Although Writer's Block is extraordinary to research, something else comes to play today in my mind. What comes to mind? Spamediting. Don't bother looking it up, I gave the name myself. We will talk more about this strange phenomena another time, but for now, enjoy this sample.
Jim Blow's Definition of Spamediting: Editing a book by randomness, not actually helping along the writing and punctuation, but commenting strange posts at every turn.
Don't like my definition? Read the example and make your own comment on what it should really be.
--Jim Blow
Spamedit Case Study #1
The Strange Case of Arthur Dittle
For time's sake, I'm only showing parts of this story--the parts with edits and Spamedits alike. Enjoy.
In addition the edits are all in blue writing.
The sun was just coming up over the horizon, and it felt nice and warm. Mr. Dittle walked with a skip in his step down a very nicely made pathway. There were beautiful birds flying all around him chirping lovely songs. Suddenly he thought he heard voices. They were coming from all around him. Then there was a horrible noise. It was loud and awful. It was as though a thousand voices in a choir all trying to sing at the same time, and, to say it in the nicest way possible, they completely and utterly failed. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to an opera in which the main character simply can’t sing. It’s not entirely that they are presently incapable, merely that they can’t. At least, not well. Generally, you’re not sure whether the noises they’re making are supposed to be mimicking a dying cat screeching across a blackboard, or if that’s just an accident. And then you have to wonder if the director is deaf or something. Then you want to go find them and sign to them after the performance, but that doesn’t work cause they’re dead. Probably died cause he wasn’t actually deaf, and it was just too horrible. Then you realize that the man next to you is also dead. Awkward. Hopefully they won’t blame it on you. That would be awkward. On the plus side, you know you can dump all of your bodies in operas where this person is singing. Nobody will ever know. This is the sound his ears were suffering from now. Mr. Dittle jammed his fingers into his ears in an effort to drown out the awful sound. Then, just as quickly as it came, it ended. He stood up from his knees and let his arms drop down to his side. The beautiful birds and the luscious grass was gone. Instead he now stood in a wasteland. There were dead trees where living ones had stood just a few seconds earlier. The wonderful path on the wonderful grass changed to dirty muck, and moss-covered cracking stone.
Mr. Dittle looked around him at bones of unfortunate animals, and tumbleweed-type bushes flying by in the light wind. Very much confused, he stood still and silent, not daring to lift even a finger. Then a voice came from behind him. An old, yet small, bear stood at waist height, staring up at him from under large bushy eyebrows. Yay! I don’t suppose he’s a yellow bear with a red shirt? And does he have friends who are an owl and a pig and a donkey and kangaroos and tigers with bouncy tails? Also a rabbit. Some people eat rabbits, you know. I think it’s actually pretty racist, just calling them “Rabbit” or “Owl.” Like they don’t even have names. Just species. People get in big trouble if they just call someone “White boy” or something like that. “Hey you. American. Get over here.” The bear grunted and began to speak. “You don’t look as heroic as Nocar Oh poor him! He’s the only one in the whole Hundred Acre Woods without a car. Sad day. Well, at least he has a name. described. You are just a miserable old human with a matter of months left in you.” The bear said sternly in his large deep voice.
Mr. Dittle was too confused to answer. He just stared at the talking animal. Then Mr. Dittle came to. “What is this place? What just happened? Who are you? Who’s Noc-whatever?” Now he’s the NOC list. Jason Bourne will be very mad at you. He spent a whole movie getting that back. Watch out. He will kill you with some pocket lint.
“All in good time. I am Chief Yelzirg. Nocar is the small raccoon you saved. Does he not have a car because all the other reindeer laughed and called him names? Come, I will show you the camp. If you are the Warrior, then we must keep you hidden, and safe.” Keep it secret. Keep it safe. Gandalf would be sad you said “hidden” instead of “secret.” Tut tut.
Mr. Dittle stood blinking for a second before nodding slowly. Yelzirg gestured for him to follow before turning and marching off into the distance. He walked for hours behind the old bear. Finally, Yelzirg stopped and Mr. Dittle fell over, exhausted. And this poor old man isn’t very good at balancing. He probably only has one leg. Meanie. Why would you make a character with only one leg? You’re dooming him to a life as a dude with one leg. It’s like being a pirate, but not having any of the benefits of being a pirate, just the disabilities. How would you like to only have one leg? I’m sure Jason Bourne could arrange for that. If you keep NOC, you’ll find exactly what that’s like. Yelzirg rolled his eyes, but it was hard to tell that he was doing so from behind his large, hairy eyebrows. In his big booming voice, he made a big empty sound that echoed several times before stopping abruptly and changing to a clanging, which vibrated for several seconds before making a clicking noise and ceasing to make any further noises. What? No whirring? Or beeping? I guess it’s not a starship, is it? Glad I got that out of the way by this point in the story. Mr. Dittle Hey, diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon. The little dog laughed to see such sport, and the Pooh ran away with the NOC. On orders from the wizard, of course. But not the Doctor. Sometimes a wizard comes flying in a blue helicopter and he shows me a film just for free, and then he gives me five hundred popsicles and say, “Happy birthday”! sat looking this way and that, trying to find where all the noises were coming from. Then the desert in front of him shook and many trees appeared with wooden bridges between them. He rubbed his eyes and blinked several times. Yelzirg helped him to his feet and together they walked into the city. Once they were safely on a wooden platform, Yelzirg yelled once again in his deep booming voice and it echoed all around. All the surrounding desert shook once more in a similar fashion to before and their surroundings became very faint.
“Protection spell.” Chief Yelzirg said, before Mr. Dittle could ask. “We can see out, but without the code, you can’t see in.” Is it the codes on the NOC list?
Mr. Dittle shut his mouth and nodded as if to say “oh yes of course, everyone knows that.” Well, I certainly did. Duh. Why else? Come on. It’s not like this is my first story about racist bears and one-legged men stealing super top secret lists that get wizards mad at him. How uncultured do you think I am? I mean, come on. Do they have to have cheerleaders at a track meet? (10 points for naming that movie) Oh, hey. You’re Violet, right? No, I’m blue. I was purple before, but now I’m back to blue. Duh. Mr. Colorblind. At least you have two legs. Mr. Dittle continued to follow the bear up and all around the treetops. He crossed rickety old wooden bridges that felt like they would fall out from under him, Shrek knows about those bridges. We talked about parfaits in English today. And I almost said something about them to Alina. But then I didn’t. Everybody loves a parfait. Parfaits have layers. Cakes have layers. and he walked on wooden sidewalks that circled each treetop. Like in Lothlorien or Endor? Galadriel is in charge of Lorien, in case you forgot. Not Thranduil or Elrond. Silly Jim. Trix are for kids. Or maybe they’re for rabbits...I’m not very good at remembering these things. Hey, that reminds me of how RACIST your story is. Also, I learned in English that we’re all just racist against spiders. Like dragon-racists, but with spiders. Just cause they have eight legs and a bajillion eyes doesn’t mean you get to kill them. Maybe I should kill you ‘cause you look funny. There. I put an apostrophe in front of “cause.” Aren’t you so proud? Little huts were made out of the trunks of trees, and various animals sat in the houses staring out at him, wide-eyed. Mr. Dittle gave small waves to all of them, but only got blank stares in return. Were they princess waves? parade waves? ocean waves? sound waves?
Mr. Dittle didn’t exactly watch where he was going and ended up banging his head on the door frame of a rather large hut. Don’t be mean to the poor man. He only has one leg. You would run into doors too if you only had one leg. Well, maybe not. You’re a little short. Mr. Dittle stumbled backward and grabbed his head with his hands. Well, at least he has two hands. Unlike the Skywalkers. I wonder, does Leia ever lose a hand? Well, I guess Padme never did. Or maybe they donated her body to science and now she’s a robot. Or Harry. Yelzirg shook his head and disappeared into the enormous hut. Then he goes, “Tut, tut, Mr. Dittle. Mind the door, Mr. Dittle. Watch your head, Mr. Dittle. Don’t trip over your leg, Mr. Dittle. Notice how I just said ‘leg’ instead of ‘legs’? Yeah, Mr. Dittle, it’s cause I’m discriminating against you based on your handicap. But at least you have a name. Poor rabbit. Neither a name nor Trix. Also, a potted plant. Silly Mr. Dittle. Sillly-willy Dittly-wittly.” Mr. Dittle ducked Quack under the door’s frame and found himself in a large room. There were wooden logs for chairs and only two stumps left. Tree stumps or leg stumps? Mr. Dittle took a seat on one of them and found it surprisingly comfy. Eeeewwwww. Comfy body parts. Severed, crippled body parts. I wouldn’t sit on a leg stump. That’s worse than eating sardines on an executive line of used toilets. Suddenly all the other animals in the room began grunting and pointing at him. It’s cause they think it’s gross, too. Yuck. He stood up and switched seats and their grunts stopped. Called it! Now he’s not on a leg anymore. The seat he now sat in was not as comfy, but was still pleasurable. Mr. Dittle looked up from the floor to see all the other animals standing. Mr. Dittle stood also but with no idea why, that is until a fox entered wearing a purple cape and brown boots. The fox took a seat on the last stump, and as he did everyone else sat down too. Yuck. Now he can eat his chair. Nasty. Nasty town. If I lived in a town called Nasty, I would leave. Or maybe not, cause then I could just say “Nasty” all the time, and I could say “Nasty town” all the time.
“We all are aware why we are here, of course? That is, except for you, Mr. Dittle.” The fox said his name as if it were a cuss word. Yay yay yay yay! You used “were” properly! I’m so proud. Well, relatively proud. Not much, actually, but much more than I was before. “Now let us move on to role. Chief Yelzirg the bear?” Eheheh. Mr. The Frog. Oh! Is Kermit here? Yay! Well, they’re in a forest. Oh, he could be a tree frog instead of a swamp frog. Or maybe tree frogs live in swamps, too. I don’t know.
“Here!” said Yelzirg, standing up and raising a paw.
“I see. Commander Esome the rat? Commander Trutly the turtle? Captain Anton the anteater? Captain Nocar the raccoon? General Frost the frog? Are we frosting poor Kermit? Oh no! Kermit doesn’t like frosting. He’s allergic. Just like all foxes are slightly allergic to linoleum. Kind of racist here, too, aren’t they? It’s like saying, “Jared the white? Scott the black? Bryan the Asian?” RACIST. Then there’s Mr. Dittle, and myself, the Great Leader Master Trox!” When Trox said his own name he stood and lifted his boot onto his chair, striking a glorious pose. The Cheerleader? Is Trox a Master of photobombing? Hey, Trox sounds like Trix. It’s a good thing he’s not a rabbit. Also, he’s at a track meet.
All the other animals in the room held their fists (or paws) in the air and shouted, “Huzzah the Glorious Master Trox!” Oooh, he’s glorious, is he? Is he also fabulous? Like Margaret and Wibbily? Maybe Margaret and Megan are actually the same person. You should change Megan’s name to Margaret, and then Mr. Dittle’s first name can be Wibbily, and they can be fabulous together. OH, and maybe that’s why Trox hates him. It’s because he’s jealous of how much more fabulous they are than him. Maybe he had Margaret/Megan killed because of his jealousy! Poor flowers. Dead just like Mrs. Dittle. Also Boromir. But not dead like Gandalf, because he comes back.
“Huzzah me!” Master Trox said, withdrawing his sword and pointing it in the air to make his pose just that much cooler.
After a short while of huzzahing and poses, everyone sat back down. Master Trox sheathed his sword and twirled his whiskers with his finger, as if they were a mustache. Mr. Dittle was very much confused. He wondered how one fox could be so self-absorbed! Pushaw. (Pishaw) It’s cause he’s so happy that he finally can compete with how fabulous Mr. Dittle is. Master Trox began to speak again. “So. I am told the ‘Warrior’ one is this--no offense--old, stinky, scrawny, miserable, crippled, racist human. You’re even racist against spiders. I can’t believe you. They wouldn’t hurt a fly. Well, they do. But not maliciously. Well, some of them. But nothing much bigger than flies. Well, except for the really big spiders. They kinda scare me. A lot. Now I need some dry pants. For Christmas? Narrrgh.”
Mr. Dittle was pretty sure he resented that. He had just been insulted by a fox, and was not sure how to proceed, or what to say. Hey, at least he knows what the fox says. Oh, maybe the fox actually just needs to be sort of a “fantastic Mr. Fox,” and he’s not very good at spelling, so he thinks “fantastic” and “fabulous” are the same thing. Foxes aren’t very good at spelling, are they? Well, you wouldn’t be either if you had paws. Stop judging. He just needs a hug. Like Loki. But not like Sauron. If you hugged him, you would burn up and die. Also your soul would be sold to the Dark Lord. Gingers and Scott would be safe. Also cats. Ginger cats named Scott. Maybe Sauron’s real name is Scott. And he was a ginger cat before he was a great lidless eye wreathed in flame. You know who else is a dark lord? Voldemort. Voldemort, voldemort, voldy-voldy-voldy-voldemort. Ahahaha I just named He-Who-Should-Not-Be-Named. Maybe he shouldn’t be named because he’s offended that everyone calls him “Voldemort” instead of his real name, “Scott.” Like, really. Who names their kid “Voldemort”? Child abuse name. Obviously, everyone in school was just jealous that he was so much ahead of them, so they made up a mean nickname for him. Maybe he just needs a hug, too. And a nose. And hair. Well, lots of people need hair. Mr. Dittle probably needs hair, too. Maybe I’ll go add “bald” to the fox’s list of insults. He decided it was best to just not talk, and did so. He listened intently for the next few minutes as Master Trox went over all that had happened. Apparently the trolls used to not bother the animals. Then one day the Troll King invented a machine that could literally suck life away. The Troll King had used his machine all over the land. Trees died, animals died, and all other life that hadn’t gotten away, perished. Every animal that had survived got away to The Treetops, which is where Mr. Dittle was now. Master Trox explained to him that the trolls had not yet made adjustments to the machine to take away human life, and that is why a troll had invaded his house. The troll’s job was to take a human sample and bring it back to the Troll King. When Mr. Dittle had been standing out on the path by the grass, and he heard a loud awful noise, that was the machine. Master Trox had sent Chief Yelzirg to fetch him, because Captain Nocar had said he was the Warrior.
Author's Note #2: If anything in here was offensive, I'm obliged to apologized. (rhyme). Thanks for reading!
--Jim Blow
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