Dumb as they come
Got a freelance story (that I didn’t commission) from someone who used to work at my very magazine. I see that years in journalism did nothing for her copy-editing and accuracy abilities — I am on paragraph three and have been on the Internet four times to verify facts and names. Painful, yes. Typical of a columnist, not a journalist, though. My head aches.
But how am I supposed to read past this paragraph? (Note: everything changed to protect the criminally insane.)
When asked if there is a connection between (happiness) and (taking a shit), (Lardass) leaves no room for doubt. “Absolutely,” he says, empathically.
I count five things wrong. In one fucking sentence.
In her e-mail containing the story, she remarked on something that drove her “bazurk.” No, I do not make this shit up!
And people wonder why I’m on the verge of going postal.
On iTunes: Pulp, “Like a Friend”