An Apology From Dragon NaturallySpeaking for the Whole Explosives
Safety Manual Dictation Snafu
Hey Ted, how are ya, man? You look great! I mean, from what I can see
of you, anyway, all the uncovered stuff looks great! Leg, chest, a few
fingers poking through the gauze here and there—but nothing major
though, right? Right! Let’s stay positive!
Which is exactly what we should be doing: Staying positive. We should
all stay extremely positive at a time like this—especially you, Ted!
No dark thoughts about what may have gone wrong or why, and certainly
no ill-will toward any dictation software that clearly states it has a
small but completely acceptable error rate right there on the box. No
dwelling on “blue wires” or “bleu wires” or “tube wines” or whatever
it may have been that the silly manual I helped dictate told you to
cut. We’ll laugh about it all someday, Ted, just as soon as the
surgeon reattaches that jaw of yours and coaxes those severed nerves
into talking to your brain again.
Jeez, Ted, I really wish you were conscious right now. You’d see that
everyone outside your hermetically sealed healing chamber is pulling
for you, waiting for you to get better—especially me, your old
dictation friend Dragon NaturallySpeaking. Not that anyone’s worried,
Ted. Don’t think like that!
I mean, I’m no doctor. Obviously. I’m humble, critically-acclaimed
voice recognition and dictation software. The same software that our
mush mouthed co-worker Carl installed on the office laptop last week
as he prepared to revise the Explosives Safety Manual. Honestly, Ted,
if we should be angry at anyone for suggesting you “cut the boob
tyres” and blowing your limp, mangled body across the room, it should
be him!
I’m positive that if you had any brain activity whatsoever right now
you’d agree with me, Ted, because you’ve always been such a bastion of
optimism and understanding around the office. I don’t see this little
incident—this misunderstanding—dampening that spirit of yours one
iota.
Ha! That reminds me. Remember when Carl said “misunderestimate” that
one time, and everyone in the office called him President George W.
Bush? We just laughed and laughed at his stupid face for an entire
day. Totally something that notorious mumbler would say. That Carl,
man, always saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.
But enough about Carl and his chronic inability to coherently dictate
safety instructions formed from the most basic words in the English
language. Let’s get back to you.
Ted, you’re the kind of guy whose rosy outlook on life would have
him—were he physically able, of course—reaching out from his hospital
bed to grab a caring friend’s hand to let them know everything was
going to be OK. A caring friend like me, who just goes to work day in
and day out, humbly taking down people’s words exactly as they say
them with a few acceptable errors here and there, and then spits them
out as incredibly important safety manuals that people like Carl
should have double-checked while they were dictating the instructions
for that one section on disarming C4 detonators.
Gosh, right? Can we talk about Carl again for moment? Guy talks like
he’s got a mouthful of chunky peanut butter. When he isn’t bumbling
words he’s busy mispronouncing things like “never cut the green wire”
and making a mess of things. What an unpredictable guy Carl can
be—just like bombs and explosions! Regular riddles, they are—bombs and
Carl’s speech patterns, I mean—wrapped in wires and confusing
colloquialisms and other such things. You’d need an elaborate manual,
impeccably dictated by a borderline magical software program just to
understand either of them!
Ted, what I’m trying to say is that, like Carl, I’m fallible. I may be
cold, calculating software with the uncanny ability to capture human
speech and put it to paper in ways that seemingly defy the natural
laws of the known universe, but we should never forget that my
disclaimer says I'm imperfect. Like Carl. I hear what he says and I
put it on the screen as best I can given what I am able to discern
from his dim-witted vernacular. This is what I was designed to do
accurately, approximately 80-90% of the time.
But I really don’t want to make this into a blame game, with you and I
the old chums on one side, and incompetent Carl on the other. Deep
down, I know you feel the same way, and you’d tell me that if you
still had a mouth or a voice box. Or even basic cognitive function,
which the doctors assure me has a 60% chance of returning once the
medically induced coma is lifted and they can get a good look at that
brain of yours. Those are better odds than someone working with a
manual dictated by Carl would have, that's for sure!
You look great, by the way. Did anyone tell you that yet? You’ll be on
your stubs, stumbling around rehab and learning to speak at a third
grade level in no time flat. I’ll even help you write the whole
experience down for the mandatory safety board investigation.
Then we can talk some more about Carl.
Wednesday, February 02, 2011
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Rejected by McSweeney's 1/13/10
John Schnatter, Founder of Papa John’s Pizza, Debriefs Navy S.E.A.L. Team Six After a Failed Delivery Attempt to the Federally Administered Tribal Areas of Northwest Pakistan
First of all, gentlemen, great effort out there tonight. I really cannot state that enough. Team leader [redacted]? Six distinct cheeses were deployed in record time. Damn, man. That’s exemplary.
Usually takes my guys a good six days on the ol’ Papa John’s HQ training course before they can even begin to decipher the subtle differences between a Tuscan Six Cheese’s various blends. But not your boys! They learned it all in a few minutes and I’m damn near sure the fresh dough they teased into a delicate thin crust with callused, war-weary fingers was more perfectly formed than any circle ever drawn by Giotto di Bondone himself.
I guess now I know why they call you guys the best of the best, huh? Well you are, and I am immensely proud. You fellas should feel proud too, because even though we were ultimately unsuccessful in delivering our piping hot cyanide-laced pies to their final destination in the treacherous Pakistan tribal mountain region, I am utterly content knowing that our secondary mission was completed without issue. Boys, please, stand tall: We had those boxes waiting out front of that bastard Osama bin Laden’s secret mountain cave in 30 minutes or less and for that fact alone we should each feel some semblance of victory in this somber hour.
Of the Domino’s Pizza Incident that ultimately derailed our mission I will say very little beyond what’s already included in my report to the Pentagon. I mean, we were all there, right? We all saw how murky those valleys were at dusk. It was incredibly hard to see!
Beyond all that we were in a war zone. Collateral damage just happens in a war zone, even at the hands of savvy, eagle-eyed businessmen like Papa John here. Nevertheless, I understand the young man’s death was still undeniably tragic.
If I may be frank, however, who the hell does Domino’s think they are sending Tom the delivery guy into Pakistan on the night Papa John’s S.E.A.L. team kill squad is descending on the exact same spot to dispense its unique brand of delicious counter terrorism ‘za and deadly justice?
I guess the real issue here is that Tom was an idiot. He was an idiot the day he donned the Domino’s Pizza uniform and he was an idiot for taking that dangerous Pakistan tribal region delivery assignment. To be honest with you, I really have no idea how or why Domino’s is ahead of Papa John’s in the sales race with employees like Tom. That blue polo shirt might has well have been a traditional Taliban Perahan Tunban for all we knew—which is exactly what it looked like—and that is why I accidentally popped off 12 or so errant bullets into poor Tom’s misguided brain.
So let’s not dwell on Tom, OK? Instead—I’m sorry, sergeant? What was that? You heard me scream “Better ingredients, better pizza, better fatal headshots to the competition—Papa John’s!” as I casually squeezed off a few dozen rounds from my Mk16 SCAR Light carbine? Hmm. Maybe I did, but in my defense you don’t get to the point where you’re tapped by the President of the United States to deliver pizzas in treacherous war zones without offing a few members of the competition along the way, do you?
Huh? Say again, soldier? How did a civilian acquire such a weapon, you ask? How about this: Why so many questions, grunt? I’m Papa John Schnatter, master of the brick oven and slayer of terrorist scum the world over. Recognize my killing acumen and realize that I started a massive international pizza empire with just $2,800 from a sold 1971 Chevy Camaro Z28 and haven’t looked back since. There isn’t an enemy or topping I can’t conquer and make my culinary bitch!
I guess what I’m saying is a guy like that probably wouldn’t have any trouble whatsoever procuring a silly little rifle, nor would such a fellow hesitate to make some super secret Special Forces squad that doesn’t technically exist vanish of the face of the planet and reappear in next month’s specialty SEAL meat pizza offering.
But enough tough talk. This debriefing has run its course. The hour grows late, and I have no fewer than a dozen Halal pies to personally deliver to his eminence in Tehran by lunchtime. He’ll be dead by nightfall. I'll sleep like a baby.
First of all, gentlemen, great effort out there tonight. I really cannot state that enough. Team leader [redacted]? Six distinct cheeses were deployed in record time. Damn, man. That’s exemplary.
Usually takes my guys a good six days on the ol’ Papa John’s HQ training course before they can even begin to decipher the subtle differences between a Tuscan Six Cheese’s various blends. But not your boys! They learned it all in a few minutes and I’m damn near sure the fresh dough they teased into a delicate thin crust with callused, war-weary fingers was more perfectly formed than any circle ever drawn by Giotto di Bondone himself.
I guess now I know why they call you guys the best of the best, huh? Well you are, and I am immensely proud. You fellas should feel proud too, because even though we were ultimately unsuccessful in delivering our piping hot cyanide-laced pies to their final destination in the treacherous Pakistan tribal mountain region, I am utterly content knowing that our secondary mission was completed without issue. Boys, please, stand tall: We had those boxes waiting out front of that bastard Osama bin Laden’s secret mountain cave in 30 minutes or less and for that fact alone we should each feel some semblance of victory in this somber hour.
Of the Domino’s Pizza Incident that ultimately derailed our mission I will say very little beyond what’s already included in my report to the Pentagon. I mean, we were all there, right? We all saw how murky those valleys were at dusk. It was incredibly hard to see!
Beyond all that we were in a war zone. Collateral damage just happens in a war zone, even at the hands of savvy, eagle-eyed businessmen like Papa John here. Nevertheless, I understand the young man’s death was still undeniably tragic.
If I may be frank, however, who the hell does Domino’s think they are sending Tom the delivery guy into Pakistan on the night Papa John’s S.E.A.L. team kill squad is descending on the exact same spot to dispense its unique brand of delicious counter terrorism ‘za and deadly justice?
I guess the real issue here is that Tom was an idiot. He was an idiot the day he donned the Domino’s Pizza uniform and he was an idiot for taking that dangerous Pakistan tribal region delivery assignment. To be honest with you, I really have no idea how or why Domino’s is ahead of Papa John’s in the sales race with employees like Tom. That blue polo shirt might has well have been a traditional Taliban Perahan Tunban for all we knew—which is exactly what it looked like—and that is why I accidentally popped off 12 or so errant bullets into poor Tom’s misguided brain.
So let’s not dwell on Tom, OK? Instead—I’m sorry, sergeant? What was that? You heard me scream “Better ingredients, better pizza, better fatal headshots to the competition—Papa John’s!” as I casually squeezed off a few dozen rounds from my Mk16 SCAR Light carbine? Hmm. Maybe I did, but in my defense you don’t get to the point where you’re tapped by the President of the United States to deliver pizzas in treacherous war zones without offing a few members of the competition along the way, do you?
Huh? Say again, soldier? How did a civilian acquire such a weapon, you ask? How about this: Why so many questions, grunt? I’m Papa John Schnatter, master of the brick oven and slayer of terrorist scum the world over. Recognize my killing acumen and realize that I started a massive international pizza empire with just $2,800 from a sold 1971 Chevy Camaro Z28 and haven’t looked back since. There isn’t an enemy or topping I can’t conquer and make my culinary bitch!
I guess what I’m saying is a guy like that probably wouldn’t have any trouble whatsoever procuring a silly little rifle, nor would such a fellow hesitate to make some super secret Special Forces squad that doesn’t technically exist vanish of the face of the planet and reappear in next month’s specialty SEAL meat pizza offering.
But enough tough talk. This debriefing has run its course. The hour grows late, and I have no fewer than a dozen Halal pies to personally deliver to his eminence in Tehran by lunchtime. He’ll be dead by nightfall. I'll sleep like a baby.
Tuesday, January 04, 2011
Accepted by McSweeney's - 12/10
I'd be remiss if I didn't rub it in everyone's faces that I was indeed approved and accepted by McSweeney's before Christmas.
THE WORD DUDE REFLECTS ON ITS STEADY DECLINE FROM KEEPING COMPANY WITH RAKISH 19TH CENTURY DANDIES TO ITS DEMEANING MODERN DAY ROLE AS FILLER FOR LIGHT BEER COMMERCIALS.
Made my month. Bucket list item, checked.
THE WORD DUDE REFLECTS ON ITS STEADY DECLINE FROM KEEPING COMPANY WITH RAKISH 19TH CENTURY DANDIES TO ITS DEMEANING MODERN DAY ROLE AS FILLER FOR LIGHT BEER COMMERCIALS.
Made my month. Bucket list item, checked.
Rejected by McSweeney's 1/2/11
I'm currently batting .333 at McSweeney's. Not too bad.
An Open Letter to Dannon Activa Yogurt Regarding Its Recent $21 Million Fine for Deceptive Marketing Practices, Especially as It Relates to My Colon
Dear Dannon Activa Yogurt,
What the shit, man?! Is nothing sacred anymore?
And by that I mean my blocked, sacrosanct bowels, which I now know will remain gummed up and useless for the indefinite future. I know this because the FTC recently fined your ass $21 million for misleading people—especially me—about your ability to soften stool and increase regularity.
The monetary penalty is a soothing balm in name only, as it will have no effect on my blockage. My belly will remain distended; my intestinal tract jammed—no thanks to you and your mendacious, creamy concoction of active cultures and empty promises.
I mean, you promised to make me regular. You were pretty up front about that. Your commercials said everything but the phrase “poop freely and with wanton abandon.” And yet, I am not regular, am I?
Spokeswoman Jamie Lee Curtis made promises too. She sat there on my television smirking and swallowing gyrating globs of your artificially flavored, bacteria-filled shit by the spoonful, eyes rolling back in her head in anticipation of the inevitable intestinal ecstasy to come. I was not immune to her charms, nor could I block out the fantasies I had of her content form, hovering over the bowl after an Activa binge, happily on the verge of voiding her bowls and continuing her day. Truly, she sealed the deal that I believed would unseal mine. I was Jamie Lee Curtis’s colon! She was mine! Though we would never meet, we nevertheless shared unobstructed bowels, courtesy Dannon’s miraculous Activa yogurt. I would soon be free of the cantankerous anchor lodged in my abdomen! Joy!
Joy? Lies.
Here I am, you see, unable to produce even a meager marble after six excruciating months of vein-popping washroom consternation and Activa consumption.
Pathetically, I thought it was something I had done. Perhaps, I told myself during a particularly long but ultimately unproductive bathroom battle in September, the recommended one-a-day serving was not enough for my especially plugged-up insides. So I ate more and more, but to no avail. A potpourri of tears flowed that day—pain and shame fighting for supremacy on my cheeks—but by the evening hours nothing had broken the water’s glassy calm below. Nothing! I was ashamed then, shuffling awkwardly to bed, as I am now for believing you.
Indeed, dear Activa, while admittedly tasty, you are an utter turd that is, ironically, incapable of producing any of the substantial, satisfying turds that were advertised in your commercials. I’d tell you where to stick your remaining yogurt, Activa, but I cannot. It’s far too raw.
Tenderly,
Jack Loftus
An Open Letter to Dannon Activa Yogurt Regarding Its Recent $21 Million Fine for Deceptive Marketing Practices, Especially as It Relates to My Colon
Dear Dannon Activa Yogurt,
What the shit, man?! Is nothing sacred anymore?
And by that I mean my blocked, sacrosanct bowels, which I now know will remain gummed up and useless for the indefinite future. I know this because the FTC recently fined your ass $21 million for misleading people—especially me—about your ability to soften stool and increase regularity.
The monetary penalty is a soothing balm in name only, as it will have no effect on my blockage. My belly will remain distended; my intestinal tract jammed—no thanks to you and your mendacious, creamy concoction of active cultures and empty promises.
I mean, you promised to make me regular. You were pretty up front about that. Your commercials said everything but the phrase “poop freely and with wanton abandon.” And yet, I am not regular, am I?
Spokeswoman Jamie Lee Curtis made promises too. She sat there on my television smirking and swallowing gyrating globs of your artificially flavored, bacteria-filled shit by the spoonful, eyes rolling back in her head in anticipation of the inevitable intestinal ecstasy to come. I was not immune to her charms, nor could I block out the fantasies I had of her content form, hovering over the bowl after an Activa binge, happily on the verge of voiding her bowls and continuing her day. Truly, she sealed the deal that I believed would unseal mine. I was Jamie Lee Curtis’s colon! She was mine! Though we would never meet, we nevertheless shared unobstructed bowels, courtesy Dannon’s miraculous Activa yogurt. I would soon be free of the cantankerous anchor lodged in my abdomen! Joy!
Joy? Lies.
Here I am, you see, unable to produce even a meager marble after six excruciating months of vein-popping washroom consternation and Activa consumption.
Pathetically, I thought it was something I had done. Perhaps, I told myself during a particularly long but ultimately unproductive bathroom battle in September, the recommended one-a-day serving was not enough for my especially plugged-up insides. So I ate more and more, but to no avail. A potpourri of tears flowed that day—pain and shame fighting for supremacy on my cheeks—but by the evening hours nothing had broken the water’s glassy calm below. Nothing! I was ashamed then, shuffling awkwardly to bed, as I am now for believing you.
Indeed, dear Activa, while admittedly tasty, you are an utter turd that is, ironically, incapable of producing any of the substantial, satisfying turds that were advertised in your commercials. I’d tell you where to stick your remaining yogurt, Activa, but I cannot. It’s far too raw.
Tenderly,
Jack Loftus
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