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Make My Day


 

This week a friend suggested I check out a Facebook group all about soup. Yes, there are groups just for soup lovers. Who knew? Considering how much I publicly long for soup in my blog and on social media, it seemed like a very good fit.

It turns out that the greatest joy I have experienced from this group so far has come not from recipes or tantalizing photos but from posts like this:


And:

Does anyone  have a good potatoes soup, that is more brothers then creamy? Thanks in advance.

Yikes.

I am a sucker for typos and bloopers and humorous autocorrects. I grew up in a home that fostered word play. We listened over and over again to our two Kermit Schafer “Pardon My Blooper” albums on my dad’s hi-fi stereo system and got the same helpless giggles every time. Of course, the naughtier ones went over my head. (I never noticed.) Certain audio clips became catch phrases around the house, notably, 

This is an educational toy. It teaches children how to cuss.

In my late elementary years I seized upon two paperbacks of my mother’s that were collections of newspaper bloopers. I read them. And read them. Then I went around the house reading choice selections to my family members. Then I committed entire sections of the books to memory. I must have been a joy at the dinner table during those days. 

I can still recite portions of those books word for word…many years later. 

Lettuce won’t turn Brown if you put your head in a plastic bag and put it in the refrigerator.

When the baby is done drinking, unscrew and put under a cold tap. If the baby does not thrive on fresh milk, it should be boiled.

Spend your Saturday nights out on the town and your Sunday mornings in bed with a Progressive Alaskan.

Oh my. This could get out of hand.

I am so fortunate for all the people in my life who fostered my love of words and language. That’s undoubtedly why I am still writing every day. A side effect of all that ‘word love’ is the inordinate joy I take in bloopers, typos, you name it. Why, just recently:



My friend Marge, a retired journalist, has a similar fascination. We send such gems back and forth via text messaging. Some people collect antiques. We collect gaffes. Word play may never increase in value over time like physical objects, but, on the other hand, a really good typo can absolutely make my day.

Unless it’s mine, of course. 

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