Performance Anxiety
Anyone who's been in an enclosed social situation with me for more than a few minutes will know that if there's one thing I can *NOT* stand, it's people who don't have a good grasp of spelling, grammar and punctuation. It's not hard to pick up, we've all been taught about it in School and if you haven't wrapped your head around it now well, you might as well just top yourself. You ruddy idiot.

One time, a year ago, I was playing golf with the East Street Boys and my chum Larson made a grammatical error that I just couldn't forgive.
"Come on then, whos next?" He said.
"I beg your pardon Larson, but how did you spell that in your head?" I asked. Larson looked at me for a couple of seconds, puzzled, then spelled it out.
"C-o-m-e o-n t-h-e-n w-h-o-s n-e-x-t", he said, letter by letter.
"But what about the punctuation?" I asked. "How did you punctuate that sentence in your head?" Larson was beginning to become rather annoyed with me, but he answered.
"I had a comma next to 'then', a capital letter at the beginning, and a full stop at the end." I tried to keep a straight face, but it was too much.
"So you mean to tell me you didn't have an apostrophe in 'whos'?" I chortled.
"No?" Replied Larson, absolutely bewildered by this point. I burst into tears of uncontrollable laughter.
"Larson, you fucking cretin!" I cried. "You're meant to put an apostrophe before the 's' if you're saying 'who is', ya yo-yo!" Larson stumbled back and gasped.
"I... I didn't realize." He sighed.
"Of course you didn't, you ruddy fool!" I shouted. "Do you know how fucking stupid that is? To forget where to put an apostrophe?"
"Calm down Wilson," he responded, "I was speaking, not writing a flipping essay."
"Oh, so it's okay to forget how to use correct punctuation as long as you're not writing an essay?" I asked, as I walked closer to Larson, looming over him.
"P... Please Wilson... I just forgot." He sobbed.
"Oh you forgot, did you? A second ago you said you didn't realize. So which one is it Larson?" I challenged him, as I held my golf club over his head.
"I... I... Stop it!" He wailed, tears rolling down his rosy red cheeks. If there was one thing I admired about Larson, it was his rosy red cheeks. They reminded me of the tomatoes you get in Sainsburys, the top notch ones, the ones that have only just been stocked. However, it wasn't enough for me to forgive his error.
"Wrong answer, Larson." I said menacingly, before clobbering his skull with the tip of my 5-iron.

I felt good about lambasting Larson. I may have been a bit harsh on him, but using punctuation correctly isn't that hard, is it? I mean... I certainly don't think so, and I don't think you do either. I'm not trying to put words in your mouth, I just think if you disagreed with me, you would've said something by now, and you've been as quiet as a child hoping for survival in a rabid pedophile's lair.

That night I conjured up the best Duck foie gras I had made in years, and I enjoyed every last little nibble of it. Later that night my urine seemed a little off. It came out of my external urethral orifice at the same angle as it always does, and the texture of it didn't seem abnormal either. The thing that got me was the smell. It didn't smell as it usually smells. I found it hard not to blame the foie gras, but I had a feeling it was something different.
"Is this the smell of victory?" I asked my Angelina Ballerina toilet roll cover. Of course, I wasn't expecting a response, but I felt that if it did happen to be a living organism it'd be nice not to ignore it after I had pulled my William Hill out of it a plethora of times over the past few years. It didn't respond.

Life was good, and so was I. However, things were about to change.

Fast forward two weeks and at 7.00 AM I was peeling off my Thomas the Tank Engine one piece pyjamas and putting on my Willy Mason World Tour t-shirt, followed by my Tuesday boxers (it was actually Thursday, but I couldn't find my Thursday boxers and my Tuesday boxers looked virtually the same) and my three-quarter length trousers. I looked at my outfit in the mirror and I looked hot as hell. I headed off for my shift down at the local Big Bertha's Butcher Shop.

The day went on and I was cutting meat like nobody's business. My customers were all thoroughly satisfied with the service and I had a feeling that nothing could go wrong. That was until Larson walked in.
"Ah, Wilson!" He saluted me as he walked in the shop. I thought I had done some damage to Larson the other week, but I had to say the bandages round his head complimented his rosy red cheeks poetically, and as much as I hate to admit it, he looked even sexier than I did.
"Hello Larson, what would you like?" I asked, trying to keep the quality of my service in absolute pristine condition.
"I'll just have one Cumberland sausage, Wilson." He replied. I picked up a Cumberland sausage, wrapped it up in paper, jotted the order down on it in pencil and passed it to Larson.
"Here's your Cumberland sausage. That'll cost you £4.50." I mumbled. He passed me a 5 pound note and I passed him his change. He headed for the door but just before leaving he swivelled round on his ankle to face me, and with a smug expression on his face he said, "By the way, you misspelled 'sausage'." I laughed, and retorted "Nonsense." But the smug grin on Larson's face remained, and he walked over and passed me his package. I looked down to see what I had written, and I couldn't believe it. 'Cumberland sausige'. I passed it back to Larson. "Well, we all make mistakes." I chuckled. "Of course." He replied, before walking out of the store.

I tried not to think about it, but the more I tried to repress it the harder it struck me. I could barely breathe, and was beginning to feel sick. I looked around the store and saw one man surveying the variety of meat on display, covering his mouth.
"What on earth are you laughing at?" I bellowed. He removed his hand from his mouth to reveal an expression of bewilderment.
"Nothing." He responded, timidly. I was feeling faint. I had to get out of there. I took off my apron and headed straight out of the door and to my house, and that's where I've been since.

I couldn't bear to go out in public after what I did. I was disgusted with myself. I got fired from Big Bertha's Butcher Shop, which is a crying shame because I liked that job a lot more than my previous job at Woolworths. I couldn't face my friends. I couldn't face myself in the mirror, not even for a wank. Since then my use of spelling, grammar and punctuation has only depleted.

I'd give anything to go back to that day and correct my mistake, but I can't, and I'll be stuck here for the rest of my life.

Thanks for reading. Now fuck off.
(SirStromming, Sat 20 Aug 2011, 20:55, 5 replies)

You funny fucker.

(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Sat 20 Aug 2011, 23:05, closed)

A true SirStromming classic.
Well played, sir. Now, fuck off!
(Sir Itchalot has a very self-referential signature, Sat 20 Aug 2011, 23:08, closed)

I think you mean
'deteriorated' rather than 'depleted' (sniggers)


*click* by the way.
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Mon 22 Aug 2011, 17:00, closed)

I only read the first and the last sentence
You don't seem to be able to get to the point
(the other guy not the one that gave you coochie warts, Tue 23 Aug 2011, 3:37, closed)

You Sir
are an insane genius!
(gdcoey, Tue 23 Aug 2011, 18:32, closed)