Won’t Won’t Make Sense so I Won’t Ever Use It: In Defense of Ain’t

Ain’t is not a word. Every speaker of proper English has been told this. I agree. Ain’t is certainly no word. It isn’t even a contraction of two words. You would never say “I ai not going to do that.” Because ai is not a word. You can’t make a contraction of words when one component of the contraction doesn’t represent a real word.

“So why is he speaking in defense of ain’t?”, you may now reasonably be asking. I answer thusly: Ain’t has been discriminated against. Ain’t has been removed from the halls of education and spurned by the populace while won’t has been allowed to flourish. I have never once heard anyone get up in arms upon hearing someone say won’t. Why not? It seems unfair. Won’t, like ain’t, is no word. Nor is it a contraction of two words. You wouldn’t say “I wo not do that.” Everyone would look at you funny and call you a simpleton. To which you would then reply “I ai not a simpleton!”, thus strengthening their argument against you. Won’t is not a word. And since it makes no sense to use words that aren’t words, and since proper society rails against ain’t, I am taking a stand for ain’t against won’t.

Won’t won’t make sense so I won’t ever use it. Instead, I’ll use the more proper willn’t. Willn’t can replace won’t in every circumstance with no problem whatsoever and avoids alienating ain’t. Willn’t is fair and correct. Willn’t is right. Won’t just willn’t work for me anymore.

I’m also going to start saying amn’t. Not for any ideological reason. I simply amn’t a fan of saying am not.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…speak as you wish. However, if you wish to be fair in the way you speak, use ain’t if you insist on using won’t. Or, take a stand with me and join the willn’t revolution; a small gathering of those who willn’t use won’t. Or ain’t.

A don’t…discriminate unfairly against improper words. Get them all out of the dictionary!


An Offensive Gift, A False Scripture and a Moose; A Christmas at Work Worth Forgetting

Merry Christmas.

With holiday sentiments safely out of the way, let me tell you about a Christmas present I got at work. Rather, let me be vague about it and assure you that it was offensive. It was good naturedly offensive and I took no real offense at it. But I wanted to convey that I had been off put. Since I’m not saying much about the gift itself, I’ll go on at length about my response to the gift.

My response involved the fabrication of scripture. I understand that some may find this blasphemous (although I mean no disrespect to true scripture), and some may be offended merely by the mention of scriptures, religion or Jesus. If you are offended by such things, consider yourself forewarned that you may disregard this post as you see fit and hold me blameless.

Having performed my due diligence, and assuming you are still reading, I present below the full text of my response to the offensive gift:

Dear Sekrit Santuh (this is how the attached card was signed),

Thank you so much for the gift! I found it to be rather offensive. As I assume this was your intent, I applaud you on a job well done.

It wasn’t offensive in the way you might imagine, however. You see, I do not believe in Santuh. Neither do I celebrate the holiday he is associated with. I celebrate the holiday that inspired Christmas, which was originally called the Festival of Christ’s Moose.

This special day was set aside to commemorate the year that Jesus, upon his birthday, took leave of the Holy Lands and rode a moose to Anchorage. As he rode, a multitude of Inuits and Eskimos began following him saying, “Savior, teach us and lead us to salvation.” And Jesus, having pity on them, dismounted his moose and began to preach to them saying, “Blessed are the cold in heart, for they shall find warmth.”  And as he was preaching, the multitude began to grumble against him saying, “We hunger.”

And as they were grumbling, a thunderous noise was heard in the East and from behind a sparse copse of evergreen trees emerged a large, white man-like creature that walkethed upon two legs. And as the multitude hungered and cowered, the creature roared and it did beat upon its chest and did fall upon them with violent intent. And as the creature came forth to devour them, the multitude cried out to Jesus saying, “Savior, save us!”

And Jesus, having pity on them, stopped preaching and he said to his moose, “Go!” And his moose went and it plunged its antlers into the creature and killed it. And Jesus, remembering their grumbling, blessed the creature and tore it asunder and filled many baskets with the pieces and fed the multitude. And they who were once cold were filled with a warmth and it was not a physical warmth, yea, it was a warmth of the heart.

This is why most Christmas celebrations include Christmas Dinner, however, it should rightly be called Christ’s Moose’s Dinner and the main course should include Yeti steaks. Since these are very hard to come by, modern day celebrants have seen fit to do away with the truths behind the holiday and celebrate Jesus’ birth by eating turkey, a known non-cryptid.

Thanks again and may you all have a hairy Christ’s Moose.

Signature omitted

And thusly were those who offensively gifted me regaled. Much to my wife’s dismay, I also attempted to regale the children with a similar tale. They disregarded it out of hand. Smart kids.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…know that I understand the severity of creating one’s own scripture. It was a joke meant to shame my co-workers. I’ll not attempt to build a church around it or encourage others to adhere to my false tenets.

A don’t…read any truth into what I’ve concocted. The most that you can take away from it is that moose exist and it is cold in Anchorage. I’ve seen no real evidence to suggest Jesus ever even saw a moose in his Earthly incarnation.

Fromage du Boo Hoo Wah Wah; A Fringe Food I Hope Will Never Catch On

I’ve done a lot of Christmas themed writing lately. In addition to the holiday posts I’ve published here, I’ve also written my yearly Christmas poem for work. I’m getting Christmased out and I haven’t thrown a yule log on the fire or roasted chestnuts or opened a present yet. It’s too soon to be fed up with the fa la la la la, so forthwith I present an exploration of a possible culinary nightmare.

Many years ago I watched some dude on some show do some thing amazing yet disturbing and mildly horrible.

He squirted milk from his tear ducts.

Maybe you’ve seen something similar. If you have, please accept my condolences. Also please remember how he got the milk into his tear ducts to begin with. I’m drawing a complete blank when it comes to that detail.

Anyway, it doesn’t really matter how he got it in there. What does matter is what would happen if he didn’t sufficiently clean his ducts?

Infection, of course, seems highly likely. In fact, it could go without even being said. But it didn’t, so there it is.

Another perhaps unforeseen side effect of failing to sanitize after such an act is the possible production of some sort of cheese within the duct. This seems extremely likely. After all, sanitization of such a duct as that which produces human tears is quite a challenge. You can’t exactly squirt bleach through there and come out of the ordeal OK. I’m sure the guy used some sort of saline solution afterward. Still, milk is renowned for its coating properties. Is saline enough to break down whatever it is that binds milk to such things as stomachs and, undoubtedly, tear ducts?


If he did use a saline solution afterward all he likely did was to over salt the remaining milk (soon to be cheese) particles. They’re being produced within a salt water pipeline, after all.

Now, let’s say that all this is plausible. Let’s also ignore the fact that tear ducts lack the enzyme rennet, an essential part of cheese making. Considering that we’re ignoring this fact, let’s just assume that it is cottage cheese that is being made. Upon sewing up that plot hole, let’s move on to other matters.

Discomfort. Obviously.

Extraction. Complicated and likely to require surgery. It is the curds that present the problem here. Whey should flow readily assuming that no curds completely clog the emotion expressway.

This all sounds quite disgusting, and it is, but think of the implications. Such a cheese would be quite an exclusive dish. The production and extraction hazards, combined with limited supply and the uniqueness of the dish, practically guarantees it gaining delicacy status.

It would go over quite well in the horrible restaurant I want to open. I’ll call it Fromage du Boo Hoo Wah Wah. It’ll pair quite nicely with wine made from fermented shrimp paste. It would be a great appetizer before the first course, Eggs Benedict Arnold. These are like Eggs Benedict only using eggs that have turned. Top this all off with a dessert of Rhesus Pieces, which are chunks of Rhesus monkey covered in chocolate, and you’ve got a meal fit for a rather demented and bizarre King.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…experiment with food. If people will pay good money for coffee beans a marmoset pooped out, they’ll pay for cheese produced in a human tear duct as well. Take advantage of the strange way in which horrendous things become trendy.

A don’t…try to produce tear duct cheese at home. You’ll likely go quite blind and I really can’t afford to be sued over some ridiculous joke I told at length on the internet.

Rude Dolph the Red-Nosed Drunken Mall Santa; A Holiday Classic Realistically Reimagined

Rude Dolph the red nosed drunken mall Santa;

Had some very noxious breath.

Most kids who sat on his lap;

Begged him (please) for their own death.

All of the other mall Santas;

Thought that he had sullied their names,

So every time they saw him;

They brushed their fingers at him in shame.

Then one busy Christmas Eve;

The mall manager came to say,

“Rude Dolph with your breath so rank;

Won’t you eat these mints I got at the bank?”

Then how the children flocked to him;

And they shouted out with glee (yippee),

“Rude Dolph the red nosed drunken mall Santa;

Now you only smell like pee!”

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…accept my apologies.

A don’t…forget to brush your teeth, especially if your mouth is going to be close to people and you’re required to speak to them.

Some Restaurant Whose Name I Dare Not Remember; A Disaster in Mexican-American Fusion


I wish to regale you with a tale. It isn’t a tale of hope. It isn’t even a pleasurable tale. It is instead a tale of a horrible mistake. A mistake made by a young man and his father. It may be pleasurable to you. Being detached from the actual experience, you may find it quite humorous. Read on that you may be enlightened as to your reaction.

Before I begin, I firstly disclaim that, although I tell a tale of woe, I do not seek to discredit anyone whatsoever. It is perhaps a benefit that I do not remember the name of the terrible Mexican restaurant my father and I visited. Nor do I remember the town that it was in, although the state was Oklahoma. Go figure. Ridiculous Turnpike tolls and horrible Mexican restaurants. The only good thing to come out of Oklahoma for me is my beautiful and amazing wife. Well, her and that one Toby Keith song.

My father and I once traveled to a town fairly foreign to us to tow home one of our family’s cars that had broken down on the cursed Turnpike. After hooking up the car to my pickup truck, we decided that we were hungry. We pulled, connected and carefully, into a small town gas station and inquired as to the availability of “good food” in the area. The attendant for some reason suggested the Mexican place. Perhaps it was the only restaurant in the tiny town. If so, I’m sure the inhabitants rue their future for it is one bereft of culinary class and diversity.

We traversed the tiny roads, happy for the low population and empty streets, until the route we had been given terminated in the Mexican “restaurant” whose praises had been sung (sang? No, it’s sung.) at the gas station. In retrospect we should’ve considered the source. I’m not saying that gas station attendants have no taste. All I’m saying is that the edibles offered by gas station attendants generally inspire diarrhea.

We entered the place and were shown to a table by some people who were by no means Mexican. This should have been our first clue. My father and I are, however, quite dumb. We sat down and perused the menu. After ordering drinks my father proclaimed a need to evacuate either his liquid or solid waste repositories. I can’t remember which, and it probably is irrelevant and disgusting to try and remember anyway. He requested that, should the waitress approach before his return, I order him the buffet.

As it turned out, I placed our order, two buffets, as he was still preoccupied with his evacuations. I approached the wanting self-serve bar and filled a plate. There wasn’t much to choose from. The buffet was perhaps three feet long. There was some ground beef that had dried out on the top, a pan with taco shells that had cracked down the middle and some wilted lettuce.

Attempting to avoid diarrhea, I loaded my plate with the only other thing on offer that day, jalapeno poppers. Or so I thought. I returned to the table and, before my father returned, I had time to bite into a popper and be disappointed and confused.

When dad got back to the table, the waitress was there refilling my drink. Dad requested the house made salsa and went to fill a plate. When he returned, he found on the table a bowl of ketchup with jalapenos sliced into it and cilantro sprinkled on top.

As he sat he said with a grin, “You must experience the bathroom!”. After having eaten a few “jalapeno poppers” I was only to quick to agree. Before making my exit, however, I lifted a “popper” in salute and watched as he also bit into one. His face creased, as mine had, in disappointment and confusion.

They were not, in fact, jalapeno poppers. They weren’t, in any respect, Mexican food at all. They were pigs in a blanket.

As dad sat regretting our choice, I visited the men’s room, another choice to be regretted. The toilet sat upon a raised rostrum not even large enough to support the entire base of the toilet. Sitting upon this was an experience I’ll not explain in detail. Who needs to read about that? Suffice it to say, it was scary. The sink, if sink it could be called, was so shallow that I couldn’t fit both hands under the stream of water at once.

After washing each hand individually, I returned to our table for the most horribly non-mundane culinary experience I’ve ever had.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…take risks when you eat out. Many times you’ll find a “diamond in the rough”.

A don’t…eat at a Mexican restaurant staffed by white people. Or, if you must, tread very carefully. They may take too many liberties and present you with unexpected and horrible Mexican-American fusion disasters.

Food That Shouldn’t Be; An Essay on a Universal Offense Against the Culinary Community and Those Who Eat for More Than Mere Survival…Part 1

If you happen to be fortunate enough to live in a part of the country, or another country altogether, where pickled rope bologna is not prevalent, count your blessings.

It is my good fortune now to live in a place where the aforementioned atrocity is not offered on the shelves of every supermarket, but this has not always been the case. When I lived in Kentucky I couldn’t enter a store that had even a single grocery shelf without being confronted by the sight of scrap meat tubes curled into gallon jars in one long and disturbing segment that resembled more of a South end offering than a treat you’d enjoy ingesting through a Northern orifice.

And to top it all off, it spends who knows how long soaking in a pinkish brine before whomever is inclined to partake in the travesty purchases it.

I’ve never cared for bologna to begin with. I know there are those who do and it doesn’t bother me in the slightest that they continue to consume it. I’m not here to try to convert anyone to non-bologna-ism.

I simply have a hard time fathoming why someone would take something terrible and make it worse. I ate pickled rope bologna one time. I was the victim of unrelenting peer pressure. I’ve never forgiven myself. Neither have my taste buds and whatever part of me it is that decides whether or not the texture of food items is pleasing.

Pickled rope bologna becomes mush while it brines. It has the same texture as supermarket liverwurst. You don’t chew it, you just mash it with your tongue against the roof of your mouth and it slides down your throat lubricated not only by saliva but also by the tangy, unnaturally pink vinegar that turns the once firm waste patty into mush in the first place.

Once was more than enough for me. In fact, becoming aware of the existence of pickled rope bologna was more than enough for me.

There may be those who truly do have a way with B O L O G N A, but it most certainly isn’t those who have chosen to shape it like a turd and brine it for any period of time.

Just my very strong opinion.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…continue to enjoy bologna if you already have a taste for it.

A don’t…try to develop a taste if you haven’t already. It truly isn’t worth it.

A Curs-ed Disease

I have come down with that most dreaded of diseases. Don’t worry. Logic tells me it isn’t life threatening. I assume it isn’t communicable. It certainly isn’t any sort of computer virus, so you are quite safe should you read on.

I suppose it isn’t a disease in the traditional sense. It is more of a cursed (read cursed) state of mind. For some reason this evening, I’m possessed of an overpowering urge to write. This in itself is not a problem. I love to write. If this aspect of my disease became a chronic condition, I’m sure I’d be rather at peace with it. The thing I don’t like; the thing that is cursed (cursed), about it is that I’ve really had to scrape around in the scrap heap of my brain’s creative center to find a topic.

Expelling all further ado, please enjoy forthwith, the best I could come up with:

My wife and I visit a lot of antique stores. We buy a lot of useless junk, most of which doesn’t fit our décor for some reason or other and ends up in the garage. The rest of it ends up either in the laundry room because we’re too lazy to find a place for it or is incorporated into one of the many “nerd nooks” scattered around our home.

My most recent find, excluding a few books I bought simply because I was judging them by their covers and will likely never read, was a couple of miniature Coke bottles with miniature measures of Coke inside them. They seem to be from two different eras, a conclusion I draw based on the fact that the logo differs slightly on each. I have no idea which eras these are. I didn’t buy them because they’re old or antique or valuable. I bought them simply because they are small.

They’re teeny. They’re a mere couple of inches tall.

Why on Earth would this intrigue me?

Philosophically, perhaps it’s because it makes me feel big and powerful. Look at me, holding these Cokes in my giant hands. I can crush those small things who oppose me because I am huge, ha ha!

In reality there is no reason at all other than that they are small. That’s it. I want to pose them next to little ceramic leprechauns or something. Maybe they’d look good in my daughters’ fairy garden.

Maybe little things are just cool and we all need a small thing to bolster a bit of a superiority complex every now and then.

Or maybe it’s nothing. Maybe for some reason some neural pathway was created in my brain that makes me pre-disposed to enjoying miniature versions of everyday items.

Maybe it means nothing at all other than my bank account $4.00 closer to being overdrawn.

I bid you adieu…and a don’t.

Adieu…enjoy the little things in life. Cliché, right? Sorry. Still, enjoy the little things even if they are actual little things rather than the cliché proverbial “little things”.

A don’t…drink the Coke from the little bottles. It may no longer be tasty and instead of a little bottle of Coke, you’ll simply have a little Coke bottle.