Catapostrophe.

It has been a nice (nearly) three week vacation¹ from you pestilent corpuscles, but now I have returned. I do hope you've enjoyed the respite you were granted, however brief, from the torturous, twisting words that my cognitive musings beget upon you, the reader.

While working on my most brilliant masterstroke to date, I've found that even with my incredibly advanced intellect and prescience of multiple plan outcomes, it's quite difficult to produce perfect grandiose schemes while under an external deadline for other projects. I'm definitely going to need to concentrate on that "pocket dimension time" project that I've procrastinated on for so long.

Projects are especially difficult to complete, however, when I'm often surrounded by imbeciles² and the public at large. Case in point: the way my entire being twists and rejects the notion of supposedly English-speaking people don't understand how to use apostrophes.

I was at the grocery store a short while ago, procuring provisions for this biologically needy form and found this abomination:

I'm not even going to go into the fact that the word is spelled "Entrée" as it is futile to complain that the menial laborer of average intelligence³ doesn't know a foreign word⁴; I can, however, deride them being unable to comprehend the basic syntax structure of their natural language that they grew up with and ostensibly went to school to learn⁵. Obviously, this sign should have been constructed without that poor, sad apostrophe. Look at it... Look at it... forced to stand curved-bit deep in its own humiliation, an enduring reminder that it simply should not be⁶ and proof that the collective intelligence of the average grocery store worker is still ever-so steadily declining; the mechanically lurching down escalator in a grey-matter rendering plant.

Even more sadly, this is in a more upscale store; that section itself recently remodeled. You'd think that they'd have someone in the advertising and signs department capable of proper language structure. After all, these are people who are hired specifically for their communication skills.

If one is going to summarily turn the proverbial pooch of one's language into one's prison bitch, as it were, one should at least be consistent. A few days later, I ran into the following in a store selling the goods of the Galactic Empire⁷:

Yes. That is a photo recording of three separate spellings of "boys" (with plural, possessive, and group possessive represented), all within visual distance of one another. Considering the common clientele of said warehouse of despair, I'd be surprised if they could glance up from their passel of genetic cast-offs long enough to notice.

I'm accelerating the plans to re-construct my doomsday device. Not a single one of these imbeciles deserve to continue polluting this planet.

1. A working vacation, yes... but as they say, make your vocation into your vacation! That's why "all the screaming", as it were.

2. The immediate circle at my "menial day job" is largely imbecile-free, thankfully. It's when that circle expands that they start slipping in, banana slugs to my creative energy's soft, succulent salad leaves.
3. Evidently, towards the lower side of that average...
4. Or an ASCII code and how to use one.
5. I might be willing to grant someone uneducated more leniency, but probably not. A completely uneducated bag of meat wouldn't be copywriting signs in a grocery store, they would be out filling their boots with gravel, or driving UPS trucks, or cooking digestible protein at one of your "fast food" joints, or going to tea party rallies, or standing around in the rain with their mouths open and drowning... whatever it is that uneducated people do for fun for their short, meaningless existences these days. I miss natural selection.
6. If you listen close, you can hear its quiet squeaking: "Kill meeeee..."
7. Logos do not lie. Observe.