I love me some journalism. But, God, do I hate me some English.
Through and threw. Chord and chat. Axe and aks. And when they're finished, somehow buildings aren't builts. In America they're trades; in England they're transfer windows. Don't get me started ... or is too late?
This Saturday night your Dallas Cowboys will be throttled by the undefeated Saints in New Orleans. In my moonlighting career over on 105.3 The Fan I've been getting similarly throttled this week for pronouncing it:
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"It's N'awlins!," exclaims oh, I dunno, everyone.
Now I ain't eggs actly married to the King's English, but I call it New OR-lee-unz. I call it SALL-mun. And I call it ill-uh-NOISE. Silent letters = suckness.
I've enjoyed some bare breasts at Mardi Gras, but I'm not Creole or Cajun or crazy and I'm not about to take diction direction from a region who invented "Who Dat?"
You with me?