Don't Quote The Reaper
This morning during my commute on my beloved 1 train I was doing my usual Monday check-in with my fellow New Yorkers while standing pressed firmly betwixt them. (”Morning everyone...it's Monday...How were your weekends? Mine was fine, saw a movie, did some laundry, but don’t worry, I missed this crowded train, burying my face in your back, Man-in-Suit. Don't feel left out, Dominican-Youth, I longed to hear the tinny Reggaeton blasting from your earbuds and your too-loud iPod. And you, Wet-Behind-The-Ears-Blonde-Kappa-Delta-turned-Publishing-Hound, I missed sharing awkward stares with you as well as you manhandle that bagel.”)
In the fray of all this catch up, my eyes turned to tragedy. I noticed a roughed out tattoo on a man's forearm. It was a picture of the grim reaper, draped in his black robe and wielding that ominous scythe, staring at me with fiery piercing eyes. With his hand and one bony finger outstretched, he pointed to me menacingly, delivering a message of doom. This message, coincidently, appeared on a parchment banner below the feared reaper (Blue Oyster Cult, I'm sorry, but I FEAR him, I can’t help it):
"YOUR NEXT"
Wait...uh, does that mean I'm gonna die..or is he talking about "my" next (whatever that would be)? Because he clearly wasn't saying "YOU'RE NEXT". "YOUR NEXT" is what was written on the banner o' doom.
Now, as funny as this grammatical malfunction is, I feel a little bad for my fellow train buddy. Because without some seriously painful laser surgery, or some seriously diligent Sharpie work, that reaper - and that guy's arm - are forever marked with this faux pas, this confused message: Your Next....YOUUUUR NEXT!!!
It’s sort of like Dan Quayle’s misspelling embarrassment of 1992. The whole nation laughed at our former Vice President and it was forever burned into the annals of history (however, correctly spelled). But at least he just wrote his word on the chalk board and “Potatoe” isn’t emblazoned on his forearm. On a parchment banner. Below a skeletal potato. Holding a scythe. In a grim reaper outfit. Now that’d just be ridiculous all around.
This whole ordeal makes me thankful for spellcheck. As I’ve typed this I’ve misspelled no less than 37 words (I may not be able to spell...but I can count like Rain Man on ritalin!!). But my mistakes last no longer, because that cute/horrible animated paper clip in Microsoft Word fixed my mistakes for me. And he picks up grammatical errors too. Still, it’s easy to miss the “Your/You’re” combo – but a one two punch of proofreading & Paper Clip Word Assistant, and we get the job done – high five Paper Clip! Oh...you don’t have hands, just a little metal arm...yeah, a positive nod of the head suffices...good job, bud. Whew...awkward.
If only there was a way prevent these mishaps with permanent flesh art. That’s it – new challenge Bill Gates and Microsoft team! Come up with a spellchecker for the sultans of skin art! Save future generations of punks, thugs, tipsy girls on spring break (whoooa! I want a dolphin on the small of my back too! Jello shots!), and other tattoo buyers loads of embarrassment! Don’t back down Bill...I’m counting on you. Your our only hope.
In the fray of all this catch up, my eyes turned to tragedy. I noticed a roughed out tattoo on a man's forearm. It was a picture of the grim reaper, draped in his black robe and wielding that ominous scythe, staring at me with fiery piercing eyes. With his hand and one bony finger outstretched, he pointed to me menacingly, delivering a message of doom. This message, coincidently, appeared on a parchment banner below the feared reaper (Blue Oyster Cult, I'm sorry, but I FEAR him, I can’t help it):
"YOUR NEXT"
Wait...uh, does that mean I'm gonna die..or is he talking about "my" next (whatever that would be)? Because he clearly wasn't saying "YOU'RE NEXT". "YOUR NEXT" is what was written on the banner o' doom.
Now, as funny as this grammatical malfunction is, I feel a little bad for my fellow train buddy. Because without some seriously painful laser surgery, or some seriously diligent Sharpie work, that reaper - and that guy's arm - are forever marked with this faux pas, this confused message: Your Next....YOUUUUR NEXT!!!
It’s sort of like Dan Quayle’s misspelling embarrassment of 1992. The whole nation laughed at our former Vice President and it was forever burned into the annals of history (however, correctly spelled). But at least he just wrote his word on the chalk board and “Potatoe” isn’t emblazoned on his forearm. On a parchment banner. Below a skeletal potato. Holding a scythe. In a grim reaper outfit. Now that’d just be ridiculous all around.
This whole ordeal makes me thankful for spellcheck. As I’ve typed this I’ve misspelled no less than 37 words (I may not be able to spell...but I can count like Rain Man on ritalin!!). But my mistakes last no longer, because that cute/horrible animated paper clip in Microsoft Word fixed my mistakes for me. And he picks up grammatical errors too. Still, it’s easy to miss the “Your/You’re” combo – but a one two punch of proofreading & Paper Clip Word Assistant, and we get the job done – high five Paper Clip! Oh...you don’t have hands, just a little metal arm...yeah, a positive nod of the head suffices...good job, bud. Whew...awkward.
If only there was a way prevent these mishaps with permanent flesh art. That’s it – new challenge Bill Gates and Microsoft team! Come up with a spellchecker for the sultans of skin art! Save future generations of punks, thugs, tipsy girls on spring break (whoooa! I want a dolphin on the small of my back too! Jello shots!), and other tattoo buyers loads of embarrassment! Don’t back down Bill...I’m counting on you. Your our only hope.
Labels: NYC
posted by cory cavin @ 12:39 AM
6 comments
