off balance; he flipped and fell on his back.

Fluffers wasn’t really hurt, except for maybe his pride. But no one had been around to see his stumble. No big deal. He dusted himself off, and began to leave the kitchen.

Then he froze.

Where did the ball get to? he thought. It had shot across the floor, but he was flipped over by the time it had been settled. Where was that ball? Fluffers felt his mouth salivating. His mind raced with ideas: maybe the ball went under a cabinet, maybe it was in the other room, maybe it bounced and was up on the counter….

So many possibilities. Fluffers’ mind was in a daze. His heart raced. His little chest pounded with exhilaration. Where was the ball?! He couldn’t stop thinking about it. He was feeling more alive than he’d ever felt. Where was it!!??? WHEEEEEERE!?!!

Then the ball rolled up against his back leg.

Oh, thought Fluffers. There it is.

The wondering was over. But the damage was done.

Fluffers was hooked.

It started off with small things. He’d purposely lose track of the ball, then wonder where it might have gotten to. He’d think about the food his owner gave him and wonder where he bought it from.

It all seemed harmless enough.

Then he started getting into bigger stuff. Fluffers would stare at the TV for hours, trying to figure out how it worked. He’s look out the garage window at his owner’s car, wondering what kind of mileage it got. He wondered about mirrors, wondered about wind chimes, wondered about food processors. He couldn’t even get through a day without wondering at least once why trees had bark or why glass was transparent. He was becoming dependent. His hunger for knowledge became insatiable. He learned to read. He came across Sartre’s “No Exit” and discovered existentialism. He was incapacitated for days.

Then he began getting into the really dangerous stuff: subatomic physics, relativity, quantum mechanics. He couldn’t help himself. With Stephen Hawking as his unwitting junkie, he explored the very fabric of the Universe itself.

And then, for Fluffers, the bottom dropped out: he received a grant from the National Science Foundation.

He built a lab in the basement of his owner’s home. He conducted cutting edge research. He developed solar powered cars and generators that formed energy from common household baking soda. He discovered new galaxies, new stars, new planets. He contacted alien races. He perfected time travel. He photographed God.

All for the kicks. All for the thrills.

But just like all addicts before, Fluffers was doomed. For every thrilling high, there was always a brutal crash. He had become too knowledgeable. All the world’s enticing unknowns were now known to him. He had made sense of grand unified theory. He had reached Nirvana. He even understood why NBC had invested so much time and money in “The Stephen Weber Show” despite its poor concept and terrible cast.

He knew all that there was to know in life. The only unknown…was the afterlife.

On May 15th, 1998, Fluffers lifeless body was found in a hotel bathroom in Detroit. He’d been in the city in April for a string theory convention, but he hadn’t been answering phone calls for the entire month of May.

Now, as for me, I like to think Fluffers didn’t die in vain. He taught us how much knowledge is too much, about how you can take something too far, about the thin line between genius and insanity. Because if nothing else, we all saw what really happened to this brave soul. We all knew what really caused his demise. The official death certificate declared that Fluffers had “choked on his own vomit,” but everyone knew the real story.

Curiosity had killed this cat.

Porter

On Personal Space at Concerts

Posted on June 17, 2001 by Porter Mason

Here at T.J. Monkey’s, we are blessed. We are blessed because we have a forum with which to express opinions to the huge masses of people who read the site each and every day (re: Bret and some girl named Nikki). And that’s why today, I take a break from my usually hilarious, off-beat, quirky fiction, and delve into the realm of the Public Service Announcement.

Today’s Public Service Announcement:

Attention! People who go to the rock and roll music concerts that take place in smallish venues: You are going to be crowded.

Yes, you see, when you go to a concert, in a little club that can fit about 100 people, and about 120 people show up, there isn’t a lot of space. So, often you will be in very cramped quarters, and people may bump into you, or step on your foot, or push you a bit. This occurs a lot at concerts because sometimes…some people dance! I know, this is also very shocking. I mean, what are these people thinking?! Going to concerts isn’t about dancing and enjoying the music! It’s about standing around and staring blankly at the band and paying a lot for alcohol, so later you can tell other people that you were there. I don’t know what kind of drugs these “dancing” people are on, but it’s probably not the “cool” kind.

Anyway, when you go to a concert, you’re going to get bumped and pushed and shoved a bit.

Apparently many of you do not know this. Apparently this news will come as quite a shock to a great deal of the concert-going community. And apparently many rock and roll fans have severe spatial relations problems because half the time I bump into someone at a concert, I get one of three responses:

  • The Look of Death (wherein someone is trying to disembowel me simply by staring at me very hard with an annoyed look on their face)
  • The “Excuse Me?” (wherein someone is trying to imply that I should’ve said “excuse me” by saying “excuse me” to me in a very whiny voice; very effective)
  • The Reverse Bump (a throwback to the “eye for an eye” rule of law wherein some attempts to bump me the same way I bumped then so I “get a taste of my own medicine” and hopefully “learn my lesson”)

So listen up everybody, and listen up good: I’m not bumping into to you on purpose; there’s just no room. And you know what else? You’re bumping into me too. I’m just not a dick. So wipe that stupid-ass surprised/shocked look on your face every time my elbow grazes your back.

I mean, I guess I’m just wondering, have you ever been to a concert before? You didn’t buy a seat, OK? Your ticket says “General Admission” just like everybody’s. You didn’t buy some finite sphere of personal space around you. You just bought the right to be in the room. That’s it. And if you don’t want to be bumped and pushed then go to the back of the freakin’ room. There’s tons of space back there! Tons of it! Or here’s an idea: don’t come to the concert! Stay at home! Or better yet: go to the nearest state park and find a big field! You can run around and spread out your arms and have as much space as you need! Yippee! Woo hoo!

But you really must stop standing in front of me at concerts and getting pissed when my foot hits yours. Because you know what, my foot’s gonna hit yours. I just can’t help it. The guy behind me spilled his beer, and the girl next to me almost burned me with her cigarette, and everybody in the entire crowd is jumping up and down, and for a brief second there, remembering not to smudge your Vans was not priority number one for me.

As a final note, many of you people who are annoyed by the close quarters of a concerts seem to be girlfriends of guys who don’t really mind it at all. If you girls could stop reading for a second, I have a message for the guys: Dump these girlfriends. Now. They are lame and obviously don’t share your interests. I’m not a psychologist, but I am a humor writer and therefore qualifed to make life decisions for you. Dump them. Now. Over the phone.

All right, well, I think we’re all set now. I’ve gotten my message out.

Thus Endeth Today’s Public Service Announcement

So. Now everyone who reads this site now knows what’s up. My next concert experience will probably be perfect.

As long as I’m standing next to Bret and Nikki.

Porter