THE GO GETTER. YEAH, THE GO GETTER.
I was crime fighting at 3am the other day, bored because all the crimers were in the basement of the city building, erasing Rahm's name from the ballots. Oh wait, no. Yes. No. He's on. He's not. Good thing time isn't ticking. Good thing there wasn't enough money in the budget for permanent-ink ballots. We'd be in a real pickle then.
As you know, Alert Power Love Reader, I like action in my crime fighting and I can tell you, without crimers, there's not a lot of action. I suppose fashion policing would be an option, but that's like doing filing for an admin job, when really you want to implement a military strategy for Afghanistan that works harmoniously with international aid agencies.
So I had to figure out something to do. First, I went to all the bus garages and, while the buses were sleeping, corrected all the grammar missteps on the advertising. Who am I to correct grammar missteps? I'm the gal with the red pen and too much time on my hands and, yes, since I know you're wondering Alert Power Love Reader, I was humming "Too Much Time on My Hands" by Styx while I red penned and yes, I was totally rocking it.
I bought a new super hero cape from Target. It has sequins and can change from day wear to evening wear in the snap of two perfectly manicured fingers!
After a while, I realized I was red penning the advertising in CMS style and clearly, the writers of the advertising were writing in MLA style--boy is there egg on MY face--and then I was faced with a conundrum: Do I return to the original text, make my way back through all the now perfectly-edited-for-CMS advertising that I just upgraded, gloriously, from The Swamp of Gunked-Out Errors (band name: Gunked-Out Errors); OR, do I go to DC and develop, pass, and implement legislation that establishes CMS style as the official style of all words? I decided to go to DC.
Before leaving, I went to the bar. Between 3 and 5, they have half-priced cheese fries and on Wednesdays, they have WAFFLE CUT cheese fries, the existence of which, I'm sure we can all agree, proves there is a Higher Power operating in our Universe.
Not surprisingly, when I walked in, who's at the bar but The Fish and The German Shepherd. Without turning around, The German Shepherd says, "Those shoes don't match the cape. The crimers will never take you seriously if your shoes don't match your cape."
"Thanks for the news, Skip Malloy," I say, "but there aren't any crimers out tonight."
I walk over to the empty stool between them and sit down. "Why do you guys always sit with a seat between you?"
"He's a dog. I'm a fish. We need our Space," The Fish says.
I look up at the TV. "You guys," I point. "What are you doing? You need an intervention."
"We do not," The German Shepherd says. "This is therapy. Our therapist told us to find a positive avenue to transport our grief."
"You are watching a snowy VHS tape of the '85 Super Bowl," I say.
The Fish goes, "We know. Don't judge. It's all we have."
In summer, these two are gonna be dying to get up to Door County. Right now, though, they hate all dairy products. I try to catch Stan's eye. Stan is the bartender right now and he's The Official Keeper of the Cheese Fries and his role in the Universe is Instrumental and Profound.
"Listen," I tell my grief-stricken pals. "I'm going to DC. I'm changing the rules so words follow CMS style, including advertising." Stan waves at me then fills up a basket of golden crunchy fries. He walks over to me carrying them like an offering and as he does, angel dust falls from the sky and then--aahhhh!!!!--glorious cheese appears on the fries and the galaxy is restored to order.
"You'll need a lobbying arm," The German Shepherd says.
"I have a good right hook," I tell him. My mouth is watering. The fries are coming.
"That's a whole different level, your right hook isn't gonna help you," The Fish says.
"Are you crying? Why are you crying? They win the '85 Super Bowl, you know," I say to The Fish as I nod at the TV.
"Grief manifests in different ways for different entities," he says.
I look at The German Shepherd. "It does," he says.
The smell of the glory fries slips in my nostrils and I am suddenly paralyzed with pleasure (band name: Paralyzed With Pleasure). Stan smiles, sets the glory fries in front of me, they disappear. I'm wiping a bit of cheese off my chin when The German Shepherd says, "They don't have glory fries in DC."
This shakes me to my core because how does a civilization exist without glory fries? I would say it's a Life Essential, like fire and water.
"Are they aliens?" I ask.
"Some of them," The Fish says.
"Will you please stop crying?"
"Be nice. I didn't push you when you collapsed with grief after finding those salt stains on that pair of Ferragamos."
"Accepted. And the majority of DC-ers are robots, so bring a wrench and a Phillips Head screwdriver."
"What is the fascination with correcting others?" The German Shepherd asks.
I say: "It's not about correcting; it's about playing with a puzzle. It's fascinating." What I don't tell him: At the last annual conference of red penners, they told us it would be more easily accepted by a grammar-averse public to believe we were Correctors and not Fascinators of Puzzles. And so we were issued red pens and characterized as nitpicky by the press.
I don't pass along this information because it sounds conspiracy-theory-esque, and no one believes conspiracy theories because they're true and and who invited Truth to this party anyway?
"Anyway," The German Shepherd interrupts, "you must change shoes before you go and Stan can give you a steamer trunk of glory fries."
"Excellent! Can the steamer trunk match the shoes?" I squeal.
The German Shepherd snaps his fingers, which I'm sure may be hard to picture, Alert Power Love Reader, seeing how the absence of an opposable thumb makes this gesture unlikely, but I can assure you that my journalistic eye for Detail and Truth misses nothing, and there was a snap.
On my feet--excellent shoes; at my side--a steamer trunk. I decide I will also wear lace gloves. My Implementing Legislation Days are about to begin.
I hop off the stool, gather my trunk, and head towards the door. "Baseball starts in a few months, guys," I say to The Fish and The German Shepherd. They look at each other and growl. One of them is a Cubs fan, the other a Sox fan, but they can never remember who is which.
"Write if you get work," The German Shepherd says.
"The stool will be saved for you," The Fish says.
"Gastronomically speaking, that's disgusting," The German Shepherd says.
"WILL YOU GIVE ME A BREAK? I'M GRIEVING. SHIT."
I push my steamer trunk out the door. We should really give The Fish a break. He's sensitive. For the record, it's hard to get on the bus with a steamer trunk of glory fries.