That Doesn’t Go There

By Donald N.S. Unger

Perhaps this is what drove you away from reading porn too.

A scene is building, and you are with it, heading towards—heading towards...

And then: “No, no, no, no—no! That doesn’t go there!”

And the moment is ruined.

So... you understand?

I’m glad I’m not the only person upset by bad comma usage; I had never really thought that was the case but—clearly, I don’t have to tell you!—it’s just hard to figure out who’s-okay-with-what.

Frankly, I’m more-than-tired at this point, about being hated on, about being made to feel bad about who I am, just because who I am is... a grammarian.

There.

I said it.

That’s it: I am out of the closet!

Which feels...

I don’t really know yet.

Because I am now free to do what exactly?

I’m pretty sure that I still don’t get to correct friends over dinner or drinks—especially drinks.

Man do people unleash when you do a little pointing at this-and-that over a cocktail or three!

Which, I just think it needs to be said: if (when!) people let fly with other kinds of prejudice when they’re under the influence—that’s still not OK!

It’s not an excuse.

“I only get angry and misogynistic when I’ve had a beer or two. Not really who I am.”

That’s OK?

No.

They hold it in when they’re more or less sober?

It just means that they’re good at hiding their Grammaphobia as long as they have a tighter rein on their faculties.

But it’s still in there.

Oh yes.

It’s still in there.

And is it my fault that they had their feelings hurt in elementary school?

My fault that they did badly on the verbal section of the SATs?

My fault that their boss sends their emails back corrected?

I don’t think so.

And this is—I’m talking about—spending time with friends!

Never mind the real critics and haters: friends!

Because when I’m lucky, they treat it like it’s my problem, like it’s something they’re willing to put up with. Like if I said to a friend who was a member of pick-any-group-I-can’t-name, “Yeah, they piss me off, those people. But I know you’re not like that; you’re one of the good ones.”

That would be OK?

The comma. Is in. The wrong. Place.

It’s right there on the menu—I’ll move off the porn; I’ve stopped talking about the porn; I made that promise; I’ll keep it.

That comma?

It’s wrong.

There’s no discussing this.

Or arguing.

Or correcting.

Or—oh especially!—shushing.

Who am I supposed to tell this to?

The waiter brought the menu; I’m talking to the waiter about the menu. Surely, he has a line back up the chain to whatever—uneducated, indifferent, barbaric, moronic—person quote wrote unquote the menu.

And this is not just some petty obsessive issue.

My problem?

It’s everyone’s problem—if only they would open their eyes and really see it!

How are we supposed to rely on the quality of the food here—or the integrity of the drinks or the cleanliness of the bathrooms—when these people do not seem to have the slightest concern (not. the. slightest! it’s a comma; how much more slight can you get?) for accuracy, precision, and correctness?

How?

I am telling you. That we could be. Poisoned.

I am telling you. That I just. Do. Not. Believe. That there is an appropriate level of handwashing going on in this establishment.

Read the sign.

No, no, no!

Really.

Read the sign in the “Mens” room.

Where. Is. The. Apostrophe?

Where?

Huh?

Oh, I see.

Now you have nothing to say.

	From the Archives!—SpecGram Propaganda V—The SpecGram Archive Elves™
	From Mwahaha to Bwahaha: Some Observations on Evil Laughter—Lady Esmerelda Rose Beeton-Frasier
	SpecGram Vol CLXXVII, No 4 Contents