The headline over a New York Times obituary this month: “Charles Kernaghan, Scourge of Sweatshops, Is Dead at 74.” (The money quote in the obit being from Kernaghan’s statement, “If our clothes could talk, they would be screaming.”)
Hey, I want to be called the scourge of something when I die. I mean, it’s good to be associated with positive contributions, but if we’re going to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comforted both, we ought to be a scourge to some real wrongos, too.
But whom?
“David Murray, Scourge of Fatuous LinkedIn Posters, Is Dead at 81.”
“David Murray, Scourge of Self-Important Restaurant Customers and Linguistically Mincing Restaurant Servers, Is Dead at 77.”
“David Murray, Scourge of ‘Dipshits’ Who Wear Those ‘Asinine’ Running Shoes With the Toes in Them, Is Dead at 56.”
No, such pipsqueaks are not even worthy of a proper scourge.
It seems to me I have been nibbling around the edges. How many years do I have left to take a big bite out of social crime?
I’m open to the ideas of Writing Boots readers (even though I could be called a “scourge of ‘crowdsourcing'”).
Scourge of people who look up at the sky when it starts raining and whine, “Really?!”
How about…with apologies to Mencken –
David Murray –
Sworn enemy of rumble and bumble;
Eternal scourge of flap and doodle;
Life-long opponent of balder and dash.