If there’s one thing I dislike, it’s hardboiled eggs.
And people who butt in line.
And getting rained on.
OK. So that’s more than just one thing I dislike. But believe me when I tell you that I have good reasons for these passions.
Take the graffiti, for example. I mean, the premise is good: I can write, I have something to say, therefore I shall write. Over here. On your fence.
See. That’s where the “disliking” part comes in.
It is, as our UK friends like to say, where it all goes pear-shaped.
The vandalism – I mean, let’s set that aside for the moment. My views on what should be done with people who write their names on my property have been well-documented. I stand four-square on the side of publicly humiliating these little miscreants – with spoiled fruit, whenever possible – and would gladly give up to five dollars a rotten, fleshy peach for the chance to pelt one in the side of the head with it.
Not that violence is the answer.
What I really object to, however, is the mis-use of the language. Can we agree, here and now, that any and all sentence fragments inclined to make me believe that the speaker has a speech impediment, a head injury, or a recent tongue piercing - including references to “da boyz”, “h8az ‘n’ playas”, and/or asking for blanket “4giveniss” - must stop?
I must confess, however, to a certain curiosity over a recent addition to the graffiti by someone whose tag, apparently, is “Low Flow”. It’s not much of a tag, is it, but it amuses me to think that somewhere, out there, in the dead of night, a rogue plumber is ferreting his way around buildings with cans of Krylon, doing his best to encourage the use of water-conserving toilets and showerheads.
Look. I know. The “taggers” are a special breed, out to illuminate my dull, cob-webby brain with their glyphs and squiggles and colorfully aggressive style, but you’ll excuse me, SL33PY P33W33 – if that is your real name! – if I remain unimpressed. To cut straight to the point, the instrument necessary to measure my indifference to understanding your repetitive angst has yet to be built; so whatever you’ve been trying to say by incessantly spraying the message “SL33PY P33W33” on fences and garages has, unfortunately, been lost.
Am I poorer, for not understanding? I don’t feel any poorer.
But maybe I would if I just knew what ol’ SL33PY was trying to get at.
If only we had a language in common...
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