Let me apologize in advance if this letter is short and full of whines. I’ve heard nothing but bellyaching at work all week, and it’s starting to grate on me. Add to that the fact it’s been snowing most of the day – but only here at RWMC; everyone else seems to have blue skies – and you’ll understand why I’m in a poopy mood. Suffice it to say that there’s a lot of change going on here at work, and not everybody’s happy about it. I’ll roll with the punches because I kinda like this job, but I just wish I didn’t have to hear all the complaining. That gets old. (I hear a lot of the complaining because my cubicle is next to my boss, and sound travels.) I still say this place needs a scream room.
I also, apparently, need to use a weed whacker in my nostrils and ears. My left ear, especially, looks like I have sagebrush protruding from it. I guess it’s insurance if I ever go bald on top, I can grow it longer and comb it all over my head.
Earlier this week, I was reading in one of my textbooks and came across a rather dry reference to some obscure technical communication academic document, written by Dole and Sinatra. I had visions of Bob Dole and Frank Sinatra sitting at some smoky table in a Las Vegas casino, putting their heads together to write a boring tech comm document. The imagination can be a very frightening thing. Would Frankie be singing about witchcraft being strictly taboo (with the big lips) while Bob was sitting there, grumbling to himself that some punk stole his newspaper off the porch again? I’d like to think so.
Speaking of imagination, I was reading through Alma a few weeks ago and came across the story of Ammon converting King Lamoni and his, well, everybody. Because my brain is malfunctioning, I had a vision of King Lamoni starring in a Mr. Rogers Neighborhood-like TV show, talking about non-violence, taking a chariot to the land of Nephi and such, with his catch phrase being “I gave away all my sins to know thee, neighbor.” I haven’t shared this with Michelle yet because she’ll likely roll her eyes and think I’m a complete idiot. Please feel free to do the same. I’ve also started to view the Large and Spacious Building as some kind of a mall, complete with a food court. I get weirded out every time we go to the Grand Teton Mall now. Thank heaven it’s not that often. So, do you think all of this is a sign that I’m beginning to really, truly absorb the Book of Mormon, or do you think it’s a sign of mental illness? Since I spent most of this week resisting the urge to put a paper bowl on my head at work, you know what direction I’m leaning. Uh-oh. Dangling participle. Quick! Call in the guy who knows what an Oxford comma is.
Ah HAAAAAAH! When you brought up the Oxford Comma a few letters back, both Michelle and I were dumbfounded. Well, I was dumb, she was founded, so together we made a set. Anyway, I speculated at the time that an Oxford Comma is that superfluous comma we’re forced (at work) to insert before the “and” at the end of a list. I was right, at least according to AskOxford.com. So neener neener, little brother. Now I know what you’re doing. Grubbing about and planting evidence of Oxford Commas to topple my position as the most popular member of the flat. Well, it won’t work. I like how AskOxford explains its use: optional, to be included by preference, but certainly when the “items listed are not single words.” Journalistic circles omit the comma entirely, of course, since our goal there is to constantly befuddle and annoy English majors.
Well, I must go. It’s almost time to go home, and I wouldn’t want to miss the bus. Hang in there.
