The Edit Button

You might not know this about me, but I can sometimes be funny. You’re shocked, I know, but it’s true.

One of the reasons for this phenomenon is that I have a twisted point of view. I see comedy in just about everything. Sometimes that comedy might be considered inappropriate and best kept to one’s self.

The other reason is that my internal edit button, the one that is responsible for filtering out potentially offensive or off-color thoughts before they enter into conversation, doesn’t work very well. So whatever inappropriate comedy is born out of my twisted cerebral cortex often rolls right out of my mouth. Sometimes it’s funny to other people as well. Sometimes not.

This has obvious drawbacks. I run the risk of offending people and sometimes misrepresenting myself as an insensitive, drunk, white trash whore. I try to remember to edit myself when in mixed company or when trying to make a good impression, but sometimes my edit button shuts off on its own. Often at unfortunate times. The larger the audience, the deeper I will insert my foot. In graduate school I became semi-famous for it (meaning I was well-known within a half mile radius of the conservatory front doors.)

Usually I have better luck with this when I’m writing, because it takes longer to type offensive thoughts than it does to say them, which gives my edit button time to engage and say, “what the feck did you just write? You were raised better than that, Missy. Go ahead and tap that delete button. In fact, just lean on it for a solid minute.”

But sometimes my edit button doesn’t engage and things slip by.

For instance, yesterday I was tweeting (as I do from time to time in an effort to reconnect with the 14-year-old girl inside me) and I wrote:

On its own, not at all offensive. Unless you are offended by bad grammar and punctuation. Unfortunately I felt the need to add this little tag:

Remorse immediately set in. I was appalled by my own lack of tact. And the fact that I misrepresented myself as some sort of morally bankrupt cannibal (as opposed to the ethical cannibals, who only eat Fair Trade people and mentor young cannibals in their spare time.)

I’m pro-homeless. Which is not to say that I’m for people being without homes. I simply support their right to exist without being made an appetizer. Love thy neighbor. Don’t eat thy neighbor. Even if your neighbor is passed out on the sidewalk. (That last part might not technically be in the Bible, but I’m fairly confident that it’s implied.)

I tried to right my wrong with a follow-up Tweet.

But really, how do you bounce back once you’ve advocated cannibalizing the disenfranchised? I really ought to fix that edit button.

**Note: If you happen to be familiar with the news story that inspired my tasteless Tweet about the nude gentleman who was shot and killed by police while snacking on the face of a homeless man, you should know that his girlfriend has gone on record as saying that he was a sweet man who often carried around a Bible and did not do hard drugs.

He sounds nice. Perhaps he was also having trouble with his edit button.

“My edit button tells me not to eat brains.” (image via dreamstime)

Hollywood Armchair Detective Part I

I have a guilty pleasure: dramatized police procedurals.  Love them! I love mystery and witty banter and forensic stuff. I love trying to figure out who did it. And I don’t mean to brag but I’m one heck of an armchair detective. It’s a gift really.

However, being married to a cop has almost ruined it all for me. See, Hubs is a slave to silly things like occupational accuracy and the laws of physics. These shows are painful for him to watch and his pain sucks the marrow out of my enjoyment. As a result, I mostly watch these shows on my own, although occasionally I will put one of them on while Hubs is in the room just so that I can hear him groan and leave the room like he’s about to pass a kidney stone.

Hubs doesn’t know what he’s missing. I learn so much watching these shows. If Hollywood hadn’t had the fantastic notion of chronicling the goings on of abnormally attractive detectives, coroners and lab technicians, I would still be in the dark. I’m passing this knowledge on to you because I’m a giver. Like Typhoid Mary.

Because Hollywood has taught me so much, I’ve split this post into two parts so as not to overwhelm. In the words of Sir Francis Bacon, knowledge is power and too much power given all at once can make your head explode (I added the last part.) Here is the first generous helping of Hollywood knowledge. Use it wisely.

  • Coroners and lab technicians spend their days diligently solving crime and apprehending criminals in expensive designer clothes. I thought they mostly did autopsies and processed DNA but I was so wrong. I also had no idea that public servants and government workers made boat loads of cash and had incredible cutting edge tastes in fashion. That is until Hollywood educated me. Now I know that standing on the unforgivingly hard floors of morgues and labs just feels better in stilettos.

She wears the same shoes to cut up dead bodies (image via dreamstime)

  • Good looking coroners like to hang out with good-looking detectives. And when they do, hi-jinx and crime solving ensue. I don’t know why Hubs never invites coroners over for dinners and family cookouts. Then again, I don’t think I want Hubs spending all of his time with a hot coroner. Watching Hubs exchange witty banter and solving murders with some good-looking smarty-pants just might make me want to kick a coroner’s @ss. If Hubs is going to take some unarmed chica in impractical shoes to a dangerous crime scene, it’s going to be me.

She best stay away from my husband's crime scenes! (image via dreamstime)

  • Detectives often cry in the interview room while divulging painful personal facts to hardened criminals in order to obtain a confession. This strategy always works, probably because hardened criminals are notoriously empathetic, which makes total sense when you think about the painful childhoods the criminals must have had. What allows this technique to work so well is that criminals hardly ever ask for a lawyer and when they do, the lawyers sit silently in dismay while the detectives manipulate the hardened criminals into a confession. Nobody wants to interrupt a hot, crying detective. It’s just not done. Hubs seems to be ignoring my suggestion that he cry more at work, which might be why he’s not a detective.

This detective cried at least once an episode (image via dreamstime)

  • Crime labs investigate every death with the same amount of time and resources. Vagrants who seemingly died of natural causes get the same exhaustive efforts that high-profile murders do. And they are all investigated with state of the art equipment not seen outside of secret squirrel government agencies. Crime labs can be this thorough because they never have a backlog of lab work to catch up on. Nor do they have bureaucrats breathing down their necks about overtime hours and the super fancy hologram machine they used to recreate an image of the vagrant’s butt. This is very good news for the residents of Vegas, New York and Miami, because it means that there is hardly any crime and the city governments have plenty of money. So head on down to City Hall to get your free handout and don’t be afraid to carry it around in an open fanny pack.

*I am kidding. In no way do I condone the use of fanny packs.

"Oh sure, now you tell me." (image via dreamstime)


There you have it. You are half way to earning your Masters in Armchair Detectivery from Hollywood University. You should totally hit the campus pub. You’ve earned it.