Agent 00Comma: “If I don’t tell you, then I might have to kill you . . . for irritating me.”

Warning!

Below is a list of grammatical un-pleasantries which, upon hearing, can send even the most resilient Grammar Agent into a rabid editing streak. This list should not be read by small children, people with heart problems, or the Super Dialect Intolerant. If your hand begins to itch for a red pen while reading the list below, please separate yourself from this blog immediately and contact a physician or your local poison control. 

                ***I am Agent 00Comma, and my pencil-stache approves this message.

To begin:

               1) “I don’t care to,” means you do not care for, or desire to do, whatever it is I just suggested to you. It doesn’t mean you don’t mind. You’re not saying you want to help me, you’re telling me you don’t want to help me. Jerk.

                2) Yu’uns. This is not a word. You is both multiple and singular. I am not a yu’un, I am a “you.” What species is a yu’un?

A wild Yu'un with a pencil-stache appeared! Do you fight? Or run away? 

                3) Tortilla is not pronounced TOR-TILL-A. It’s pronounced TORR-TI-YAH. Respect the Spanish, bro.

                4) Quesadilla is not pronounced QWUES-EH-DILL-A. It’s CE-SE-DIY-A. Respect the Spanish, bro.

                5) “Totes,” are bags. Not adverbs. Ever.

                6) “Amaze-balls” is a contraction between amazing and balls. Two words that should not be contracted together for any reason. Except in playpens at Chuckie Cheeses. Those are some amazing balls.

              7) “Do you mind if I play with you guys?”

                 “Yeah, sure.”

                 Never say yes to a “do you mind” question because you are telling them yes, you do mind. 

                  And that’s mean, bro.

What are some of your grammar pet-peeves? Or just pets, if that's how you roll. 

Sexy-Five

               

 People used to joke that I was born forty-five, but now that I’m actually attempting to get into the “social media” my little sister is already fluent in, I’m pretty sure I’m actually sixty-five.

                I am not internet-retarded, I promise. I’m pretty sure my computer is permanently fused with my body, actually, because I don’t remember being without it. Really, I can’t remember now. Crap—are we fused at the memory part of the brain? What is that part, the hypothalamus? That’s actually the only part of the brain I can think of offhand because it sounds like “hippo,” so probably not.

                I digress. Like a sixty-five-year-old grandma.

                So what’s the first thing I did when I set out to make myself a social media platform (platform? Stage? Performing monkey show? Idk, guys)? Make a lot of stupid, desperate blogs that did everything but type out “love me, like me, read about me” in all caps. Now, after some supercaligrajulisticexpialidocious research, I’m attempting the same thing, only this time with a lot more theoretical knowledge, and a lot less desperation. Kind of.

                Why did I originally resist the wave of social media that should have instantly adopted me as one of its own? Well, besides being born sixty-five, I suffer from what I like to call chronic-lurking. Even in high school, I was a lurker, except with a less creepy connotation. Probably. Though there was that one time, with the peanut butter and someone’s foot…

                Anyway, I like to sit on the sidelines, observing, considering, biding my time, before I pounce on what I want (to all future boyfriends, you have been warned). I did it in high school, I did it in college, and now I’m doing it on the internet.

                Or, if I want to blatantly honest like everyone is on the internet (snerk), it could be more accurately chalked up to this: if my pride was a Pokémon, my HP would be in the red every time I tried to convince people to read my stuff.

                Blogging is dangerous. Almost as dangerous as those guys who keep spinning like psychos on the path to the next Pokémon gym. They always make me break out in a cold sweat.

                Anyway, I’m ready to take this internet-world by storm—or by accident, whichever way it works. I’ve just decided not to care too much. If you guys decide to stick around for my quirks, stories, life-blurbs, and terrible Nintendo and fandom references, feel free. If not, eh, hasta la vista. See you later. Have a good life; especially if you actually are sixty-five! You’ve earned it, pal.

                 But you know, now that I think about it, when I’m actually in my “Sixties,” I’m going to make people say I’m in my “Sexies.” Future children, prepare yourselves.