RedLeb.com

Emergency Edit is my new monthly exercise. In it I’ll pick up an internet meme of horrendous grammatical quality and try to figure out the author’s original intention, then edit/rewrite their work into shape.

This month’s Emergency Edit comes courtesy of the famous ‘You make me touch your hands for stupid reasons.’ Follow the link to hear a dramatic reading of this letter; it’ll help you appreciate my editing.

Original text

Dear Loser,[Chris]~~~~!!!!!
I thought you liked me you said it yourself I hate you .People only say you asked me out because you needed a date for the dance and that after the dance you would dump me well guess what bastert i dumped you cause you were thinking that i cheated on you i didnt so like idiots that you guys are and so smart that you are you called me a slut.I hung up on you cause you tol me it on the phone because i guess you werent man enough to tell me it in my face!I hate you and also guess what my mother hates you to that she the one who put me to do this ,you come to breakfast every morning and I aint stupid you try to sit next to me and my lil bro who only 7YRS old hates you to and dont even know what you did and is always blocking your chair.haha!I went out with another boy after you and after we were over you an idiot dared you even tried to ask me out again i didnt break up with him for you OK! I hate you ive always hated you spreading to everyone that i cheated on you when you just got jealouse that i used to talk to your friends to your so jealouse you automatically think i like them well guess maybe i do maybe i dont gotta problem you aint my boyfriend anymore I dont have to tell you who i like or who iam with and why got it i dont like you anymore the other day you told me that I have to tell you who I like or who Iam thinking of going out with its none of your buisness got that to you loser!I hate you and I know you still like me but i dont like you i dont care what your stupid friends say you make me touch your hands for stupid reasons u accidentally say you hugged me i will never like you again I HATE YOU I HATE YOU MORE THAN ANYTHING IN THIS DAMN WORLDDDDDDDDDD id rather date a spider or rat den u ur soooo ugly and fat !!!!!!!!!!And then saying that i loooooooved you pleasssse!!!!!!!!!!!Your such n ass wipe n bastert!! I HATE YOOOOOOOOOOU

Well bi you piece of shit i have more things to do right now then remember YOU

(edited version after the jump) » Read more…

Photo (and cupcakes) by Clever Cupcakes, Montreal

‘Well, if all else fails, we can always get married.’

She actually said that.

I’m a delicate flower; and naively I thought that when my future wife proposed to me – yes, she would propose to me! – she’d bring flowers, diamonds and a puppy. Instead, this pragmatic Dutch girl catches the corner of my eye and raises an eyebrow in anticipation.

I squealed like a 16-year old birthday-girl with a giftwrapped unicorn – on the inside.

‘I was actually thinking that myself.’

I don’t think she expected that answer; but then she doesn’t know what I know.

Most countries have their local flavor of princesses: the pretty but not necessarily bright girl who propels her self-esteem through life one Gucci bag at a time. Men everywhere have suffered them, I know, and have developed sage-patience and titan-strength (I’ve been playing God of War, sorry) but I promise you have not endured until you’ve been with a Lebanese Princess.

Yes it’s a proper noun.

So when a pretty Dutch girl offers unconditional love, a low-maintenance contract and a generous dose of geekness, you grab her; you grab her before she ever meets a Lebanese Princess.

Yes, it’s a proper noun.

So we’re getting married, and I couldn’t be happier. Dutch people rock.

Photo by Paul Friel

So, three fat women walk into a government office; did that sound like the front end of a bad joke? Let me try again.

One tired, miserable writer walks into a government office after two weeks of incompetent officials and hot, hot Beirut sun; how difficult could it be to renew your girlfriend’s visa, right?

And as I stood there in the hot, hot office waiting for yet another lazy laborer who really knew what I should do, to get off his supremely important call and work his way through the man with the moustache, lady in a scarf, smelly guy in pink tights, smelly guy in jeans and smelly guy in – what the hell is he wearing? – the universe took a moment to remind me how lucky I am.

‘Excuse me monsieur, can I pass?’

I turned to explain to the squeaky voice that despite her (not altogether) fairer gender she’d still have to wait in the miserable, sweaty line. I wish I’d gotten the chance to; I generally come up with some decent commentary when I’m stressed. » Read more…

Photo by Neal Sanche

My name is Karl, and there’s no music in my head.

I realize it may not seem like a problem, but see that tune you were humming in the bathroom this morning? Remember that song you drove home singing last night? Yeah, I have none of that.

The best writers, I hear, write effortlessly; as soon as their hands touch the keyboard their fingers dance to the music only they hear, and weave pieces of their lives, dreams and that obscure art they saw while stumbling into the trash-bins drunk, on Friday night, into great literature. Or if you’ve watched painters tackle a canvas; they too have rhythm and grace that I can’t quite catch – all I see is an angry artist stabbing a cloth with a brush.

But even everyday people have a beat, something they walk to, talk to, dance to and have thumping, rhythmic sex to – I suppose.

I walk into walls, trip over nothing and simply cannot dance, not if it would save my life. And when I write, I need absolute silence. » Read more…

Photo by Paco CT

Summertime, and the living is, well, strange.

Beirut goes through a cotton shortage in the summer, and our poor, underprivileged women have to walk the street with hardly a scrap of clothing to cover their, um, honor. Fret not ladies, for every one of your exposed strolls I guarantee there are half a dozen warm-blooded men in deep consideration, trying to find a solution to your plight.

I of course hardly notice any of that anymore (I swear honey!), and as I was driving by yet another playboy parade on the marina the other day I saw, well, I saw them.

‘Them’ here refers to about 20 or so 40-somethings on Harley Davidsons driving up (and down, then up, and down again) the marina. I suppose they were hunting for women, but then they could always have been out on a philosophical quest for enlightenment involving loud engines, sunsets and asphalt. No wait, they were definitely hunting for women. » Read more…

Photo by Paul Woods

One of our most fascinating skills as a people, is the ability to delegate responsibility. I suppose we’re actually justified every so often; the power failures are the government’s problem, the patchwork roads entirely the municipality’s fault – and certainly not our problem.

Trash on the road, for instance, is definitely somebody else’s problem.

Enter the Ferrari, screaming through the streets of Broummana and breaking every moral driving code invented. By the time they’d moved from my rear-view and happily into a collision path I had learned to hate hot rubber, young drivers and the summer hotrod season in general. But rather than ruin a beautiful day, I over-clocked my air-conditioner and blasted some heavy metal.

The blond in front of me clearly did not care to self-medicate. » Read more…

Latte art by Andrew Feldon

‘I’m sorry sir, we don’t have any wipes; there’s Kleenex on the table right in front of you though.’

I know he was being helpful, but I’m neither blind nor stupid; nor am I so up there that regular Kleenex no longer met my normal wiping requirements. What bothered me the most though, is that I’d actually asked for wine, not wipes.

‘Well thanks anyway.’

‘Anything else I can get you?’

I was tempted, really.

It’s all too easy to get angry at waiters, and many of them will take it too. Waiting tables is mostly a thankless, low-paying job that already places you at the bottom of the social chain. Yet for my money nothing makes my stay better than a genuinely friendly, well mannered and efficient waiter; so when you meet one that is less than efficient, you take it, for the sake of the rest. Farah disagreed.

‘You should’ve told him off, you know; you let them get away with the little things and the overall quality of service decreases. Also, now I’m out one white wine; care to fix that?’

I know my friends, and this little one was more interested in picking a fight, than in her wine, or the greater good and café’s overall quality of service. But one mishap does not a bad waiter make. Two mishaps? Maybe. » Read more…