DIRTY MOUTH?

Autocorrect Made Me Say ‘Huge Shit’ Instead of Heat Sheet

Help me ovary cunty, you’re my only pope

I hate autocorrect. It understands me less than Siri or Google. Whenever I text “I’m hunting for buried treasure” it always comes out as “I’m cunting for buried pleasure?” Why? Why does autocorrect always choose dirty words over the obvious meaning?

Take what happened to me five minutes ago. I texted my kid’s swim coach. I wrote, “Is there a huge shit for the swim meet?” That’s not what I wrote, but that’s what got sent.

I meant to write “Is there a heat sheet for the swim meet?” But no, that would have been too civilized for autocorrect. Anyone going to a swim meet knows the most important information you need is not the order of the events, but if there is a big shit there.

I totally understand. Who would want to drive all the way to Wisconsin from Illinois only to discover instead of a swim meet, there is a huge pile of steaming shit. Nobody. So much driving. So little swimming.

And who would remove that huge shit? I am assuming it’s in the pool? Lifeguards have more self-respect for themselves than we did back in my lifeguarding days. We’d have just picked up the huge shit and tossed it. We didn’t even wear gloves.

When I see lifeguards remove huge shits from the pool now, they line up in rows, drag a giant seiche like you use to catch minnows, and work as a team. They’re like the Navy. They wear gloves, Aquaman suits, and waterproof slippers. In my day, we reached down, picked up the shit, and dumped it into the nearest kid’s bucket. Does all this huge shit protection make the world better? I think not.

I think autocorrect is secretly a room of middle school boys holed away in some sort of demented detention. Instead of clapping erasers or moving the Dewey decimal system into the cloud, these middle school boys are in charge of autocorrect. That’s why we all keep saying such nasty shit to each other.

When I was a child in 1322 and wanted to swear, I had to kill a squid and whittle down a fallen tree into a pen. Then, I had to chase down a frail pigeon and rip out one of its quills. In 1322, pigeons were ruthless. They wore armor and sharpened their claws. No one had invented pens yet and pigeons were vulnerable to writers.

You could always tell if someone was a writer in 1322 because their body was covered in pigeon slashes. Pigeon scars were sexy to drunks at bars at 3 a.m. so we got laid, but none of us writers got makeup contracts because makeup companies weren’t celebrating scar diversity yet. The only chance any of us had of making money was writing erotica and dancing at scarification fetish brothels.

Did I mention the coach, who I sent the words “huge shit” to, hasn’t responded yet? I was hoping while I was writing this, the coach would have responded. She would have said, “No biggie, happens to everyone.”

Then, I would have said, don’t worry reader, I’m okay. But I’m not okay. She’s not even typing anything. No moving three dots, nothing. My kid’s probably been demoted to the warm pool, which belongs to the kids who still wear swim diapers. Talk about huge shit in the pool.

I immediately apologized to the coach after I noticed what autocorrect did, but it was too late. She knows I am the kind of person who doesn’t edit and I am sure she will teach my kid the butterfly wrong just to make a point.

My life is over. My kid's swimming career is in the toilet. Fuck you for glistening. I mean thank you for listening. I’m gonna go track down those middle school boys and break their quills. Wish me fuck.