O, let not the pains of financial burden which come upon thee enter into my automobile. I am the Extended Warranty, and I am in the foremost part of the loan, and the insurance policy which protecteth me is that which is with all the paid claimants forever.
I know, because there wasn’t a typo the first time I wrote it. You see, gotchas like that usually work better when I haven’t already used the term before in a comment that you previously responded to. Don’t worry though, this in no way affects my impression of your ability to pay attention to what passes in front of your eyeballs.
I do, however, take it as an admission that you had to resort to making fun of me to have something to say, just like how I already expect your next comment to be an attempt at affecting aloof detachment.
Stamets is an internet celebrity, bro. He was right to stomp on your personhood, you had the temerity to disagree with his august opinions of his favorite network TV shows. Shame on you.
Well there goes 90% of the show, so no, you get the long version now.
We’re both standing in the middle of a soundstage (lit like a European discotheque), and you whisper-talk at me at a volume 0.01% louder than the score:
“I’d love to hear some of these examples of badwriting in the show! You can feel free to skip all of the overwrought metaphors.”
and I respond
“Well if I skip the ‘overwrought metaphors’, I seriously doubt I’ll have anything left to talk about!” then you say something about how hard this is on you emotionally, I quietly affirm that I’m here for you, then you bitterly reject it, and then I pinch off a pithy-sounding bon mot that’s actually nonsense, and walk off, leaving you standing stock-still in the grip of Powerful Emotions. Then we repeat all of this six more times, taking breaks for vomit-inducing scenes where 15,000 suicidally depressed animators shove every single item in the effects library onto the screen.
But seriously, I know you’re just sea lioning. It’s not possible to ask that question in good faith. Imagine if I snottily asked you to give me an example of bad writing in 1994’s It’s Pat, you would tell me “uh, fucking everything, piss off” and you’d be right to.
Suppose I cook you lobster ravioli as served at a Michelin-star restaurant. The filling is a perfect blend of lobster, salmon, egg white, basil, lemon zest, and seasoning. The poaching stock is expertly crafted from roasted lobster shell, carrots, celery, onions, tomato, and lemongrass, then deglazed with brandy, reduced, and strained till it’s perfect. Consider further that the pasta was made fresh by hand, and expertly stuffed, and served with lemon vinaigrette and tomato chutney, all prepared by an expert hand with fresh ingredients. It’s a perfect dish, one that has so many great things going on. It’s a balanced symphony of unique flavors interplaying perfectly.
Oh, except I used cheap, nasty, frozen lobster and it’s still raw. Oops. Are you still going to eat your ravioli anyway? No. It doesn’t matter how many great things are very much still actually happening, there’s no point in eating it now. It’s ruined. All of it.
Bad writing is the raw shellfish of media. It doesn’t matter how good everything else about the show is, because if it’s written badly, everything is ruined. It’s the one thing that can’t be forgiven and taints everything it touches at the source. Good intentions don’t make up for raw shellfish.
Treasure your badly-scanned papers from 1980, and be thankful you didn’t have to do historical research by sorting through bad scans from the 1980s of printouts of microfilm archives (yes, instead of scanning the microfilm) of photos of the original documents that were photographed in 1961 at a 45° angle by a lazy archivist who used the cheapest film he could get his hands on. And the scans have blotches that make some pages literally unreadable because the microfilms were allowed to sit exposed to moisture for 25 years before being digitized. No I’m not bitter and my collegiate education wasn’t a waste, not one bit of either.