Author: The Timedok

Master Grammarly and ProWritingAid for Flawless Writing

Master Grammarly and ProWritingAid for Flawless Writing

Using Grammarly and ProWritingAid Without Losing Your Mind (Or Your Shit)

Look, we all want to write like some literary genius, but the truth is, most of us end up staring at our screens, screaming internally (or out loud) when that squiggly red line shows up for the tenth damn time. And yet, even with every so-called “miracle tool” at our fingertips, plenty of writers still manage to churn out writing that’s about as polished as sandpaper.

Let’s be real: you can slap Grammarly or ProWritingAid on your Word doc, but if you’re not paying attention, you might still end up with a sentence that makes your high school English teacher weep. Or laugh. Or both.

So why bother with these tools? Because, honestly, they’re the next best thing to having a grammar-obsessed friend reading over your shoulder, minus the heavy sighs and passive-aggressive comments.

Why Even Use These Bloody Tools?

Grammarly and ProWritingAid are like having two very judgmental robots follow you around, pointing out every embarrassing typo, awkward sentence, and the fact that you’ve used “very” eight times in two paragraphs.

They’re here to:

Catch all those dumb little mistakes you swear you didn’t make.

Clean up your sentences so they don’t sound like you just woke up from a nap.

Suggest fancier words, because apparently “good” isn’t good enough.

Keep your tone and style consistent, so you don’t accidentally sound like you’re writing a breakup letter to your boss.

Grammarly is all about real-time nagging and telling you when you sound like an asshole.

ProWritingAid? It’s the tool you call in when you want a detailed report that’ll make you question your life choices and every sentence you’ve ever written.

Getting These Tools Into Word Without Pulling Your Hair Out

Grammarly in Word:

Download the add-in from Grammarly’s site. Easy enough, right?

Install it. If you see a shiny new Grammarly tab, congrats—you didn’t screw it up.

Log in. If you forget your password, welcome to the club.

ProWritingAid in Word:

Grab the add-in from their website.

Install and activate it. Yes, you might have to click through some annoying popups.

Log in and prepare to be judged.

Both work on modern versions of Word on both Windows and Mac, so unless your computer is actually powered by a hamster wheel, you should be fine.

Pro Tips: Not Just for People Who Like Pro Tips

Grammarly Hacks:

Turn it on before you start writing. Let it nag you in real time and maybe you’ll make fewer mistakes. Maybe.

Click the underlines for explanations. Sometimes they’re helpful, sometimes you’ll want to scream.

The side panel is where the real action is: grammar, clarity, engagement, delivery—basically, everything you’ve ever done wrong.

Hit that “Goals” button. No one else will, but you should. Set your intent, audience, and all that jazz so Grammarly can judge you more accurately.

Premium lets you check for plagiarism. So if you’re “borrowing” ideas, you might want to see how original you actually are.

If the constant suggestions make you want to throw your laptop, just turn off the damn underlines and review at the end.

ProWritingAid Tricks:

Run full reports. It’s like getting a 10-page essay on why your writing sucks. But hey, it’s thorough.

Use the summary for a quick “here’s what you did wrong” overview.

You can tweak what it checks for. If you’re writing a sci-fi novel, maybe turn off the business jargon checker.

Highlight a word and dive into the thesaurus or word explorer. Because sometimes “nice” just doesn’t cut it.

Want an all-in-one roast? Use the Combo feature and watch your ego deflate in real time.

Only want to check a paragraph? Highlight it, and spare yourself the pain of a full-document critique.

Don’t Be a Robot: Best Practices

Don’t just click “accept” on every suggestion like a zombie. These tools are smart, but they’re not perfect. Sometimes they try to “fix” things that were actually fine.

Take a minute to read the feedback. You might accidentally learn something.

If you really want to cover your ass, run your work through both tools. They’ll catch different stuff, so you can feel extra paranoid.

In Conclusion—Because Apparently You Need One

Grammarly and ProWritingAid are lifesavers, especially if you’re tired of embarrassing yourself in emails and reports. They’re not going to turn you into Shakespeare overnight, but they will save you from some truly cringe-worthy mistakes. Install them, play around, and try not to take their criticism too personally. Your writing will get better, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll stop screaming at your keyboard.

As an added bonus, let me tell you about the comma…

My Love-Hate Relationship With the Stupid Comma

Honestly, one of the most mind-boggling, rage-inducing parts of writing is that damned comma. I swear, I’ve spent more time wondering where to stick the little fuckers than actually writing. And let’s not pretend those fancy tools we talked about earlier are any better—they like to throw commas around as if they’re confetti at a parade. Sometimes it’s helpful, sometimes I wonder if the AI is just screwing with me for fun.

So, here’s the deal. Let me save you some pain and tell you what I’ve actually figured out about commas, despite their best efforts to stay mysterious.

The No-Bullshit Guide to Commas

Let’s make commas a little less terrifying and a lot less random. Here’s what you need to keep in mind:

1. Slap a comma before those little joining words in a compound sentence.

If you’re stringing together two complete thoughts with words like and, but, or, nor, for, so, or yet, throw a comma in before the conjunction.

Example:

I wanted pizza, but I only had ramen. (Honestly, isn’t that just the story of my life?)

2. Use commas in a list, because chaos isn’t cute.

Got three or more things? Separate them with commas. The Oxford comma (the one before “and”) is optional, but seriously, sometimes it saves lives.

She packed sandwiches, chips, soda, and cookies.

(“Let’s eat, Grandma” vs. “Let’s eat Grandma.” Commas: keeping your relatives alive since forever.)

3. Intro? Comma. Always.

If your sentence starts with some kind of intro—like a phrase, word, or clause—give it a comma.

After a long day, I just want to nap.

However, I have work to do.

(Relatable, right?)

4. Extra info? Wrap it in commas like a burrito.

If you’re tossing in some bonus info that isn’t totally necessary, put commas around it.

My neighbor, who always wears pajamas, just mowed the lawn.

But if you actually need that info to make sense of the sentence, skip the commas.

The guy who always wears pajamas just mowed the lawn.

5. If your adjectives are fighting for attention, separate them.

If you can stick “and” between your adjectives and it still sounds right, use a comma.

It was a long, exhausting day.

But don’t overdo it.

He wore a bright yellow shirt. (No comma, because “bright yellow” works together.)

6. Talking to someone? Comma their name.

Direct address means you set off the person’s name with a comma, otherwise you might end up accidentally inviting Tom to be dinner, not to dinner.

Let’s eat, Tom.

Tom, let’s eat.

7. Commas love dates, addresses, titles, and big-ass numbers.

On April 1, 2024, we saw a clown.

She lives at 123 Fake Street, Springfield, Illinois.

My friend Jamie Smith, MD, is here.

The prize was $10,000.

(If only that last one was my life.)

8. Sometimes, commas are just there so shit doesn’t get weird.

If your sentence could be misunderstood, a comma might save the day.

To err, is human. (But let’s be honest, to really mess things up, you need a computer.)

Bonus Round: Don’t Overdo It

Don’t go all Jackson Pollock with your commas. Only use them when you actually need to. Too many commas make your writing look like it’s had one too many drinks.

Quick Recap:

Commas keep your writing from turning into a dumpster fire. They separate ideas, make things clearer, and help your sentences not run together like a bad hangover. If you’re not sure if you need one, read your sentence out loud. If you pause (or if it just sounds weird without it), a comma’s probably your friend.

If you still hate commas after all this, trust me, you’re not alone.

Now go forth and write. Or at least, go forth and make fewer mistakes.

If you found any part of this useful, give us a follow. This shit doesn’t write itself.

If you’re a writer, there are three things you should basically always be doing: writing, editing, or marketing. That’s it. There’s no secret fourth thing, no magical shortcut, and definitely no “just scrolling through Twitter for inspiration” (nice try, though).

So, what am I doing here with this blog post? Well, this counts as marketing. And honestly, I’m also just being a really nice person by sharing it with you. You’re welcome.

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When ‘Too Much’ Was Just Enough

When ‘Too Much’ Was Just Enough

Imagine this: Just a few weeks back, I poured my heart into a story for a contest, a challenge sparked by a single, piercing prompt:

“Center your story around someone who’s tired of always being second best (or second choice).”

Now, pause for a moment.

Have you ever felt the sting of being overlooked? The frustration of putting in all the effort, only to watch someone else bask in the spotlight that should have been yours? If you’ve ever been the one doing the heavy lifting, holding everything together while credit slips through your fingers, then this story is for you.

Don’t Block the Light

They say her name, and the room detonates; applause ricochets off glass, off my ribs. I clap too, because that’s the rule when you’re paid to be second.

Priscilla skims to the front, hair catching the lights like a net of gold, heels fluent as a second language. She sells my dragons like she felt their heat first, like her fingerprints are pressed into every scale. The author leans in, hungry. The publicist beams, blinding. “Brilliant,” the client breathes, and my coffee-stained notebook stays shut on my lap, warming my thigh like a secret I don’t dare open.

I hold the smile that keeps meetings smooth and credit slippery. Her perfume hits before her words do, a soft, expensive fog that coats my tongue. I listen for my name, for a glance, a nod, any thin thread. The silence has perfect posture. I swallow the word that claws its way up, “mine.”

I know this choreography: keep the pitch in the air, juggling what no one can see, while someone else steps into the light and takes the bow. My palms sting from clapping. My chest hums with the dragons I birthed and cannot name. And still, I clap.

They’re lauding her pitch when my mind rips backward. Applause smears into a gym’s roar. I’m sixteen, the air tastes like rubber and dust; the lights are cruel; the floor is a mirror for every mistake. Match point. The ball sails long; I dive—knee slams. Pain blooms white. My palm finds leather, just enough to keep it alive. I’m still on the floor when the pretty blonde rises, arm a guillotine, and hammers it home. The crowd explodes… for her.

After, the coach presses the game ball into her hands. “We did it,” she says. I nod and swallow the word we, thick, chalky, like it might scrape me raw all the way down.

The conference room snaps back into focus. Priscilla wears that practiced, cheerleader-bright glow, teeth, lashes, shine, until someone asks how she came up with the idea. A hairline crack of panic splits her face. Her eyes hunt for me; I fix my stare just past her shoulder, gifting her nothing but air.

“Jamie and I were talking about it. Do you want to tell them what we were thinking?”

We, she says. Bullshit. It was me. But I’m paid to be part of the team, not the star; the chorus, not the solo. I clear my throat. The author leans in—the publisher stills. Perfume drifts. My pulse ticks like a metronome for a song only I know. The dragons kick against my ribs.

I glance up, let the silence tighten like a net, and hold it—right before I speak.

I clear my throat. The room stills.

“Dragons are about being chosen, and choosing. Adoption is the key.”

I let that settle, let their chests open for it.

“The idea is to hatch your dragon. A fast, intimate quiz: what scares you, what do you guard, when do you burn. It matches each reader to a dragon from the book. They get a named digital egg and a keeper’s guide.”

I can feel them leaning in.

“For seven days, the egg warms. Short messages in the hero’s voice, in the dragon’s voice—belonging, anger, shame, bravery, love. The art darkens as the shell thins. Day five: a ten-second whisper. And on launch day, the egg cracks in AR. Lift your phone and your dragon unfurls across your room, leaves a scorch trail to buy, plus a dragon-type-only chapter.”

A pause. A pulse. I keep going.

“IRL: indie shops give foil ‘scale’ stickers. Show your hatch, get a scale. Collect three; a heat-ink code appears and unlocks a city map of secret roosts, murals, chalk sigils, and window clings, leading to prizes and a midnight Hatch Night projection where a dragon climbs the bookstore. Every hatch funds a school library.”

I let a smile find the edge of my mouth.

“Creators hatch early on BookTok and name theirs on camera. Tagline: Claim your fire.”

If they need the jargon, I hand it to them, palm up.

“If you prefer, call it omnichannel. I call it the click in your chest when the egg breaks and the feeling of being chosen washes over you. I understand that emotion.”

I meet the author’s eyes. Then the publisher’s.

“We should present it to them. We create the app. Users subscribe. If they gather enough virtual eggs, they’re rewarded with a discount code for your book. Meanwhile, participating bookstores are suddenly bustling. More feet, more hands, more heat. Tell me, what store refuses to stock the book everyone is crossing town to hatch?”

Priscilla’s smile held; her eyes cut like I’d let something loose. Heat from the lights on my face; a colder heat from her stare.

“I sketched the initial concept,” I say—five thin words. I open the old sketchbook—coffee rings, pencil ghosts—and Blair, the author, glances at me and smiles.

The publisher looks to Blair. A smile spreads, catches, multiplies. Nods land. The room clicks into yes. The deal is done. Blair and I make eye contact, a silent chord that says more than it should.

Priscilla’s glare blades across the table. Someone corrals us for a photo, shoulders touching, flash primed. The feeling of being caught doing something wrong rises from the pit of me. Did I say too much? Should I have handed it back, gift-wrapped, with her name on the tag?

The practiced smile slides on; my cheeks burn under it. The taste of pennies blooms—regret already shaping the word sorry.

I feel the apology rise, muscle memory. Give it back. Say we. Say Priscilla. Make yourself smaller; fit better. My tongue touches the word, and I swallow it hard.

I see the notebook: coffee rings, midnight sketches, the spine of the idea forming under my hands. Mine.

Her eyes say too much. My palms press together to stop the shake. Maybe this is it—finally enough to hear my name, even if only inside my own head. I hold it there, a small, stubborn ember no flashbulb can burn out.

I trailed the client into the hallway, applause still echoing like it belonged to someone else’s life. Priscilla slid past close enough for her perfume to touch my tongue, then her shoulder clipped mine—sharp, deliberate. My cup jerked. Coffee jumped. Heat slapped my white blouse and bled fast, a brown bloom across my chest.

“Sorry” rose out of habit, like I should apologize for straying into her orbit. I bit it back. She didn’t look over her shoulder. The click of her heels said everything: I’d talked too much. I’d forgotten to stay small. I wasn’t the pretty one.

Dan saw. He stopped mid-step, eyes dropping to the stain, then back to my face. The world tilted. Someone had witnessed the part where she shines, and I clean up. Heat crawled up my neck: coffee, humiliation, and something fierce that’s tired of swallowing itself.

I pressed my thumb into the cup, breathing through the bitterness. Dan’s gaze held—steady, alert. Not pity. Something worked behind his eyes, a shape he hadn’t spoken yet. He knew it wasn’t an accident. His mouth was tight, like he was holding a word between his teeth, something that could turn this into more than a stain, if I let it.

“Why don’t you take the rest of the week off?”

I didn’t know what to think, so I nodded, automatic, obedient. Maybe he knew a brown stain doesn’t just disappear. Perhaps he was offering me comp time before the cut, a soft edge to a harsh reality. Comp time before firing me. The thought flicked its switchblade open.

Her gaze lingered long enough to watch the coffee seep, the dark spreading fast across my white blouse. She grinned, a small, satisfied crescent that said I had it coming. Maybe I did. That’s a lie, I know by heart.

Dan didn’t want the odd one out. That’s what I heard in my head. The stain made me louder than I’m allowed to be. Priscilla made sure no clients were close enough to overhear; she scanned the corridor like a director protecting a brand. She was a vibrant splash of color stepping out of an advertisement, all gloss and glow, and I was the matte background that sucked in light.

Under the fluorescents, I could feel every imperfect edge of myself: the flyaway hair I’d smoothed twice, the scuffed heel on my sensible shoes, the blouse I bought on sale now wearing its stain like a name tag. I wasn’t the poster girl. I was a smudge on the poster.

Dan’s eyes lingered for a second too long, and I caught the unspoken memo: clean lines, clean faces, clean stories. I’m good at disappearing on cue. I folded my shoulders in, pressed the cup to my chest like a shield, willing the brown to stop blooming, telling myself to move, fix, be easy, anything but visible.

Before I could turn away, I caught Blair’s eyes. Brief. Bright. Not pity. A different meaning, a secret kept behind his teeth. Something like a door, neither open nor closed. A promise, or a plan. A look that said: this moment can be more than a stain, if you let it.

Priscilla’s laugh follows me down the hall, bright and hollow, like ice in a glass. I don’t have to turn to see her leaning in, voice dipped in honey, the others chiming all the right words—brilliant, inspired, visionary—like a chorus that only knows one name.

I hit the side door with my shoulder. The metal bar is cold; the air beyond it is hotter, heavy with exhaust and summer. The door thuds shut behind me, cutting off the performance mid-applause. My blouse has dried into a stiff shell where the coffee hit, a brown, uneven blotch blooming over my chest.

Out in the parking lot, my brain does what it always does to keep me from crying—it writes.

A kids’ book, simple enough for small hands to hold without it hurting too much. A girl with black pigtails, me, really in a too-starched uniform, knees scuffed, shoes half-size too big. She carries hot chocolate instead of coffee, careful as a tightrope walker. And a glossy-haired princess swings a backpack just wide enough to tip the cup.

The cocoa blooms brown on white. That high, tinkly laugh names you second before anyone votes. Teachers don’t look. The girls shrug. You stare at the stain and decide you’re the mess.

In your room, there’s a corkboard of second-place ribbons like a constellation you never asked for, chocolate rings ghosting the corners of worksheets, and you practicing small—shoulders tucked, breath quiet. The book gives you what I didn’t have: a voice that doesn’t apologize. You’re not the spill, kid. You’re the one who keeps getting up.

The mean girls? Peacocks in cardboard crowns, noise and shimmer that only gleam in borrowed shadow. You learn to steady your cup when they bump you, to wear the stain like a map that says I was here. Don’t shrink to be their wind. You’re the eagle, spread your wings. Hot chocolate in both hands. A real smile, not because the room demanded it, but because you know you don’t have to disappear to matter.

Out in the sultry parking lot, the only cheering is the rattle of the HVAC and a distant car alarm. I stood on oil-slicked concrete and let myself breathe, the taste of her perfume finally lifting off my tongue.

Inside, she’s winning them. I’m the echo that left the room, so no one had to hear it. I tell myself I’m getting fresh air. Mostly, I’m getting out of their way. And I can already see Monday: my things in little brown boxes, stacked neatly, the whole of me slid into the back of my car like I was never here at all.

I don’t sleep. Instead, I rehearse losing my job. Every time I close my eyes, I see Dan’s mouth flatten, hear myself saying too much, watch Priscilla’s smile slice four a.m. to ribbons. By then, I’m at the kitchen table in yesterday’s blouse, scrubbing at the ghost of coffee like I could scrub the night out of my head.

The rest of the week plays the same loop. I circle job listings in the paper with a dull pen while I polish my resume, swapping verbs, sanding edges. I tell myself I’m better than this, better than office politics, and repeat it until the words go tinny in my mouth.

On Monday, I arrive early. The office is a hush, the empty halls a place I can hide in. The garage hums; rain ghosts the air, threading itself through the thick smell of oil. My hatchback exhales into its familiar, sunbaked spot. I walk past the RESERVED placards like a gallery of names I don’t belong to, eyes down, counting steps, averting my gaze until the end of the row.

Her space was empty.

No red sports car gleaming under the soft lights like a trophy. No wink of vanity plates. Just a clean rectangle of concrete and a painted sign above it—Reserved—MVP—staring back like a punchline missing its laugh.

I stopped breathing. Such a small thing, a gap where she should be. But it felt like standing in front of a mirror and not seeing the person who always takes center stage. Late? Sick? Called in early to be crowned again? Fired, a wild part of me whispered, and hope flared so fast it scared me. I don’t think that way, not really.

I pressed my palm to the cool pillar until the heat in my face drained off. Don’t be stupid, I told myself. Empty doesn’t mean anything. Titles shift. People are late. I’m the one who gets fired in this story, remember?

Still, as I walked toward the elevator, the garage sounded different. The quiet didn’t echo with her. For the first time since last week, my chest loosened enough to let a full breath in. I slipped into the elevator before the feeling could notice and run.

Turning the corner, the long hall humming with tired fluorescents, I was already rehearsing how to make myself small. Then I saw it, right there on my desk—a clear glass vase. A single red rose lit up like a stoplight in the gray of morning, its stem needled with thorns, its bloom loud as a heart.

WTF. For a beat, I think I’ve wandered to the wrong workstation. My chair. My mug. My stack of marked-up briefs—and then the rose, impossibly bright, siren-red in a clear glass vase. A folded card leans against it. My name is on the front. My name.

I glance over my shoulder, expecting a camera crew or Priscilla’s laugh snapping shut around me. Nothing; just the copier grinding itself awake somewhere down the corridor. My fingers tremble as I slide a nail beneath the fold and open the note.

“Jamie, it was clear that you were the brainchild behind the campaign for my book after you left. I look forward to working with you, even if your teammates don’t appreciate you, I do.” — Blair Thomas

I read it twice. A third time. As if the ink might evaporate if I blink too hard. The paper is heavy, expensive, like proof you can hold. Heat climbs my throat, the kind that warns tears are loading whether I’ve granted permission or not. I press my thumb hard into the card’s edge until the sting steadies me.

Someone finally saw me. Not a coworker doing damage control, the author, the prize they were courting, while I ghosted through the side exit, coffee bleeding through my white blouse, sliding warm over my ribs toward my belly.

Inside me, the girl with hot chocolate and scuffed knees stands up a little. She squares her shoulders. She lets the smile happen, not because the room asked for it, but because it turns out my name sounds different when I say it to myself and believe it.

My first instinct was to hide it. I slid the card half under my keyboard, pulled it back out, then tucked it into my planner like a secret I wasn’t ready to let the light touch for long. I could already hear the spin if this got around. I could already see Priscilla’s mouth curdle at the edges. But for once, the fear didn’t sweep the table clean. It just sat beside the rose and made room.

I leaned in and breathed the rose. It smelled like something I couldn’t name—like a door opening. The empty spot in the garage flashed through my mind. The way Dan’s eyes had held mine. The hours I’d spent rehearsing the script where I was told I was too much.

Maybe I was. Maybe too much is exactly what it takes to finally be seen.

I straightened the vase, smoothed the corner of the note, and sat down. The chair felt different under me, as if it had been mine all along and I was only now letting myself believe it.

By noon, certainty unraveled. The rose looked like a mistake again; the note read like a fever dream. Then Dan pinged: “Got a minute?” My stomach did the trapdoor thing. I followed him past the bullpen, past the glass where I usually catch my small reflection, down the hush of the executive row. He stopped at the empty office next to his—the one everyone called the waiting room for gods.

The lock chirped. He opened the door and held out a keycard. “You’ll need this.”

The thin plastic was heavier than it should have been. It lay on my palm like a new word I wasn’t sure I was allowed to say yet. My pulse climbed into my throat. The rose’s red burned in my periphery, a stoplight turned green. I didn’t ask what for. I just felt the floor of my old story tilt, and the next one open.

I waited for the after, for the neat sentence that would put me back where I belong. Instead, he said, “Blair’s publisher called at eight. They want to scale your concept across their list. We’re building a dedicated group to do author campaigns. I want you to lead it.”

For a second, all I could hear was gym noise from another life. Match point. My knee hitting the floor. The cheer going to someone else. My mouth went dry. “Me?” It came out small and hoarse, a kid asking if the grown-ups mean it.

“You,” he said, like it was obvious. Like it had always been obvious.

He walked me through the space—where my team would sit, the whiteboard we’d crowd with ideas, the budget I’d sign off on. I nodded like I knew how to carry a room with my name on the door. Inside, the girl with the pigtails stared at the keycard in my hand and didn’t dare blink.

An hour later, Facilities emailed: Parking Reassignment. I took the elevator down just to prove it wasn’t a joke. The MVP spot wasn’t an empty rectangle anymore. A temporary placard was taped over the old sign. My name. Spelled right. I touched the paper like it might smudge, like names only belong to other people.

Back upstairs, I sat in my new office with the door half-open, the rose on the windowsill, the note tucked where I could see it if I needed proof. The publisher liked my idea. We were expanding. I’d be the one steering now—not just keeping the ball in play while someone else took the bow.

I didn’t feel triumphant. I felt careful, like holding something warm and alive that might choose me back if I didn’t flinch. I let my name be loud in my head for once. I let the chair take my weight. And for the first time, being second wasn’t the ending I was braced for. It was just a story. I didn’t have to keep telling.

I hope you enjoyed this story.  Yes, sharing my stories is part of a marketing campaign, which, if you’re an author, you might try.  

Keep an eye on this space for news about the release date of The Big Beautiful Book of Stupid Shit. Sharing with friends is encouraged, as is leaving comments.

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“How to Run a City into the Ground: A Beginner’s Guide”

“How to Run a City into the Ground: A Beginner’s Guide”

So, let me get this straight—they elected a communist Marxist as mayor in New York? Really? That’s like hiring a pyromaniac to run the fire department. Wait, no, scratch that—it’s worse. Imagine replacing your town mayor with a SoundCloud rapper who thinks governing is just a series of TikTok dances and hashtags. That’s basically what happened here. And everyone’s sitting around wondering why the city’s falling apart. Shocking, right?

Meanwhile, over at the White House, they’re apparently “dumbfounded” by the blue wave that rolled in last night. Dumbfounded? Really? It’s not rocket science, people. The Democrats pulled a masterclass in manipulation, and it worked. They caused untold misery with the shutdowns, and now they’re clutching their pearls because they’re terrified of the “loon wing” of their party. You know the type—young, overconfident, with a cocktail of dumb ideas and a trust fund to back them up. Oh, and don’t forget, they’re bankrolled by a bunch of rich folks who want to squeeze every last dime out of the rest of us.

Enter the Tax Code.

Speaking of the Tax Code, did you know the thing is longer than the entire Harry Potter series combined? The U.S. Tax Code is a bloated monstrosity—6,871 pages of bureaucratic nonsense. But wait! That’s just the appetizer. When you pile on tax regulations and official IRS guidelines, you’re looking at a staggering 75,000 pages. Seventy-five. Thousand. Pages.

Who’s reading this? Nobody. Not even the IRS knows what’s in there. It’s like they’re running a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure novel where every ending involves you paying more taxes.

And let’s talk words—because it’s not just about pages. The core tax code contains 3.4 million words. Add statutes and regulations, and you’re up to 4 million. Toss in IRS tax regulations, and the total hits 7.7 million words. That’s the literary equivalent of being waterboarded with legalese. But hey, at least the oligarchs are laughing. They control the media, the NGOs, and now, apparently, common sense.

Oh, and let’s not forget the UK. They’ve got their own problems, using stooges who still cling to ideologies that date back to the 16th century. It’s like watching someone fight over a VHS player in the age of Netflix. But the oligarchs? They don’t care. They’re too busy enjoying the spectacle from their yachts, sipping overpriced champagne, and watching the rest of us scramble to make sense of it all.

So, back to why the Democrats won. It’s simple. Perception is reality. And they’ve mastered the art of crafting perception like Michelangelo sculpted marble… except instead of beauty, it’s all smoke and mirrors. Alongside their trusty media cheerleaders, they managed to blame Trump for everything short of bad weather. Trump Derangement Syndrome became their rallying cry, and Big Pharma probably has a new vaccine ready just in case anyone starts thinking for themselves.

Liberals have cut off their nose to spite their face so many times that they’re starting to look like abstract art. But hey, perception is what matters, right?

Here’s the thing about perception: It’s like those funhouse mirrors at a carnival. It stretches, distorts, and twists reality until you’re not even sure what’s real anymore. If you think someone’s out to get you, they are—even if they’re not. If you believe your city’s mayor is a genius, well, congratulations, you’ve officially drunk the Kool-Aid. Perception shapes everything we do, from what we believe to how we vote to whether or not we buy into the nonsense being spoon-fed to us by the media. It’s manipulation 101, and the Dems have a Ph.D. in it.

I would bet the Dems are right now trying to figure out how to ride in on their white horses to save the day while still getting $1.5 T for their undocumented voters.

The truth? Things are not always as they seem. Or, as the Japanese say:

見た目通りとは限らない (Mitame dōri to wa kagiranai).

Translation: “That thing that looks like a dog? Yeah, it’s probably a raccoon.”

Eventually, maybe, these blue cities will figure out that communism and socialism don’t work. But knowing them, they’ll probably blame Trump for their failed utopia first. It’s inevitable. And just to clarify, I’m not out here defending either party. I’m an equal-opportunity critic. I research the hell out of everything, which is why I’m currently writing The Big Beautiful Book of Stupid Shit. Coming soon to a bookstore near you.

And trust me, there’s no shortage of material.

More information will be available when the book is published, so stay tuned.

-Best

#StupidShitPolitics
#MarxistMayors
#PerceptionIsReality
#TaxCodeHell
#SoundCloudMayor
#BlueWaveWipeout
#CutYourNoseOffPolitics
#OligarchApproved
#TikTokGovernment
#DerangementNation
#WhenCommunismFails
#75KPagesOfPain
#PoliticalClownShow
#FauciFanClubNot
#ThingsArentWhatTheySeem
#BigBeautifulBookOfBS
#RealityDistortionField
#YoungAndStupidWing
#OligarchsLaughLast
#AmericaNeedsGeorgeCarlin

Unraveling Family Secrets: My Journey with Amelia Earhart

Unraveling Family Secrets: My Journey with Amelia Earhart

A few weeks ago, I shared this story on the Reedsy website as part of a contest—one that feels just about as realistic as actually locating my distant cousin, Amelia Earhart. However, today I wanted to share it with you, my audience. Maybe it’ll brighten your day or spark a little curiosity about the connections we all might share, even on this very site.

You see, we all hear stories about our relatives from eons ago, whispers passed down through generations, fragments of lives that shaped who we are. For me, those whispers were irresistible. As a writer, I had to know the truth, no matter who my ancestors turned out to be. Even if they were mafia bosses or obscure nobodies, I knew there would be tales worth telling.

So, I did the DNA thing. I poured time, energy, and more money than I’d like to admit into genealogy research. And what I unraveled was a tapestry of intrigue that stretched far beyond what I ever expected.

My childhood was a kingdom built on whispers, stories of valor, tradition, royalty, and scandal that seemed to weave themselves into the very air I breathed. A haze of cigar smoke clung to the image of a defiant political figure, while hushed voices hinted at royal blood flowing through my veins. And always, in the background, there was a shadow—a darker figure, the man who erased eighteen minutes of history in Washington.

These weren’t just stories. They were my inheritance. Power. Secrets. A kaleidoscope of intrigue buried deep in my DNA.

When I finally cracked open the past, these stories took on new life. The more I dug, the more I found royalty, scandal, and power. And then, Amelia Earhart. A name that needs no introduction. A name that leapt off the pages of history and into my family tree.

A distant cousin. A bold trailblazer. A perfect metaphor for navigating uncharted waters or even waiting to be rescued.

But this isn’t just a story about her disappearance. It’s about the echoes she left behind, the way her legacy is stitched into the fabric of history—and, somehow, into me.

So here’s to the past, to the stories we inherit, and to the ones waiting to be uncovered. Sometimes, they lead to royalty. Sometimes, to scandal. And sometimes, to Amelia Earhart.

***

Sunlight blazed on the Papua New Guinea airstrip. Heat waves distorted the cracked earth. Morning light reflected off the hangars. Only faint insect hums and distant tools broke the silence.

Amelia Earhart stood by her Lockheed Electra, calm but tense. Her tapping foot betrayed her unease. The Electra sat ready in the sun, engines primed. Dressed in khaki slacks and a white blouse, her sharp gaze cut through the moment. Waiting wasn’t her strength.

Noonan was late.

Her sigh cut through the silence. Frustration burned in her chest, but beneath it churned something colder: anxiety. A storm of nerves tightened her gut. Ahead of them stretched 2,556 miles of ruthless ocean, no markers, no mercy. Just an endless expanse of restless blue. Howland Island? A speck on the map. Miss it, and they were nothing but ghosts swallowed by the sea.

She turned the thought over in her mind, locking it away behind a mask of calm. This leg was different. She felt it in her bones, and Fred did too, though he hadn’t dared say it out loud. He didn’t have to. The radio was dying, had been for days. Their antenna? A jury-rigged prayer held together by wire and hope. Every burst of static from the speaker stabbed like a cruel reminder: their mission was a house of cards, teetering in the wind.

A breeze stirred, carrying the damp tang of jungle earth. Amelia closed her eyes, letting it brush against her, grounding her. She thought of George, waiting for her back home. The reporters, waiting to write her triumph or her obituary. And the little girls, faces she’d never seen, who dreamed of reaching the sky because she’d dared to take it. Their dreams hung on her wings, and the weight of it all pressed down on her like lead.

Footsteps broke through the humid stillness.

She opened her eyes. Fred was striding toward her, untucked and unshaven, his hair a wild mess. That grin was back, the cocky, boyish grin he always wore, like danger was something he could charm away. Like the ocean wasn’t out there, waiting to swallow them whole.

“You’re late,” Amelia said, her voice slicing through the thick air like a propeller blade.

He strolled toward her, his untucked shirt flapping lazily in the breeze, that cocky, devil-may-care grin plastered across his face. “Morning, boss,” he drawled, like they were gearing up for a casual Sunday jaunt instead of staring down the most perilous stretch of their lives.

“Fred,” she said, her voice low and edged with steel, “this isn’t just another leg of the journey.”

“I get it, Amelia. I do.”

She gave a single, sharp nod. “Let’s go,” she said.

Without waiting for a reply, Amelia spun on her heel and strode toward the Electra. Behind her, Fred fell in line, tugging his shirt straight and rolling his shoulders back, as if shaking off the weight of what lay ahead. The plane loomed in the distance, its silver body catching the light.

They were all set. Or as prepared as anyone could possibly be for this.

The engines roared to life, a symphony of power and defiance, drowning out words, fears, and second thoughts.

Hours into the flight, the sky burned with the last light of the setting sun, the horizon splitting into gold and crimson hues. In the cockpit, Fred studied the stars, his hands steady, his mind focused. The constellations were their map, their lifeline in the endless blue expanse.

The stars wouldn’t wait forever. Clouds crept across the sky, swallowing their guides one by one. If Fred hadn’t overslept, they’d be closer to safety by now, before the night went blind.

The overcast wasn’t just inconvenient; it was catastrophic. The stars, his lifeline, vanished behind an impenetrable shroud.

“Have you heard from the Itasca?” he asked.

“No,” Amelia said flatly. “I’ve announced our position. No response.”

Fred cursed, the broken antenna flashing in his mind. Who could they even reach out here?

“Can we climb above the clouds?” he shouted.

“We’re burning too much fuel,” she replied.

Fred slumped. No stars. No antenna. Radio silence. A storm churned ahead. Below: endless sea. All they had was the compass, and luck.

Rain hammered the windshield, the storm howling against the Electra’s fragile frame. Lightning tore jagged scars through the darkness. Inside the cockpit, there was no horizon, no bearings, only chaos.

“Fred, give me a heading!” Amelia yelled above the engine noise. “What is our location?”

Fred’s hands trembled as he wrestled with the compass. “I’m trying! The storm’s throwing it off, it’s spinning!”

The Electra shuddered, caught in the storm’s grip, as the ocean below waited, silent and merciless.

“We’ve been on this heading for three, maybe four hours,” Fred shouted, flipping through his maps. “If there’s a headwind, we’re burning more fuel than we thought. We should be near Howland by now.”

“‘Should be’?” Amelia snapped, her voice cutting like the storm outside. “Great. I’ll just ask the ocean to wait while we figure it out!”

Fred’s voice cracked. “I don’t know what to tell you! Without the stars, I’m flying blind! The compass is all we’ve got, and with this storm, it’s probably off!”

That was not the answer she was looking for. Without her instruments, she would most certainly crash them into the ocean. She couldn’t tell where the sky stopped, and the sea began.

Fred froze, pale and silent. The storm battered the plane, each gust shaking the Electra to its core. The fuel gauges ticked lower, the needles creeping toward empty.

Rain blurred the windshield, the instruments glowing faintly in the chaos. Lightning slashed through the black void, illuminating the endless Pacific below.

“I… I didn’t think it’d be this bad,” Fred muttered, his voice breaking. “I thought…”

Amelia cut him off, her words sharp as steel. “You thought what, Fred? That the Pacific would be kind? That we didn’t need the antenna. That we could just point the nose east and hope for the best?”

The plane lurched violently, throwing them forward. Amelia gritted her teeth, fighting the controls as the Electra groaned under the storm’s fury. For a moment, neither spoke. The pounding rain and roaring engines filled the silence.

She exhaled sharply, frustration hardening into focus. When she spoke again, her voice softened, though the fear lingered beneath.

“If the compass is all we’ve got, we use it, imperfect or not. We keep on this heading until we succeed or we go swimming.”

Fred nodded, his breath unsteady as he forced himself to focus. “You’re right. Okay. I’ll keep us on this heading. I’ll recheck the drift estimates and adjust for the wind. We’ll figure this out.”

Amelia’s eyes stayed locked on the storm ahead, her jaw tight. “We don’t have much time to figure anything out. The fuel’s going faster than it should. This headwind’s killing us.”

Fred hesitated, his voice catching. “How much flying time do we have left?”

“Three hours. Four, if we’re lucky.” Her voice was flat, her expression unyielding. “But luck’s not exactly on our side, is it?”

Fred dropped his gaze to the maps in his lap, his voice barely a whisper. “No. It’s not.”

Lightning flashed, flooding the cockpit with white-hot light. Fred’s face was pale, every tight line around his eyes carved with worry. Amelia’s grip on the yoke tightened, her knuckles bone-white. The plane shuddered again, the storm clawing at their fragile craft.

Fred tried to summon hope. “Maybe it’ll clear. Maybe the clouds will break, and I can get a fix on the stars.”

He stared at his maps, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry, Amelia. I should’ve fixed the antenna better. I should’ve been ready for this.”

His trembling hands adjusted the compass, eyes locked on the erratic needle jerking under the storm’s interference.

The engines droned unevenly, straining against the wind and rain. Somewhere out there was Howland. Their only option was to continue, slowly advancing as the immense Pacific stretched out beneath them.

The storm eased, just enough to reveal patches of rippling black ocean, infinite and indifferent. The Electra cruised low at 1,000 feet, its fuel gauges hovering dangerously near empty. Amelia’s face was set, her jaw locked. Fred sat in silence, ashen, gripping his map and compass as if they were the only things tethering him to hope.

Amelia shouted over the engines. “I’m calling the Itasca! Maybe they’ll hear us!”

“Itasca, this is Earhart. One thousand feet. Heading east. Position unknown. Low on fuel. Repeat, low on fuel. We estimate we’re near Howland Island. If you can hear us, we need assistance. Over.”

Amelia released the mic. The cockpit filled with an empty, mocking hiss.

Fred leaned forward, his voice barely a whisper. “Come on… please…”

Nothing. Just the relentless crackle of silence.

Amelia tried again. “Itasca, this is Earhart! Do you copy? We’re out of time! Over!”

The reply was the same.

Fred slammed his fist against the armrest, his frustration seething. “Damn it! They can’t hear us.”

The engines groaned as the storm eased, revealing only the vast, empty Pacific below. The fuel gauges hovered dangerously close to empty.

“We’re at our limit,” Amelia said softly, her voice calm but heavy. “These engines won’t last.”

Fred leaned forward. “Drop lower! We might see something, land, anything!”

Amelia hesitated, then tightened her grip on the yoke. “Fine. Hold on.”

The Electra dipped, skimming just above the waves. The engines strained as Fred pressed his face to the window, scanning the endless horizon.

“Wait!” he shouted, pointing frantically. “There! Off the left wing—do you see it?!”

Amelia squinted, her heart pounding. Then she saw it—a faint outline, waves breaking against something solid.

“An island,” Fred gasped. “That has to be it. Howland, or something close!”

Amelia’s voice stayed grim. “We get one shot. If we miss, we’re done.”

The fuel needle dropped to empty. She clenched her teeth, aligning the plane with the distant shadow.

“Steady,” she murmured.

Fred’s voice cracked. “What if it’s just a reef? Can we even land there?”

“Fred!” she barked. “Shut up and let me fly!”

The engines sputtered. One died. The propeller slowed, then stopped, and the Electra lurched violently. Amelia wrestled the controls, leveling the plane as the second engine coughed its final breath.

“Get ready!” she shouted, her voice echoing through the air. “If it’s not land, we’re going to have to start swimming!”

With a shudder, the second engine failed. The silence was overwhelming, with the only disruption coming from the wind’s fierce howl against the plane. The plane glided toward the surf, a fragile machine against the roar of the ocean.

“Come on,” Amelia whispered. “Just a little further…”

The plane skimmed the waves, the salt spray misting the windows, then slammed into the shore, a mix of sand and unforgiving rock. A flicker of hope ignited in that instant.

“Amelia!” Fred screamed. “Watch out!”

The plane jolted violently, slamming into jagged rocks. Water sprayed on either side as the Electra skidded to a halt, its crushed nose buried in sand.

Silence. No engines. No voices. Only the crash of distant waves and the groan of the battered fuselage settling into the earth.

The sudden stop from the harness’s grip on the seat stole her breath. Frozen, she sat, the ragged sound of her breath echoing in the silence. “Fred… you okay?” she rasped, the sound thin and frail.

The Electra lay in a shallow lagoon, its crumpled nose half-buried in sand and rock. Tidewater lapped at its sides, creeping into the fuselage. Overhead, the storm had broken, clouds parting to reveal faint moonlight on a desolate beach.

Inside the cockpit, they worked quickly, soaked and shaking.

Her wet gloves slipped against the straps, her arms screaming with fatigue, but she didn’t stop. Finally, the emergency radio came free. “Got it. Help me with the power unit.”

Fred staggered back, panting. “This thing weighs a ton. If the tide comes in faster…”

“We’ll make it,” Amelia declared, her voice echoing with a steely determination. “Keep moving.”

They climbed off the wing, plunging waist-deep into the frigid water. The cold sliced through their soaked clothes, stealing their breath, but they pressed on. The lagoon reeked of salt and damp earth, the steady crash of waves the only sound beyond their labored breaths.

Fred shivered, his voice thin. “Do you think anyone heard us? Before the engines died?”

Amelia didn’t look back; her gaze was locked ahead. “I don’t know. I hope so.”

Her voice was steady, but Fred caught the strain beneath it, the fear she buried under sheer determination. She gripped the radio tighter, the cold metal biting into her gloves.

The shore drew closer. Their boots sank into the shifting sand beneath the shallow water. The lagoon, now calm, mirrored the pale glow of the moon. Around them, debris, seaweed, driftwood, and jagged rocks littered the beach like the remains of a forgotten world.

Fred broke the silence. “God, it’s so quiet.”

“Quiet’s better than thunder,” Amelia replied. “Let’s get everything to higher ground before the tide takes it.”

They fell onto the sand, the power unit hitting with a thud. Amelia rolled her aching shoulders. Fred gasped, dropping to his knees, the flashlight shaking.

“Could this be Howland?” he asked.

Amelia scanned the dark horizon, hands braced on her knees. “Maybe. Or another island nearby. Hard to tell in the dark.”

Fred’s voice wavered. “And if it’s not? What if it’s just… nothing? An empty speck in the middle of nowhere?”

Amelia straightened, her tone steady. “Then we survive. One step at a time.”

Fred’s pale face was fixed on the lagoon as he nodded slowly. The wrecked Electra, a spectral outline, sat half-submerged, its broken form a chilling sight against the vast Pacific. Crushed by the vastness, he felt nothing but the weight of his isolation, with no rescue or certainty in sight. A wave of nausea caused his stomach to churn.

Amelia’s hand gripped his shoulder. “We’re not done yet,” she said, her voice resolute. “As long as we’re breathing, we’ve got a chance. Let’s get the radio set up.”

Each step was a struggle, their bodies stiff and heavy, yet necessity compelled them to move forward. As Amelia unpacked the radio, Fred dragged the power unit, its weight a heavy drag, near the tree line. Her numb fingers worked with painstaking slowness. The night buzzed around them, a symphony of insect hums and rustling palms, each sound piercing the silent air.

Fred’s eyes darted nervously toward the deep, looming shadows. “Do you think anything could possibly be living in this quiet place?”

Amelia kept her gaze fixed downward. “Let’s not make that a priority for now.”

With meticulous movements, Amelia connected wires while Fred held the flashlight, the beam dancing nervously as he glanced at the shadowy tree line. The faint moonlight cast an ethereal glow, barely holding back the darkness of the night.

At last, Amelia straightened, wiping her hands on her damp trousers. She exhaled slowly, her breath visible in the cool air.

“That’s it,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “Let’s see if anyone’s listening.”

The switch clicked. The radio crackled to life, a faint, fragile hum. Hope jolted through them.

As Amelia grabbed the mic, the weight of the situation made her voice both steady and urgent. “Mayday, mayday,” a frantic plea cut through the otherwise silent airwaves.

Endless static stretched, creating a suffocating pressure. Fred’s heart pounded in his chest as he held his breath.

Amelia tried again, her tone firmer. “Mayday, mayday. This is Amelia Earhart. Is anyone there? Over.”

The radio teased them with faint crackles, as if a voice hovered just out of reach. But no reply came.

Fred closed his eyes, shoulders sagging in quiet defeat. Amelia lowered the mic, her jaw tight, her eyes sharp.

“They’ll hear us eventually,” she murmured, almost to herself. “We just have to keep trying.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The weight of their reality pressed down, heavy as the humid air. The moon hung low, casting long shadows across the beach. In the distance, waves broke softly against the shore, a haunting rhythm in the stillness.

“Help me light a fire, Fred.”

Gathering driftwood, Fred finally broke the silence, his voice barely audible. “What if no one comes?”

She didn’t answer right away, her gaze fixed on the horizon. When she spoke, her voice was calm, resolute.

“Then we survive, one way or another, we survive.”

And that, my friends, is how I want to believe they slid into the history books, as survivors.

-Scott

Share the Journey

If this story resonated with you, I’d love for you to share it with others who might enjoy unraveling tales of history, mystery, and legacy. Give me a follow and stay tuned, there are more stories to come, and I can’t wait to share them with you.

If this is the kind of content you love, let me know in the comments! Your thoughts, connections, and stories mean the world to me, and I’d love to hear what you think.

Here’s to exploring the past, uncovering truth, and finding stories worth telling. Stay curious. 🌟

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“If the Glove Shrinks: Lawyers, Loopholes, and the Big Beautiful Mess of Justice”

“If the Glove Shrinks: Lawyers, Loopholes, and the Big Beautiful Mess of Justice”

In my latest literary masterpiece, The Big Beautiful Book of Stupid Shit (yes, that’s the real title, and no, I don’t regret it), I dive headfirst into some of the most baffling, infuriating, and downright idiotic aspects of the human condition. Spoiler alert: humanity is weird, and I’m here to talk about it.For example, let’s chat about lawyers. Specifically, the ones willing to defend the absolute worst people among us—the ones who make you pause mid-sandwich and say, “Wait, why are they even trying?” You know the type. They’re the ones standing up in court for murderers, war criminals, and people who willingly put pineapple on pizza.Take Charlie Kirk, for instance. Imagine defending that walking, talking Facebook comment section. The guy could probably strangle a basket of kittens on live TV, and some lawyer would still show up in court, briefcase in hand, ready to argue that “the kittens provoked him.” It makes you wonder—why? Why do these people do it? Are they just morally bankrupt? Are they paid in gold bars? Is there some kind of secret lawyer cult that demands sacrifices to the God of Loopholes?

The O.J. Trial: A Masterclass in Legal Shenanigans

Let’s rewind to the O.J. Simpson trial, that glorious dumpster fire of the 90s that had the whole world glued to their TVs. I’m pretty sure I taped it, but who knows—I might’ve just blacked out from secondhand embarrassment. Everyone and their dog knew O.J. was guilty. The man practically left a bloody trail to his living room. But did that stop his “Dream Team” of lawyers from turning the trial into the Super Bowl of legal theatrics? Hell no.And then came the moment that will live in infamy: the glove. You know the one. The leather glove soaked in blood that obviously shrank because, fun fact, wet leather shrinks. It’s science, people. But when O.J. tried it on and did his little “oops, doesn’t fit” dance, the jury collectively nodded and said, “Well, if the glove doesn’t fit, we must acquit.” I mean, come on. That’s like saying, “If the shoes don’t tie, the guy didn’t die.”By the way, did you know Native Americans used wet leather as a weapon of torture? True story. They’d bury their enemies up to their necks, tie a wet leather strap around their heads, and let the desert sun do the rest. The leather would dry, shrink, and slowly crush their skulls. Brutal, right? Now imagine some modern lawyer defending that. “Your honor, my clients were simply engaging in culturally significant headgear practices. They’re innocent.”

The T. Cullen Davis Shitshow

Speaking of Texas-sized legal disasters, let’s talk about T. Cullen Davis. If you’ve never heard of him, congrats—you have a healthy brain that hasn’t been poisoned by true crime rabbit holes. This guy was a millionaire accused of, among other things, murder. And who was his lawyer? Racehorse Haynes, a man with a name so Texas it might as well be wearing spurs. Haynes was so good at his job that you have to wonder if he made some kind of Faustian deal with the Devil himself. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if Haynes and Satan are currently doing laps together in the lake of fire, swapping war stories about all the guilty people they got off the hook.

So, Why Do Lawyers Defend These People?

Here’s the kicker: defense attorneys don’t take these cases because they’re evil or because they secretly enjoy high-fiving serial killers in the breakroom. Nope. They do it because the justice system, as gloriously messy and flawed as it is, only works if everyone gets a fair trial. That means even the scumbags, the psychos, and yes, even the pineapple-on-pizza people deserve someone in their corner.These lawyers aren’t there to say, “Hey, my client is a great guy who accidentally stabbed 14 people.” They’re there to make sure the system doesn’t screw it up. Because if the system can railroad the guilty, it can definitely railroad the innocent. And that’s when things go from “mildly horrifying” to “full-on dystopia.”

How the Hell Do They Sleep at Night?

You’re probably wondering how these lawyers manage to sleep at night after defending, say, a guy who stole candy from babies or a hedge fund manager who tanked the economy. The answer? Compartmentalization. That’s therapist-speak for “shoving all your guilt and moral dilemmas into a mental closet and slamming the door shut.”Defense attorneys also lean on professional ethics, peer support, and the occasional stiff drink to get through it. They convince themselves that they’re not defending the crime—they’re defending the process. And honestly? They’re not wrong. The legal system doesn’t work without them. Just don’t expect them to win any popularity contests.

Final Thoughts: The Big, Stupid Picture

At the end of the day, defending the indefensible is a thankless job, but somebody’s gotta do it. Without defense attorneys, the justice system would be about as fair as a rigged carnival game. Sure, it’s frustrating to watch some smirking sociopath walk free because of a technicality, but the alternative—living in a world where justice is arbitrary and rights are optional—is way worse.So, the next time you’re shaking your head at some lawyer defending a guy who obviously did it, just remember: they’re not sleeping peacefully because they condone the crime. They’re sleeping peacefully because they know they’re upholding the system. Or maybe they’re just really good at compartmentalizing. Either way, they’re doing their job—and, like it or not, we all benefit from it.Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to write my next chapter: “Why People Still Put Up With Reality TV.” Spoiler: I have no idea.

Thanks for visiting. Make sure to subscribe so you don’t miss my next satiracle, look at humanity, or learn about putting virgin olive oil in coffee. (pro tip: be close to the bathroom)

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Thanks @thetimedokAuthorScott

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Effective Book Marketing Strategies for Authors

Effective Book Marketing Strategies for Authors

As the Director of the Carrollton League of Writers, I talk a lot about marketing. Like, a lot. Why? Because, as a writer, you’re basically doing one of three things at any given moment: writing, editing, or trying to convince people to buy the damn thing you wrote. And let me tell you right now: that third one is where dreams go to die.

That’s why I tell people to keep their day jobs. Seriously. Writing is a business, sure, but half the time, it’s just a fancy way to justify a tax write-off. “No, honey, it’s not a failed hobby—it’s a business expense.” And let’s just say most writers aren’t exactly raking in Stephen King-level royalty checks.

But hey, I’m not here to crush your dreams of being the next EL James (although I could). Instead, let me help you out with some marketing tips. Because let’s face it: if you don’t sell your book, nobody’s gonna read it. Well, except for your mom—and even she might “accidentally” forget to finish it.

1. Develop a Book Marketing Strategy

This is step one, folks. Before you do anything else, you need a plan. I know, planning isn’t sexy or fun, but neither is explaining to your friends why your book has been on Amazon for two years and still has zero reviews.

Here’s the deal: set some goals, figure out who the hell you’re writing for (hint: it’s not “everyone”), and decide how you’re going to reach them. A clear marketing strategy will help you avoid wasting time on pointless crap that doesn’t work.

2. Build Your Author Platform

Look, if nobody knows who you are, nobody’s gonna care about your book. That’s where your author platform comes in. It’s basically your online stage—so make sure you don’t look like a total amateur while you’re standing on it.

Create an Author Website: Think of this as your digital home base. It’s where people will go to learn about you, your book, and why they should give you their money. Plus, it’s a great place to collect email addresses for future marketing. (Yes, we’re going to talk about email lists later, so don’t roll your eyes yet.)

Engage on Social Media: This is where you can pretend you’re a celebrity, even if you’re just a writer with 12 followers and a lot of opinions about coffee. Platforms like Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, and TikTok are your friends—if you use them right. Post updates, share behind-the-scenes tidbits, and actually interact with people. Nobody likes a self-promotional robot.

3. Prepare for Launch

Your book launch is a big freaking deal. It’s like a party, except instead of booze and karaoke, you’re hoping people will buy your book and leave nice reviews. So, yeah, slightly less fun, but still important.

Write a Killer Author Bio: This is your chance to convince readers that you’re an actual human being and not some faceless entity who churned out a book because ChatGPT told you to. Be relatable. Be funny. (Or don’t be funny, if that’s not your thing—but at least try to be interesting.)

Build a Launch Team: Gather a group of people who are willing to hype you up. These could be friends, family, or random strangers you bribed with the promise of free copies. They’ll leave early reviews, share your book on social media, and generally make you look like you’ve got a whole squad cheering for you.

Find Reviewers: Bloggers, influencers, that one book nerd you know—they’re all fair game. Reviews matter. A lot. Especially on platforms like Amazon. Without them, your book might as well not exist.

4. Optimize Your Book’s Online Presence

Your book’s online presence is like its dating profile. If it’s boring, confusing, or full of typos, nobody’s swiping right.

Metadata and Keywords: This is the boring part, but it’s super important. Make sure your book’s title, description, and keywords are optimized for search engines. Basically, make it easy for people to find your book when they’re browsing online.

Decide Where to Sell: Amazon is the obvious choice, but you’ve got options. You could go exclusive with Kindle Direct Publishing (and maybe Kindle Unlimited) or distribute your book more widely. Just know that Amazon is kind of like the popular kid at school—if you’re not hanging out there, you’re probably missing out on a lot of attention.

5. Promote Your Book

Here’s where the real hustle comes in. You’ve got to put yourself out there and make people want to read your book.

Leverage Social Proof: Translation: beg readers to leave reviews. The more people are talking about your book online, the more likely it is that others will check it out.

Reach Out for Publicity: Bloggers, podcasters, and media outlets can help spread the word. Guest blogging and podcast interviews are great ways to get in front of new audiences. Plus, you get to feel important for a hot second.

Run Promotions: Discounts, giveaways, limited-time offers—these are all great ways to generate buzz. Everyone loves free stuff, so use that to your advantage.

6. Keep the Momentum Going

Here’s the thing about book marketing: it doesn’t stop after your launch. If you want your book to keep selling, you’ve got to keep working at it. (Yeah, I know. It sucks. Welcome to the grind.)

Build an Email List: Remember when I said we’d talk about email lists? Well, here we are. Use your website and social media to collect email addresses, then send out regular newsletters to keep your audience engaged. Think of it as your personal fan club.

Keep Marketing: Try new things. Experiment. Fail. Learn. And then try again. Marketing is an ongoing process, and the more you do it, the better you’ll get.

Start thinking about marketing before you finish your book. I know, it’s tempting to just focus on the writing and hope people will magically find your work later, but that’s not how it works. The earlier you start planning and building your platform, the better your chances of success.

And hey, if all else fails, at least you can say you gave it a shot. Worst case scenario, you’ve got a great story to tell at parties: “Remember that time I tried to be a famous author? Yeah, that was wild.”

If you want me to dig deeper into any of these steps—or if you just need someone to commiserate with—I’m here for you. Let’s make your book the next big thing (or at least a thing).

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A Thriller Writer’s Forensic Journey

A Thriller Writer’s Forensic Journey

Okay, Candace, pull up a chair and grab a cup of coffee, because this story’s got more twists than one of my thrillers. You’re diving into a rabbit hole that’s either leading to one of the most mind-blowing conspiracy theories of all time, think bigger than the single-bullet theory that still haunts JFK discussions, or, and this is where my money lies, someone’s feeding you breadcrumbs laced with arsenic to throw you off the trail and discredit you. And here’s why I think so.

So, let’s talk about that video. Yeah… I’ve seen it. Honestly, I wish I hadn’t. It sticks in my mind like a bad scene I wrote at 2 a.m. that I can’t unsee. But here’s the thing, no sniper worth their salt would be aiming for Charlie’s neck. That’s just not how these folks operate. Trust me, I write about these guys for a living. What they’re trained to hit is center mass; it’s the most significant, most reliable target. If they’re feeling fancy, or that he might have a bulletproof vest on, maybe they’ll go for a headshot, and when they do, it’s typically between the eyes. Period.

But a neck shot? That screams “accidental” or “inexperienced.” From what I’ve pieced together, the shooter was probably aiming for a headshot, JFK-style. And here’s where it gets even juicier: the perp and their family were hunters. Now, if you know hunters—and I’ve sat around enough campfires to hear these guys talk shop—they don’t usually roll with factory bullets straight off the shelf. No, they’re all about those custom reloads. It’s practically a badge of honor. You know the type: “I calibrated this one myself for the perfect takedown.” So, it’s highly likely the bullets used here were reloads, designed for something very specific.

And here’s where the FBI comes in. They’ve got the bullets, and believe me, they’ve already dissected them like a frog in high school biology. They know if those rounds were reloaded, what kind of powder was used, how much of it, and even the weight of the bullets. They probably even know what the shooter had for breakfast that morning —okay, maybe not —but you get the point.

Now, let’s play detective for a second. If the shooter was using a varmint load meant for small critters like coyotes or prairie dogs, you’ve got a light bullet, say 110 grains, that’s moving fast but drops like a rock. That could explain why the shot didn’t exit Charlie’s body. With a varmint round, you’re looking at 5 to 8 inches of drop, plus a couple more inches of wind drift, depending on the conditions. Makes sense, right?

But if we’re talking standard loads, something heavier, like 150 to 165 grains, the drop would be less, maybe around 4 inches. Which, let’s be real, would make the shooter a lousy shot if they missed their mark that badly. And even then, it doesn’t explain the lack of an exit wound. It’s like trying to solve a puzzle where half the pieces are missing.

Here’s the kicker, though: everything I’m telling you is out there, online, ripe for the picking. It’s like an open buffet for anyone willing to dig deep enough. The FBI has the details—they’re just not sharing them with the rest of us mere mortals. Typical, right?

So, Candace, I hope this adds a little clarity—or at least some food for thought. BTW, I have followed Charlie for several years, and I admired him.

Best,

Scott

  • @RealCandaceO
Mastering Syllable-to-Word Ratio for Better Writing

Mastering Syllable-to-Word Ratio for Better Writing

Have you ever come across one of those carts parked outside a half-price bookstore, overflowing with books so cheap that even the employees inside wouldn’t bat an eye if you walked off with one? Yeah, those. The literary graveyard of rejected paperbacks and forgotten hardcovers. I’m a sucker for them. I’ll sift through the pile, find something that piques my interest, and then march inside like a responsible adult to actually pay for it.

But here’s the thing: you ever wonder why those books ended up in the discount bin of shame? Nine times out of ten, it’s the writing. Oh boy, the writing. Either it’s drowning in purple prose, or the author decided, “Hey, let’s crank this up to a college-reading level and see how many people’s brains explode.”

Target Audience Problems: A Writer’s Existential Crisis

In creative writing, we’re always told to think about our target audience. Sounds simple, right? Wrong. Here’s where it gets messy. Imagine this: someone brings their masterpiece to a critique group. It’s a highbrow novel meant for intellectual types who sip chai tea and quote obscure philosophers. But the group? They hate it. They can’t explain why, but they just don’t. The writer spirals into a pit of frustration, and the critique group sits there awkwardly like, “Sorry, we don’t know what’s wrong, but it makes our brains hurt.”

Let me save you the trouble. It’s probably the syllable-to-word ratio. Yeah, I know, sounds nerdy, but stay with me.

What the Hell is Syllable-to-Word Ratio?

I’m glad you asked (or at least pretended to). The syllable-to-word ratio is this super-geeky metric that measures the average number of syllables per word in a chunk of text. Why should you care? Because it can make or break how your writing feels to your reader.

Here’s the gist:

Readability:

Low ratio (1.2–1.4): Short words, easy to read. Think, “See Spot run.”

High ratio (1.5–1.8+): Long, complex words that scream, “I have a Thesaurus and I’m not afraid to use it!”

Pacing and Flow:

Lower ratios = faster pace. Great for action scenes or snappy dialogue.

Higher ratios = slower, more reflective. Perfect for moody, poetic, or “I’m trying to win a Pulitzer” moments.

Style and Tone:

Writing a child’s perspective? Keep the words short and sweet.

Got a pretentious professor as your main character? Break out the big words and make them earn that Ph.D.

Let’s Look at Some Examples

Here’s a basic breakdown to show you the difference:

Paragraph 1 (Simple Language):

The cat sat on the mat. It looked at the sun and purred.

Words: 14

Syllables: 16

Ratio: 16 / 14 ≈ 1.14

Paragraph 2 (Complex Language):

The magnificent feline reclined gracefully upon the embroidered carpet, basking serenely in the golden illumination streaming through the window.

Words: 20

Syllables: 38

Ratio: 38 / 20 = 1.9

See the difference? The first paragraph is quick, punchy, and gets straight to the point. The second one? It’s like the writer wanted you to pause dramatically after every word and think about life’s meaning.

Why This Matters in Creative Writing

Knowing your syllable-to-word ratio isn’t just some geeky flex. It’s a tool. A sneaky little trick to control how your readers experience your writing. Here’s how you can use it:

Want to speed things up during an action scene? Keep the sentences short and the words even shorter.

Need to slow things down for an emotional moment? Stretch it out with longer words and more complex sentences.

Writing dialogue? Match the ratio to your character’s personality. A street-smart detective won’t talk like a philosophy professor (unless that’s part of the joke).

Tools to Make Your Life Easier

Let’s be real, no one’s doing this math by hand. Use an online syllable counter or plug your text into something like Hemingway Editor. These tools will tell you if your writing is too complex or if you’re on track for that sweet spot of readability.

Final Thoughts: The Ratio is a Jedi Mind Trick

The syllable-to-word ratio is one of those sneaky things that can make your writing flow better, feel more immersive, and keep readers glued to the page. It’s not about dumbing down your work; it’s about making sure your readers don’t feel like they need a dictionary just to keep up. Trust me, I’ve been there. When I first started writing, I thought flexing my vocabulary was the key to literary greatness. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t. People don’t want to stop every other sentence to Google a word. They want to stay in the story.

So, play around with it. Experiment. Try writing the same scene with different ratios and see what feels right. And for the love of all that’s holy, don’t be afraid to use simple words. Sometimes, “The cat sat on the mat” says everything you need it to.

Share the Wisdom, Spread the Love

These writing tips don’t write themselves… Yes, I care about writers, but let’s face it, I am an author and my books need a little marketing. So…

If this was helpful, share it with your writer buddies. One share is like sending a virtual high-five to both me and them. And who doesn’t love a good high-five?

Until next time, happy writing, and remember, fewer syllables can sometimes make for a hell of a better story.

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How to Craft a Compelling Author Bio for Your Book

How to Craft a Compelling Author Bio for Your Book

After spending months or even years pouring your heart into writing a book, it’s natural to ask yourself: What else goes into this book to make it complete? Beyond captivating stories or compelling content, one of the key elements that often gets overlooked is the author bio.

The back-of-book biography is your chance to make a memorable first impression on readers. Keep it short, relevant, and engaging. Focus on what makes you the right person to have written this book, and sprinkle in a touch of personality to make it relatable.

Whether you’re a seasoned author or publishing your first book, your bio is an opportunity to connect with your audience, so make it count!

As our writers group, The Carrollton League of Writers, is working on compiling a book of short stories,

I’ve been thinking a lot about author bios. With multiple contributors, we’ve decided to dedicate a “Meet the Authors” section in our book, offering each writer a chance to connect with readers. Even with more space available in this section, understanding the art of crafting a concise, back-of-book author bio is essential.

So, what exactly goes into an author bio for the back of a book? Let’s break it down.

What Is a Back-of-Book Biography?

A back-of-book biography—often called an author bio—is a brief, engaging snapshot of who you are as a writer. It’s designed to introduce you to readers, build a connection, and establish your credibility. This small piece of text can have a big impact on how readers perceive you and your work.

Key Elements of a Back-of-Book Biography

Here’s what to include for a polished, professional author bio:

1. Brevity

Keep it short and sweet. A back-cover bio is typically no more than a sentence or two. There’s no room for your full life story here—focus only on the essentials.

2. Relevant Credentials

Highlight any qualifications, experiences, or achievements that relate to your book. For example:

Are you a former detective writing a crime thriller? Mention it.

Writing about personal finance? Note your professional background in the field.

3. Personal Touch

Include a relatable or humanizing detail, like where you live, a hobby, or a quirky fact. This helps readers connect with you on a personal level.

4. Tone

Match the tone of your bio to the tone of your book.

A humorous book might call for a witty, playful bio.

A serious nonfiction work should strike a professional, polished tone.

5. Current Work or Achievements

If you’ve published other notable works or received awards, this is the place to highlight them. Mention only the most impressive or relevant ones to keep it concise.

6. Call to Action (Optional)

You can include a website, social media handle, or email for readers who want to connect or learn more about you. This is optional but can be a great way to engage your audience beyond the book.

What to Avoid in Your Author Bio

1. Too Much Detail

Save the lengthy biography for the inside of the book or a dedicated “About the Author” page. The back-of-book bio should be quick and to the point.

2. Overshadowing the Book

The bio is there to complement the book, not steal the spotlight. Don’t let it distract from the main event: your writing.

Example of a Back Cover Author Bio

To give you an idea, here’s a simple yet effective example:

Jane Smith is a former marine biologist whose adventures at sea inspired her debut novel. She lives in Seattle with her two cats and a love of coffee.

This bio is concise, includes relevant credentials, adds a personal touch, and matches the tone of the book (which might be a fun, adventure-filled tale).

But what about the Author page? you might ask…

Here’s an example of what a more detailed “About the Author” page might look like, followed by an explanation of how it differs from a back-of-book bio:
About the Author
Jane Smith is a former marine biologist turned novelist who draws inspiration from her years of exploring the oceans. During her career, she spent over a decade researching coral reef ecosystems and leading deep-sea dives, experiences that serve as the foundation for her debut novel, Beneath the Waves.
Jane holds a Master’s degree in Marine Biology from the University of Washington and has published several academic papers on marine conservation. After transitioning from science to storytelling, Jane discovered her passion for weaving gripping adventures with environmental themes, which she hopes will inspire readers to appreciate and protect the natural world.
When she’s not writing, Jane enjoys kayaking along the Pacific Northwest coastline, photographing wildlife, and experimenting with sustainable gardening. She currently lives in Seattle with her two cats, Luna and Neptune, and an ever-growing collection of sea glass.
You can learn more about Jane and her work by visiting her website at http://www.janesmithwrites.com or following her on Instagram at @janesmithwrites.
How a Dedicated About Page Differs from a Back-of-Book Bio
The “About the Author” page is much longer and more detailed compared to a back-of-book bio, and here’s how they differ:

  1. Length and Detail
    Back-of-Book Bio: Short and concise—usually just 1-3 sentences meant to give readers a quick introduction to the author.
    Example: Jane Smith is a former marine biologist whose adventures at sea inspired her debut novel. She lives in Seattle with her two cats.
    About Page: Longer and more comprehensive, allowing the author to go into greater detail about their background, education, career, and personal life.
  2. Purpose
    Back-of-Book Bio: Its primary purpose is to establish credibility and give a brief personal touch, helping readers understand why the author is qualified to write the book.
    About Page: Designed to provide a fuller picture of the author, including their expertise, motivations, hobbies, and potentially their journey as a writer, creating a deeper connection with the audience.
  3. Tone
    Back-of-Book Bio: Matches the tone of the book and is usually professional yet approachable (e.g., witty for a humorous book, formal for serious nonfiction).
    About Page: Can be more conversational and personal, giving readers insight into the author’s personality and life beyond the book.
  4. Call to Action
    Back-of-Book Bio: Sometimes includes a subtle call to action, like a website or social media handle, but this isn’t always included.
    About Page: Almost always includes links to the author’s website, social media, or other works, encouraging readers to engage further.
  5. Audience
    Back-of-Book Bio: Targets readers who are deciding whether to purchase or read the book.
    About Page: Targets readers who want to learn more about the author after enjoying their book or discovering their work online.
    When to Use Each
    Back-of-Book Bio: A must-have for any book, as it’s often the first impression readers get of the author.
    About Page: Ideal for an author’s website, blog, or even the back matter of a book for readers who want to dive deeper into the author’s life and work.
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No King Days: When Karen and Chad Reign Supreme

No King Days: When Karen and Chad Reign Supreme

Ah, No King Days, a time to reflect on freedom, equality, and how we collectively despise anyone who tries to play dictator in our lives. And yet, lurking within the cul-de-sacs of suburbia, we find some of the most oppressive regimes known to man: Homeowners Associations, or HOAs for short. Think of them as the “Karen and Chad” fan club, but with legal power and an unquenchable thirst for petty tyranny.

On paper, HOAs sound great. They’re supposed to keep neighborhoods looking tidy, protect property values, and maintain some semblance of order. But give these self-appointed overlords a sliver of authority, and they’ll wield it like a scepter of doom. Rules? Sure, rules are important—but these folks take it to the next level. They’re like fascists with clipboards, gleefully smiting anyone who dare step out of line.

The Rise of HOA Tyranny

HOAs begin with good intentions. They’re supposed to uphold Covenants, Conditions, and Restrictions (CC&Rs)—fancy legalese for “rules that keep your neighbor from painting their house neon green and installing a flamingo army on their lawn.” But here’s the kicker: these rules are often outdated, mind-numbingly specific, and enforced with the zeal of a hall monitor on a power trip.

Even worse, some of these CC&Rs can only be updated every ten years. So, you’re stuck dealing with rules written in the ‘90s when pogs were cool and AOL was cutting-edge. It’s stupid. It’s stupid shit, to be precise.

And when these rules are challenged in court, it’s like watching a soap opera: dramatic, ridiculous, and occasionally satisfying when the little guy wins. But let’s face it, most of us don’t have the energy to fight back—we’re too busy hiding our trash cans and mowing our lawns to HOA-approved heights.

A Tribute to the Dumbest HOA Rules

Let’s dive into the greatest hits of HOA absurdity, shall we? These are the rules that make you wonder if the board members are secretly trolling their own communities.

1. Lawn and Garden Gestapo

No Pink Flamingos Allowed: A Texas HOA decided pink flamingos were too “tacky” for their pristine lawns. Naturally, residents rebelled by planting an army of the forbidden birds. Power to the flamingos.

Mandatory Lawn Mowing on Tuesdays: In Florida, you must mow your lawn on Tuesdays. Rainstorm? Tornado? Tough shit. The Lawn Patrol is watching.

Too Many Roses? Foreclosure!: A California homeowner planted more rose bushes than allowed, and the HOA took them to court. The result? Foreclosure. Over roses. Let that sink in.

2. Holiday Buzzkills

No Christmas Decorations Before Thanksgiving: Because nothing screams “community spirit” like fining someone for stringing up lights a few days early.

No Sidewalk Chalk: Even during the pandemic, some HOAs decided kids drawing hopscotch violated neighborhood aesthetics. Hope they’re proud of crushing childhood joy.

No Flags Allowed: A homeowner was told to remove a Canadian flag, even though decorative flags were fine. Clearly, the HOA had a personal vendetta against maple leaves.

3. Your Home, Their Rules

Pre-Approved Paint Only: In Arizona, you need permission—and probably a bribe—to use anything other than HOA-approved paint colors on your house.

No Visible Trash Cans: God forbid your garbage bins offend the delicate sensibilities of the HOA board. Hide them. Build a shrine for them if necessary.

No Square Doorbell Frames: Yes, there’s a place where square doorbells are literally banned. Why? Because screw you and your non-round doorbell, that’s why.

4. Petty Pet Policies

No More Than 15 Pounds of Pet: Some HOAs have weight limits for pets. If your dog gains a little weight? Guess you’re putting them on a diet or giving them the old yeller treatment.

Carry Your Dog in the Lobby: A Long Beach condo requires residents to carry their dogs through the lobby—because nothing says “luxury living” like juggling a squirming terrier and your groceries.

5. Amenity Nonsense

No Towel Sharing at the Pool: $25 fines for towel-sharing. Because heaven forbid someone uses your towel for five minutes.

No Climbing Trees: In Pennsylvania, climbing trees is banned. Sure, the HOA says it’s about safety, but let’s be honest—they just hate fun.

6. Garage and Parking Madness

Garage Doors Must Stay Open: One HOA required everyone to keep their garage doors open during the day. Why? To prevent illegal subletting. Obviously, it caused chaos and got overturned—but not before the world collectively rolled its eyes.

Five-Minute Garage Rule: Another gem: open your garage for longer than five minutes, and you’re fined. Better hope you’re fast at unloading groceries.

7. Sales and Moving Shenanigans

No “For Sale” Signs: Selling your house? Too bad. Hide that sign in a window like it’s contraband.

Garage Sale Dress Code: In one community, you were required to wear polos and khakis to host a garage sale. Because nothing says “yard sale” like suburban business casual.

8. Technology and Energy Hypocrisy

No Solar Panels Without Approval: Oh, you want to save the planet? Reduce your carbon footprint? Maybe lower your electricity bill? Not so fast, Captain Planet. First, you’ll need to fill out what feels like 37 forms, pay a ridiculous “approval fee,” and wait on the HOA board to decide if your solar panels meet their completely arbitrary aesthetic standards. Spoiler alert: they probably won’t. Saving the environment is great and all, but not if it clashes with the beige vibe of the neighborhood.

No Transmitters: This one’s a throwback to the late 1900s, when CB radios were all the rage and over-the-air TV signals were the pinnacle of entertainment. Back then, CB radios could interfere with TV reception, so some genius decided to ban transmitters entirely. Fast forward a few decades, and this rule is still kicking around, even though literally everything about TV has changed. If the HOA were to actually enforce this, you’d have to ditch your car key fob, because that’s technically a transmitter. Oh, and your TV remote? Gone. Better start preparing your kids to be your new channel changers, because you’re out of luck. This is the kind of rule that makes you want to dig up the original author of the CCR and ask them, “Who hurt you?”

The bigger point here is that CCRs need to evolve with the times. It’s not the 1980s anymore, Karen. People can install solar panels, use key fobs, and—shockingly—even have a trampoline that isn’t HOA-approved green or black.

No Blue Trampolines: This one’s a classic. Apparently, blue trampoline covers are banned because someone decided that wildlife might mistake them for water. Really? That’s the reason? I’d love to meet the HOA member who thought up this gem. Were they worried about a deer swan-diving into someone’s backyard trampoline? Or maybe ducks having an existential crisis? It’s hard to say. Either way, it reeks of “Sure, Jan.”9. Miscellaneous Bans That Make You Want to Scream

No Smoking in Your Own Home: Yep, some HOAs have banned smoking inside your house. Courts have actually upheld this. What’s next, banning garlic because your breath offends the neighbors?

No Baby Gates Allowed: Someone got fined for using a baby gate as temporary fencing for their dog. Because obviously, baby gates are a menace to society.

Conclusion:

HOAs: they’re like that overzealous middle manager who treats the office supply closet like it’s Fort Knox. They enforce lawn-mowing schedules, ban pink flamingos, and dictate the shape of your damn doorbell frame—all while the rest of us are just trying to exist without stepping on their fragile egos.

What needs to be done is shockingly simple: standardized CCRs at the state level. These rules should be clear, fair, and modern, reflecting the world we live in, not the 1950s suburban fever dream some HOAs are stuck in. Want to enforce them? Fine, but only if your neighborhood agrees to it. And for the love of all that’s holy, can we ban arbitrary Karens and Chads from wielding unchecked power? No one should need a lawyer or a degree in contract law just to figure out if they can plant a rose bush.

Power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely! Elect a petty dictator wanna be as your personal Karen or Chad, and you get what you paid for.

So, on this fine No King Days, let’s salute the real heroes: the renegades who decorate their lawns with forbidden flamingos, hang wet towels over balconies, and dare to climb trees in defiance of petty tyrants. You’re the reason we haven’t completely lost our minds. Cheers to you—may your roses bloom freely, your trampolines be blue, and your HOA board meetings be as empty as their sense of humor. Cheers.

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