The Drunken Blog

If you’ll recall, Ghost Writer was a pedophilic ghost who would help middle school kids solve mysteries in a twisted game of hangman by revealing only certain words or letters and making the kids guess who the deviant was. You can basically think of Ghost Writer as the live action version of Scooby Doo, where the ghost would be Scooby Doo, except replace “stoner” with “pedifiliac”.

You might have assumed that a ghost did not actually write this because I’m not in middle school, and therefore Ghost Writer wouldn’t waste his time with me, but what you may not have guessed is that I have a team of real live writers dedicated to making me look good through the written word.

I fired them.

Really, it was about hygiene, keeping a room full of monkeys with typewriters is downright disgusting. Too often they would start arguing over the phrasing of a particular sentence and before you know it the feces flinging would begin. I was spending half of my ad revenue on bleach and toothbrushes (don’t ask). I figure that while my writing may be less entertaining now and therefore garner less income for me, the drop won’t be 50% and I’ll still be ahead of my monkey-poo depleted net income.
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Jake and Jules had a combined birthday party recently. It made sense, they went to high school together, they have a lot of the same friends, why not combine their resources to make one cool party, as opposed to two mediocre-to-cool parties?

The plan was simple; since everybody was tired of the Ballroom, find a new location for the party. That new location happened to be very convenient for Jake and me; that new location was our building. Not our apartment, mind you, but the two rooms that we rented out in our building for this specific event.

One of the rooms was a game room. It had several TVs, a pool table, a foosball table, a dart board, several tables and a chic couch. It was a pretty swanky place to have a party. But Jake was afraid that it would be too cramped in there and/or there would not be enough entertainment for everybody.

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Recently I’ve been playing Scrabble on Facebook. It’s a great way to pass the time when I’m bored at work. I don’t exactly have the giganticist vocabulary, but one of the things I’ve found out is that there are a lot of words out there that I didn’t realize were words until I tried to make them work playing scrabble.

For instance, I was about to play the word “HOUR.” Since the H was on a triple letter score I would have gotten 15 points for the word. But directly following the R was a double word score. All I had to do was add on an S and I would have 32 points instead of 15. But I didn’t have an S, all I had was a bunch of I’s. So, blindly I added an I to the end of HOUR to make the word HOURI.

HOURI is a real word. I didn’t realize it was a real word until Scrabble told me it was. I guessed that it was pronounced “HOUR-EE,” like the word hour plus the letter E. I then went and looked up the definition of the word because I knew the person I was playing against would try to call me out.

It turns out if you are Muslim and you go on a suicide bombing run, each of your 72 virgins is called a houri. The alternate definition is “a voluptuous and alluring woman.”

After reading the definition of the word, my pronunciation instantly changed to “WHORE-EE,” it’s amazing what a little context will do to your vocabulary.

I don’t really think of myself as a good writer. I’m very critical of what I write to the point that it becomes tedious and arduous to read, so generally I don’t read what I write. If I’m lucky I’ll proofread a story to make sure that while I was changing thoughts mid-sentence that I remembered to go back and make the rest of the sentence cohesive. Recently, however, I was forced to go back and read a story that I had written.

The story was about a housewarming party and it apparently made me some enemies. Somebody disliked that story enough to give me a mild death threat in the comments section. The reason that I went back to read that story is because I randomly ran into the person that sent me the death threat. Let me explain.
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