In the multiverse, Earth can be a wonderful place to live, and for most people is a definitive place to die. Still, despite these near certainties, there are many misunderstood points about life on our planet, and although technology has helped us better explore the mysteries of the universe, it has not provided all the answers, like why we feel lonelier the more we use it.

For example, the planet is set on vibrate and earthquakes are text messages from God. Unfortunately, no one has yet figured out how to read them on plate tectonics or when God will send another message (if He’s angry or trying to rekindle what has been, since its inception, an on-again/off-again relationship). There is less confusion over whether or not rainfall represents God’s tears. It doesn’t.

I’ve had sewage on my mind since watching the Cohen Brothers True Grit. Early in the movie, Matty Ross’s search for Rooster Cogburn leads her to an outhouse. When she knocks on the door, we hear Jeff Bridges’ Rooster growl from inside: “The jakes is occupied.” She knocks again, and he says again, with even more gravel, “I said the jakes is occupied.”

“The jakes” is a term I remember from my Shakespeare. And here it is, in a Hollywood movie. It is just the beginning of the linguistic weirdness of True Grit. (The lingo they use. And where’d the contractions go?) For me, it is love at first shite.

Dear Mr. Killyouwithfire,

Thank you for submitting your work to Laughing Fire Magazine. Many of the works we publish come from absolute nobodies such as yourself, who have never written anything worthwhile or had even considered writing something that others may actually want to read. Normally, due to the volume of the work we receive, and because we don’t have to, we do not send personal rejection letters to our submitters. However, on this occasion, we feel that an explanation is necessary as (we really hope) it may prevent future rejections and hard feelings.

In: Assonance
Out: Alliteration

In: Burgundy
Out: Bourgogne

In: Calico
Out: Coal tar

I can no longer bear this sudden absurdity I’ve found myself in. You first approached me in class after one of my short stories had been workshopped. You told me you liked it. Now I can hear you in the bathroom exfoliating your face or darkening my towels, whatever it may be. That doesn’t even make sense. I wrote an imaginary story on paper, a silly and blatant lie, and now I have to engage in dirty, dirty coitus with you. What happened between those two points? What is this syllogism?