My day was as empty as a human resources manager’s imagination, so I was heading for a pint or two of Smithwick’s with my barfly associates, the Afternoon Travelers, when an anomaly loomed on the landscape.
There, at the edge of the sidewalk, sat a woman behind a table identified by a large sign as the GRAMMAR TABLE. What her scam was, or which marks she was spreading bait to lure, didn’t seem clear, so I stepped up and spoke:
“How fares our English tongue? Is it strong? Is it steady?”
She gave me the look your editor gives your first draft at ten minutes to deadline. “Does that mean you have an interest in grammar?” she asked.
“Sister, I worked with professional journalists for forty years, and I’ve seen it all, all there is to see, non-Euclidean syntax that would give Bryan Garner the whim-whams. What I want to know is what’s in it for you?”