To: jim byrd
It is a grand thing, this rat-a-tat of a typewriter that is really the ghost of an old technology crystallized in the digital ice formations of sub-zero cyberspace, this echo of one key clapping, this cry for help from the usufructs of outmoded status in the gilded age. What recourse have we when the passions of the keyboard overcome the restraints imposed by mechanical springs? When the silver lever on the carriage turned into a Return key and thence devolved into something soulless named Enter?
Fie, say I. Surely when one wordsmiths it should be like the brawny smith of old toiling over a red-hot forge to extrude one hand-made nail at a time and not like some Chinese assembly line cranking syllables out like plastic parts for a marital-aid factory. Words are precious things, to be dispensed through the eye-dropper of golden rhetoric and not vomited like the vodka-sodden alimentary contents of a college freshman on his first hiatus from Daddy's stern but loving gaze, secure in the knowledge that the stomach pumps of the emergency room will ever save him from the consequences of his excess. Fie again, say I.
Ping for the funniest thing I have read in weeks.
posted on 10/29/2010 4:37:40 PM PDT
(Liberal: another word for poltroon.)
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