“I don’t understand,” Ashlee complained, her pink-glossed lip trembling. “I sent my draft to my parents to fix.”
“You what?”
“My parents sent me copies of articles they said would work for my paper, and they corrected my draft, so I don’t see how I could have gotten a D-!”
The three page research paper flopped limply in Ashlee’s hand. The ink I added to it with my comments easily doubled the weight of her “research” that was short seven pages and four sources. I could practically smell the horrid thing as it hung there. It stank.
Kyle was also holding his stillborn paper. “My cousin is a published author, and he doesn’t understand why I got such a low grade, either.”
“He actually read your paper?”
“Yeah.”
“And he still doesn’t understand why it’s a D?”
“He thinks it’s much better than that. An A- or B+ at least.”
“Is he ‘published’ on a thing called a ‘blog’?”
I’m sorry, people. I hate to be the one to break it to you. Those folks you’re asking to help you are just not good writers. It might be your mom, your dad, your sister, brother, cousin, grandparent or weird Great Uncle Roy, but apparently a mental block concerning the use of commas runs in your family. It’s a wonder any of your ancestors were able to communicate enough to even understand they wanted to mate.
May I suggest, my revelation-dazed pupils, that you start now to graft fresh DNA, preferably from someone with literacy skills, onto your family tree?
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