For me, restaurant menus have always been an exercise in frustration. I've avoided fistfights with wait staff and management by blaming myself—poor reading skills, or the inferior quality of my reading glasses—when in fact it's the punctuation. I mean, how am I supposed to cope with the ambiguity of fries versus fry's?
This morning, I read Christian Lander's blog post on the subject, which went straight to the heart of the matter. The problem, it seems, is that I'm white.
The presence of an improper apostrophe on a menu can ruin an otherwise delicious meal for a white person.
Then, as if this news were not sufficiently painful already, he delivers the final confounding blow.
It is the duty of every white person to correct typos. It is worth the risk of banishment to deliver proper grammar to those who need it.
It's a paradox. I'm expected to eat whatever's put in front of me, regardless of punctuation. On the other hand, I can't eat with all those typos buzzing around my head.
It's enough to make me want to dye.
Terrific zinger! (Hey, is there an echo in here? No, it's simply me reiterating that you come up with terrific zingers.)
ReplyDeleteThank you very much. But zingers are not unlike donuts in certain fundamental ways (e.g. sugar and grease) which must mean it's snack time!
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