Week 1 - Jayus
Twain.
Dickens.
Swift.
Dumas.
A list of witless hacks to which I can add the name zhent. I suspect that a lack of talent must be a harbinger of prosperity and relevance. If the populist, pulp drivel of Bill Shakespeare is still worth noting five centuries later, then why not the mindless pap of rank amateurs in an internet writing contest? As the preeminent critic of the written word, from the tragedians of antiquity to 21st century wordsmiths of the blogosphere - of every era, in every language - I know one thing to be certain and true: it is the duty of cultural mavens such as myself to come down from the mount and instruct the plebeians as to what is good and bad. This quaint, grassroots experiment of voting people "off" to determine who is the best is cute; it really is. But the insular ego stroking of the comments makes me want to vomit all over a hippie singing Kumbaya.
But, I digress. We were talking about zhent, whose vapid ephemera was unleashed in an internet backwater known as LiveJournal. I could take the grocery list off my refrigerator, submit it to Mad magazine and have made a greater contribution to the hallowed traditions of literature than this feat. How fitting, then, that the writing prompt was Jayus? Mr. zhent's entry was an agonizing exercise in this concept: so poorly told as to be laughable.
Forget about the lady in his entry, he should have apologized. Profusely.
...for subjecting us to this tepid monstrosity. Let's (generously, graciously) pretend for a moment that he could write his way out of a wet paper bag with a sharpened pencil. Should that pencil break, there's no other "point" here with which to keep digging. Where is the soul? Where is the wit? Where is the real heartbreak? Other than the earth-shattering revelation that, when it comes to women, dudes be trippin', what else have we learned? Where is the probing examination to get at the heart of the matter? It's like watching a film written by that blathering moron Woody Allen, but with no jokes and less self-analysis.
I've had deeper connections with the esoteric rambling of Edwardian furniture restoration manuals and I've found more substance in a misprinted Bazooka Joe comic.
Dickens.
Swift.
Dumas.
A list of witless hacks to which I can add the name zhent. I suspect that a lack of talent must be a harbinger of prosperity and relevance. If the populist, pulp drivel of Bill Shakespeare is still worth noting five centuries later, then why not the mindless pap of rank amateurs in an internet writing contest? As the preeminent critic of the written word, from the tragedians of antiquity to 21st century wordsmiths of the blogosphere - of every era, in every language - I know one thing to be certain and true: it is the duty of cultural mavens such as myself to come down from the mount and instruct the plebeians as to what is good and bad. This quaint, grassroots experiment of voting people "off" to determine who is the best is cute; it really is. But the insular ego stroking of the comments makes me want to vomit all over a hippie singing Kumbaya.
But, I digress. We were talking about zhent, whose vapid ephemera was unleashed in an internet backwater known as LiveJournal. I could take the grocery list off my refrigerator, submit it to Mad magazine and have made a greater contribution to the hallowed traditions of literature than this feat. How fitting, then, that the writing prompt was Jayus? Mr. zhent's entry was an agonizing exercise in this concept: so poorly told as to be laughable.
Forget about the lady in his entry, he should have apologized. Profusely.
...for subjecting us to this tepid monstrosity. Let's (generously, graciously) pretend for a moment that he could write his way out of a wet paper bag with a sharpened pencil. Should that pencil break, there's no other "point" here with which to keep digging. Where is the soul? Where is the wit? Where is the real heartbreak? Other than the earth-shattering revelation that, when it comes to women, dudes be trippin', what else have we learned? Where is the probing examination to get at the heart of the matter? It's like watching a film written by that blathering moron Woody Allen, but with no jokes and less self-analysis.
I've had deeper connections with the esoteric rambling of Edwardian furniture restoration manuals and I've found more substance in a misprinted Bazooka Joe comic.