Terrance – Last Word – Why I hate editors and the u in labor

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Terrance on Words is a flite of fancee. An anarchistic rant on the power of hybrid vigor and why editors piss me off. Photo by Beethoven. (Too soon?)

TERRANCE on WORDS

Everything I need to know I learned in rehab.

But the rest?

I get on the internet. Here’s what you need to know about the internet. Bill Gates’s word and most spelling programs will ask you to jam an upper case onto that bitch.

Don’t. Refuse. internet should not be capitalized even when it starts a sentence. Because the internet is above the fray and sturm and drang. It exists existentially as a breathing paradigm shorn of the niceties of Landers, Chicago style and bleedin’ bloody canadian press style.

Those that demand that internet be written with an upper class i. Can all go to bleedin hell. The lurch of their pedantry pisses me off. The ego and id of churlish closed noodles.

From cp style the following screed.

Caps and Spelling is a handy reference that lists alphabetically the words, proper names and abbreviations most likely to cause problems for writers. This 19th edition, available in hard-copy and in a web-based searchable edition, draws on the suggestions and expertise of staff at The Canadian Press, containing new and updated references that reflect the needs of today’s writers and editors. Plus, a new section on compounds and hyphens and a new listing of Canada’s top publicly listed companies and their stock codes have been added. (Pound Salt Please!)

Whether you’re in journalism, communications, publishing or public relations, Caps and Spelling helps ensure accuracy and consistency when it comes to abbreviations, hyphenated and compound words, correct names of Canadian corporations and newsmakers, Internet terms, pop culture references and more. (Pound sand too!)

Oh and screw you too Grammar Girl. Here’s why. Write me after watching grammar witch if you don’t get why. But I thinks she covers the bases nicely.

See what I mean. grammar witch on some kind of peyote cut with valium and a lapse of personality.

Fuck you cp style. I hate these books. I hate the pedants who use ’em. They engender pomposity. They educate no one. Their attraction? To nose upwards elitists who think that tending this garden of style will enable them to eschew the ribald anarchy of the patois, which after all is the ripe humus and soil that engenders wild, ripe fruit of passion and debauchery. We are richer for those anarchists of language who roil midst a ripe field of flotsam and jetsam.

And eubonics and that N’orleans patter, or that texas drawl. The bastards of creole-french. The meandering metis collage of Newfoundland sounds. Odd spellings from greek terms that present our patch and garden with the coiled nuance of hybrid vigor. We are lost without that diversity of new unfolding literature.

Hip hop dichotomies and the meld of noun to verbage a literal gerund of profundity. I love my language, but wish I knew more. languages that is. french swiss icelandic. latin. spanish.

i love all language but especially the mighty profundity and clarity of the tortured drape of the half-breed.

To wit: That language that grows in the night outside a Louisiania bar. A tapestry of rich woody claptrap and rattle-snug. Literature is wonderful. Let us do our literature. Let us read our Yeats and Joyce. Let us peruse Willy Shakes with jaundiced eyes. Yellowed like an old manuscript.

And fuck the pedants who ask us to follow mores much better suited to Thomas More. And clandestine purists who mow their languid language lawns in straight unblemished lines.

The pedagogues. The deferential lords and ladies of the haute verbage can kiss my ass.

They are ugly pedantic morsels of Type A – yes i will uppercase that runt – pedagoguery and doggerel best left to weak-noodled iconoclasts – news editors – whose motive in this sweet scrummed life is to make their writers’ lives abysmal, hackneyed and trite.

“Ah, but Terrance,” an editor once said to me. “Ah, I see you failed once again to add the u to labor.”

“And your point?” said I.

Reply. Asking why.

“Because we live in Canada, and CP Style says that we use u with labour,” says my fickle congealed visage. That Type A diva. Whose aim in life methinks is to have a tombstone which reads:

“Ms. Harp. Editor. Writer. Humorless. Bleak spouter of rhetoric. Knew cp style. And. Was loved by… Pedants. And The Grammar Girl.”

My dream?

A life that shines a lite.

On that endless dewy nite.

Where site.

Is both seeing and url.

Where blites on bleak pastiche of this erth.

Shall move, perchance to dance.

In trance-atlantic-flites-of-fancee.

How do i say good nonce for nite?

Fuck you OU.

I take my labor seriously.

Without the id or narcissism of u.

For u are not i.

And i am not u.

Thank god for his small bestowments.

And i not u.

twitter.com/terrancegavan and gav@pardontheeruption.com

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