What’s really happening with punctuation now.
How various specialists organize things
Doctors: In files, patiently.
Massage therapists: Manually.
Information Technology students:
Undergrads: In file systems.
Graduate students: In databases.
PhD: In qubits kept in machine-learning systems.
Historians: In middens, most recent on top.
Logicians: In symbols, logically.
Billionaires: In personal assistants and flunkies.
Theoretical physicists: In quantum fields.
Experimental physicists: In measurements and error bars.
Network engineers: In packets and subnets.
House painters: In buckets.
Starbucks employees: In cups (Demi, Short, Tall, Grande, Venti, Trenta).
Charismatic preachers: In revelations and tongues.
Prophets: In signs and wonders.
Astrologers: In star charts and sun signs.
FBI Special Agents: In cases.
Judges: In dockets, judiciously.
Writers: In plots, characteristically.
A friend emailed, said he’s Scotch
Scotch is a form of whiskey. The people are Scots.
I replied, “How that got into your ancestry must be an interesting story. Does this mean you’re immune to hangovers? Do you have to pay alcohol import duties on yourself when you travel? Are you flammable?”
He hasn’t responded yet. Maybe someone poured him back into the bottle and he can’t get out.
Don’t be stuck in the bottle. Grammar matters.
Whatever happened to this storm trooper?
The one that said, “These are not the droids we’re looking for.”
His failure ended his career and he was thrown out of the Imperial service there on Tattoine. He became a regular at the Mos Eisley Cantina, drowning himself in the bitter clutches of drink until he finally died homeless, alone and scorned by Imperials and rebels alike as “weak minded.”
I feel macho
I feel studly
But I’m just a
pile of ugly
©2019 David W. Jones
A rich snooty asshole orders an Uber after escaping unharmed from a car crash. Only one that shows up is a rusty Yugo. Argues with driver but gets in.
Discovers that instead of driving him directly to destination, it drives slowly through every place his friends/peers/rivals gather so they see him. He hears their comments, laughter, derision.
When he tries to get out, door won’t open. Driver turns a demonic face toward him and says, “Sorry, you died in that crash. Welcome to Hell!”
How To Start A Plot
“Well, a twelve-volt battery has always worked for me.”
“Except post-modern literature. Then you need 24 volts.”
© 2020 David W. Jones
WuMo by Wulff & Morgenthaler for June 27, 2019 – GoComics
Well, it was that or start writing the Great American Novel. Results might have been the same either way.
Make up your mind
On the door of a local plate lunch place: