Hey folks, I will be publishing parts of my novel for your viewing pleasure in the next few months. Hope yawl enjoy this:
It was a quiet day at the office for all the grammers. There had been no "incidents" so far. Gable was enjoying his morning cup of milk, even though he was lactose intolerant--knowing full well that his mild gastric discomfort would pale in comparison to his co-workers' impending olfactory duress. A small smile passed on his face. This would teach Mrs. Airy, the plump company secretary and team mom, to force him to play on the company softball team. He could picture her nasal reaction now:
"My goooooodness gracious! What is that aaaaawful smeeeeell."
He imagined the gallons of smell-sol she'd spray across the acres of Grammville's programming farms. That obnoxious clean car smell would permeate into the deepest recesses of the workplace, causing even the smelliest of employees to be fragranced away. He shuddered at the thought, recalling the old adage they taught him at the grammer academy: "A smelly grammer, is a productive grammar because that means he works instead of showering" (despite an exquisite nerd-based education, the rectors at PAOG had wanton regard for the intricacies of the English language, lacking a zen-like knowledge of homophones.) Gable, none-the-wiser about this grammatical Waterloo, took comfort in the refuge of his teachers' wisdom. Maybe he would make up for the loss of his stench with a gaming purge at the local LAN cafe.
You see, though he wasn't Korean, Gable fancied himself as a real time strategist. He had showed inklings of this talent at a very early age, winning his first speed typing contest at the precocious age of seven. He had cleanly trounced the imposing opposition, consisting of middle aged professional typists, airline gate attendants, and nerds. When the score board showed that he had neatly bested the Lemon County record (which had stood for fifty years, since the heady days of Typewriter Harold, a local legend of sorts) coming in at 200 words per minutes, he jumped quicker than a brown fox, exclaiming: "Jeepers! I'm the bestest typer the world as ever seen!" Sadly his perfunctory typing skills did not parlay into either grammar or spelling bee victories (but you see, he wasn't Indian either, though he did love tikka masala, so this was to be excused.)
It was a quiet day at the office for all the grammers. There had been no "incidents" so far. Gable was enjoying his morning cup of milk, even though he was lactose intolerant--knowing full well that his mild gastric discomfort would pale in comparison to his co-workers' impending olfactory duress. A small smile passed on his face. This would teach Mrs. Airy, the plump company secretary and team mom, to force him to play on the company softball team. He could picture her nasal reaction now:
"My goooooodness gracious! What is that aaaaawful smeeeeell."
He imagined the gallons of smell-sol she'd spray across the acres of Grammville's programming farms. That obnoxious clean car smell would permeate into the deepest recesses of the workplace, causing even the smelliest of employees to be fragranced away. He shuddered at the thought, recalling the old adage they taught him at the grammer academy: "A smelly grammer, is a productive grammar because that means he works instead of showering" (despite an exquisite nerd-based education, the rectors at PAOG had wanton regard for the intricacies of the English language, lacking a zen-like knowledge of homophones.) Gable, none-the-wiser about this grammatical Waterloo, took comfort in the refuge of his teachers' wisdom. Maybe he would make up for the loss of his stench with a gaming purge at the local LAN cafe.
You see, though he wasn't Korean, Gable fancied himself as a real time strategist. He had showed inklings of this talent at a very early age, winning his first speed typing contest at the precocious age of seven. He had cleanly trounced the imposing opposition, consisting of middle aged professional typists, airline gate attendants, and nerds. When the score board showed that he had neatly bested the Lemon County record (which had stood for fifty years, since the heady days of Typewriter Harold, a local legend of sorts) coming in at 200 words per minutes, he jumped quicker than a brown fox, exclaiming: "Jeepers! I'm the bestest typer the world as ever seen!" Sadly his perfunctory typing skills did not parlay into either grammar or spelling bee victories (but you see, he wasn't Indian either, though he did love tikka masala, so this was to be excused.)
