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Diary of a Flu
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2005
6:00 am - Stupid alarm clock. I really -- oh jeez, I feel awful! Body aches and I think I'm going to faint. Where is snooze button?
6:09 - Stupid alarm clock. Need to -- oh no. Have the flu. Gaah, legs ache horribly. Can't even -- Gaah! Room won't quit spinning.
6:10 - So freakin' cold in here. Must have fever
6:15 - Realize can't think in complete sentences. Personal pronouns and denominators dropped indiscriminately.
6:20 - Is this sign that fever is burning brain? Will I be silent witness to own mental deterioration as brain slowly parboils inside skull?
6:25 - No! That's stupid. I always hallucinate when I get the flu.
6:26 - There, see? I said "I." Not going stupid after all.
6:30 - Need to call the office and tell them not coming in.
6:45 - Did I actually call office, or just think that?
6:50 - There. Left a voice mail that I'm not coming in.
6:55 - Did I actually call office, or just think that?
7:00 - That should do it. Voice mail is so great. Inventor of voice mail should be given parade and a medal. Will organize that as soon as am well again.
7:05 - Did I actually call -- oh wait, yes I did.
7:06 - This is awful. Need drugs or herbs or healer from Dark Ages with jar of leeches.
7:07 - Honey, wake up. I'm sick. Can you get me some Motrin?
7:10 - I'm so cold. It's freezing in here. And I'm out of blankets. Where's my stupid Motrin?
7:15 - Honey, I'm sick. Where's Motrin?
7:16 - What do you mean I didn't ask for Motrin?
7:17 - Never mind, I'll get it myself.
8:30 - How did I end up on floor? So cold.
1974 - Mommy, can I go play with Doug? He got a new bike and he said I could ride it.
9:30 - Still on floor. And it's freezing. And dark. Where's Motrin?
9:32 - Slowly our hero and his intrepid band made their way toward the land of Motrin. They had to return the Ring to the Crack of Doom. It was the only way to stop horrible aching in joints.
9:35 - Think I'm in bathroom. If I could open my eyes a little further, I could tell. But that hurts my head. Ah, think I found the Motrin.
9:40 - Uh-oh. What happens if a guy takes Midol? It doesn't say anything on the stupid bottle about side effects. Should call poison control center.
9:45 - Never mind. Can't be that bad. I already feel like I'm going to die, so what's the worst that can happen?
9:50 - Have sudden urge to walk on beach with my mother and talk about personal freshness.
10:30 - How did I end up on bathroom floor? Was in bed just a few minutes ago. Feel awful. Better call office and let them -- never mind. Did that already.
10:45 - Better go downstairs. Check on children.
10:50 - Wheee! Sliding down stairs face first is fun. I'll have to do that again later when I'm not so cold.
11:00 - Must be dead. Hear Mister Rogers voice calling me to other side. Wants me to be his neighbor.
11:05 - Wait. Am on living room couch. Kids watching Mister Rogers.
11:10 - If I'm so sick, how do I have the presence of mind to write all this down?
11:15 - Because I'm a writer. It's such a terrible burden to be such a creative genius. We're on all the time. Even when sick, I can still be funny.
11:20 - Two dogs walk into a bar. First one says "Ow my nose!"
11:21 - I crack myself up. Have to remember that for column.
11:30 - Oh no. Mister Rogers is over. Barely have strength to snap with him at end of show. Feel like crying whenever he says -- oh goody, Teletubbies is on.
11:45 - Gaah, Teletubbies are crawling on me! Get 'em off! Get 'em off!
11:46 - Oh wait, it's just the children.
11:47 - Kids, Daddy is sick. Can't crawl on me like that. Must stay on couch.
11:50 - Yes, I know I'm not using personal pronouns. You don't need to correct me about that, you're only four. And since when did you grow wings?
12:30 pm - Am still on living room couch. Don't know where wife is.
12:31 - Kids, where's Mommy?
12:38 - What do you mean, she's sick? She can't be sick. I need help. Tell Mommy I'm sicker.
1:00 - Ewww, you're right. She's sicker. Tell her she can clean it up when she's better.
1:30 - Do you know how to call Grandma? Good. Call Grandma and have her pick you guys up because Mommy and I are sick.
1:35 - What do you mean, Grandma got you 30 minutes ago? Then who have I been talking to?
1:40 - Gaah! Teletubbies! Teletubbies are on me!!
4:00 - I'd better call the office and tell them I'm not coming in.
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Erik Deckers
(published week of February 3rd, 2005)
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Punctuation Sticklers Unite
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2005
Punctuation miscreants, beware. There's a new punctuation book in town, called "Eats Shoots and Leaves," by British punctuation stickler, Lynn Truss. She condemns the illiterate, stupid, and greengrocers of the world, who misuse and abuse proper punctuation.
You know the ones. These are the people who put apostrophes in things like "DVD's," "1970's," or "it's" for the possessive of "it." They misplace commas, and are never sure if they mean "woman, without her, man is helpless" or "woman, without her man, is helpless."
Truss rails against them and urges the grammar mavens of the world to rise up in protest against the slow tortuous death of the English language.
"Sticklers unite, you have nothing to lose but your sense of proportion, and arguably you didn't have a lot of that to begin with," she admonishes us.
Maybe she's right. We don't have a sense of proportion. It's not a big deal if people write things like "i'ts" or "your on fire," right? I mean, there are more important things in life to worry about, and this is just a teeny-tiny little problem that is hardly worth our attention.
So why is it like fingers on a chalkboard to some of us? What is it about a misplaced apostrophe, a missing hyphen, or those people who refer to this . . . as "dot dot dot" instead of "ellipsis" that sets our teeth on edge?
Self-satisfaction is part of it. We feel good about ourselves. There's just something gratifying about feeling smarter than other people.
Oh, I know. Were not supposed to feel that way. Everyone is equal and no one is better than everyone else, right? Then why did you feel a smug little spark of victory when you discovered I missed the apostrophe in "we're" in the second sentence of this paragraph?
See what I mean?
We also feel a sense of belonging. We're in a special club. A club made up of people who know things that others don't, like the true name of "dot dot dot," or what an Oxford comma is. (It's the last comma before "and," as in "gold, silver, and bronze.")
I, for one, love the Oxford comma. I have lived and died by that little comma for years. Most journalists ignore it, some editors have been known to draw and quarter writers for using it, but I have stuck to my guns. I even got into a heated argument with my college newspaper editor about it. Just knowing that this particular comma has a name makes it even more special. And it makes me a charter member of the know-it-all club.
Of course, there are some people who look down on us punctuation sticklers as dorks in dire need of better sense of proportion.
"Get a life," they hiss at us. "God, who cares?" they ask mockingly.
I saw a t-shirt with "your retarded" written on the front. When someone would comment on the error -- it should say "you're retarded" -- the slack-jawed, mouth-breathing wearer could then point out that the other person was the retarded one, because they didn't get the joke.
Personally, I think it was a mistake by the dunderheaded moron who wrote the t-shirt, but didn't realize his gaffe until it was too late.
"Hey, I know," he said to himself, between bites of Ramen noodles, as he watched professional wrestling on TV, "I'll say it's a joke and make the smart people feel dumb." He then nearly choked to death on a Ramen noodle, because he was breathing through his mouth and chewing at the same time.
Oftentimes, punctuation sticklers are often hurt and confused by other people's unwillingness to learn basic punctuation rules. "We're only trying to make you a better person!" we wail.
These anti-punctuation snobs are just jealous. They're jealous of our rapier punctuation wit and our ease at spotting errata they otherwise missed. At least that's what my mom would say. She often said things like this when I was a young boy, which was particularly helpful at times, like when mean kids made fun of my pants.
Unfortunately, our efforts are often unappreciated or wasted, which is a shame, because the scoffer only ends up looking like more of a moron than they already did.
I remember several years ago, driving past a local printing company whose billboard advertised for a press operator position. "Experience nesessary," the sign said. I called them and pointed out the error. After all, a printing company should be able to spell correctly, right?
"You need a 'C' in necessary," I told the woman on the other end. She thanked me rather snottily, and said someone would fix it. I could hear the "get a life" undertone in her voice.
Given all the stories I had heard about this particular company, I wasn't too surprised the next day when I saw the correction they had made.
"Experience nessecary."
Now who's the dork?
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Erik Deckers
(published week of February 10th, 2005)
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I'm Still No Good at Basketball
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2005
In each person's life, there are those defining moments -- the moments that make us who we are. Moments that, if our life was a movie, older voiceover versions of us would say, "at that moment, I knew my life would never be the same."
(Warning: sarcasm and irony approaching.)
I had one of those moments when I joined the 8th grade wrestling team. It was a proud time for me, and one that I've cherished for lo, these past 24 years.
It happened after I had failed in my rather laughable attempt to join the 8th grade basketball team. I remember my first -- and last -- day of tryouts. The coach, Mr. Johnson, split us into two groups, the kids who had basketball talent out the wazoo, and the hopeless klutzes who couldn't identify a basketball in three tries.
I was in the second group, having previously identified the basketball as "a funny looking ball" and "a basket of kittens." I wasn't much of a basketball player, since I had spent the past four years playing soccer.
Mr. Johnson went off with the new McKinley Middle School Fighting Watchamacallits. Meanwhile, the wrestling coach, Mr. Reed, helped Mr. Johnson by watching the rest of us for any signs of greatness.
He was asleep in five minutes.
A few years earlier, I had the misfortune of having Mr. Reed as my grade school gym teacher. Mr. Reed was a jerk of a teacher who made himself feel superior by making little kids feel like athletic dopes. He didn't do things like humiliate us on the climbing ropes. He was more of the sneer-and-cutting-comment kind of gym teacher.
"That's the worst game of dodge ball I've ever seen a bunch of eight-year-old boys play! The girls throw better than you, and they throw like girls!"
I never liked the guy, so you can imagine my disappointment when I learned he had followed me to middle school.
I knew I wasn't going to make the basketball team, but I tried anyway. I held onto a slim hope that maybe I would impress Mr. Johnson, that he would happen to be looking away from his new stars and watch me make an incredible play. He did. Right at the very moment I was chasing down a loose ball and kicked it out of bounds.
I told you I wasn't good at basketball.
Needless to say, I wasn't too surprised when my name wasn't on the new team roster. But I still wanted to do something sports-related that winter. So I swallowed my pride and asked Mister Reed if there were still any openings on the wrestling team.
I'll never forget what he said. He looked at me briefly, and then turned to walk away.
"Sure, Deckers, we take losers," he called over his shoulder. "Be at the wrestling room after school."
(At that moment, I knew my life would never be the same. . . ?)
Wow, thanks Mister Reed. There's nothing like words of encouragement from an alleged role model to make an impressionable youth feel accepted and overwhelmed with self-worth.
Something inside me snapped. I was no longer a 13-year-old boy, I was a maelstrom of destruction. As Mr. Reed walked away, I leaped on his back and tried to put him in a chokehold I had watched Dick the Bruiser do on pro wrestling.
Okay, that didn't really happen. Not even close. I didn't do anything.
I didn't even point out that since he was our coach, that made him the head loser, because I was not that clever or quick back then. Instead, I did what any 13-year-old basketball reject would do. I joined the wrestling team.
But I swore that someday I would show Mr. Reed how wrong he was. And now, as an adult, I can. I could call him up and remind him of that day, and see if I could make him cry with guilt. I could use the wrestling skills he taught me, and pin him in a moment of irony and poetic justice. I could even -- if I felt like it -- write an entire column about how I, at 13-years-old, thought he was a mouth-breathing, pigeon-toed jerk.
Not that I'm bitter or anything.
But I don't know where he lives. And I haven't wrestled in 24 years. So the last option is my only one. Besides, I'm not too worried about doing this in a written column, because he won't read it anyway. My column doesn't appear on the sports page.
That, and his lips would get too tired trying to read this far.
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Erik Deckers
(published week of February 17th, 2005)
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