Neglected Outsiders Anti-Defamation Society

Cut-and-paste review

2008-04-27T02:11:16Z

For your convenience, dear badfic warriors, we present you with the following review, which can be adjusted to suit your badfic needs.

Dear Suethor,

You have created a badfic.

(Dallas/Darry/Johnny/Ponyboy/Sodapop/Steve/Two-Bit) is horribly out of character.

He would not (fall inexplicably into puppy love/abuse Ponyboy from "his" armchair while reading the paper/inexplicably forget about his shyness and distrust of strangers/become emo and start cutting/forget his girlfriend and/or heartbreak over said girlfriend and fall for a Mary Sue/become a sad little abused woobie/act like a stupid, drunken clown). Go back to the source material and re-read. Take notes on said greaser's characterization.

In addition to failing at the characterization of the aforementioned greaser, your character is a (Rebel!/Emo!/Mother!/Helpless!/Goth!/Asskicking!Action!/Soc!/Bleeding!Heart!)Mary Sue.

A Mary Sue is an idealized character. She is the author's attempt to insert herself into the story. Mary Sues are blatantly obvious and annoying to the reader because their characterization is flat, they are the focus of the story instead of the characters which fans want to read about and the author refuses to give them flaws or make them fallible in any way.

She is perfect, and everyone loves her. A character like this is extremely hard for a skilled writer to make likable and impossible for an unskilled writer. You fall in the later category.

Also, your plotting abilities are weak. Your plot (drags/skips from scene to scene without explanation/introduces elements without explanation and/or follow up/doesn't have a direction). An outline, instead of "pulling it from your @ss," so to speak, would help immeasurably. You are failing around, and it shows.

You also have atrocious grammar. Grammar is important, because if you have bad grammar, it makes readers doubt your writing abilities, and rightfully so. If you don't practice care in this most basic part of the writing craft, what is to make us believe you would practice it anywhere else?

It doesn't matter that you've said (this fic is AU/no flames/don't like, don't read/my story, I'll do what I want/shut up you stupid hater meanies), this fic doesn't deliver for the reader, despite the three repeat reviewers who write grammatically incorrect sentence fragments telling you to update soon, plz.

Either improve this or chop this. Do it because you want to honor what Susie did, not because you want to share your fantasies of sexing up Matt Dillon, who would likely be uninterested in your jailbait @ss anyway. He has a Cameron Diaz-level of standards.

Love,

A badfic warrior

It really is greener on the other side.

2008-04-09T20:35:37Z

Some suethors don't know how to let a sleeping review lie. They insist they are speshul snowflakes and their word spew is brilliance. Sometimes we find ourselves collectively shaking our heads over the unending stupidity and sense of entitlement. Mostly, however, we laugh. Then we spork, and, to make it even more amusing, we drag Dallas into it, because he abhors it.

*clap of thunder*

You sons of bitches again. What do you want this time?

Spork.

You might want to try asking nicely. *cracks knuckles*

We're never nice.

That's my line, you bastards. Quit copping it.

We've got It's Never Greener On the Other Side by ashiavladmere06. It's a Dallymance.

Fuckers.

Tease.

Let's get this shit over with. *lights cigarette*

It’s Never Greener on the Other Side

Prologue

Sometimes when reality hits you, it knocks you off your feet.

What the fuck is that supposed to mean?

It's a metaphor.

It sucks.

Testy today, aren't we, Dallas?

For some people MISSING COMMA! reality never really bothered them.

What's with all the sentence fragments? And the tense shift from the first sentence to the second?

What's with this stupid, mystical-sounding bullshit? Where's the story?

Do you suspect it will be good this time?

No.

So what is your hurry, Dallas?

You got a point.

For others it completely changed them. Take my friend Dallas Winston MISSING COMMA! for example.

I'm not your friend, bitch.

You do seem to have a lot of friends, Dallas.

I trust the gang, and that's it.

The Mary Sues will be disappointed.

Fuck 'em.

That will certainly cheer them up.

*scowls*

Reality really messed him up. MISSING SEMICOLON! It messed him up bad.

Redundancy Department of Redundancy calling.

Sometimes I blame myself for the way he changed.

Because you made me into a Gary Stu, and warped my fucking characterization.

You do seem a little agitated over it. We thought you'd come to terms with your constant Stuification?

So did I, and then some bitch pulls another rabbit out of the hat.

Other times I blame his family. SENTENCE FRAGMENT! Especially his dad. SENTENCE FRAGMENT! Yeah, I really blame his dad.

Suethor actually hit the mark with this one.

So it was your father who transformed you from sweet toddler to bitter teen?

I was never sweet, not even as a baby.

But same basic premise, right?

Sure.

Can we talk about your childhood, Dallas, and its far-reaching effects on your psyche?

Fuck you.

But every blue moon I wonder, was it anyone’s fault the way things happened? And if it wasn’t, could we have stopped it?

Stopped what?

We're not sure. We're also not sure why the suethor thinks hypothetical questions are a good literary device.

She thinks it makes her sound smart.

Does it?

No, she sounds like that fucking rip-off artist who comes into town every year with the carnival.

Well, we’ll never know, will we?

We're sure you'll tell us with excruciating detail, suethor.

You could have snipped this whole bit; nothing happened.

The suethor's trying to set the stage and establish a mood.

She just wasted my fucking time. I want to get the fuck out of here. No more rambling bullshit, do you hear? Snip that shit.

Chapter One: Would You Believe Me?

I rolled over on my bed and looked at my clock. MISSING COLON! Two fifty-nine. Who in the hell was knocking on my window at two fifty-nine in the morning?

Do these bitches think I have nothing better to do than fucking harass them at the crack of dawn?

No, because it's all about them. How do you know it's you, anyway?

If it's not me, it's Sodapop.

Good point. Have you ever been arrested while accosting a Mary Sue at three in the morning?

No. The Tulsa cops are too fat to catch me. Everyone knows that. Can we snip some of this shit?

If you keep asking, we won't snip anything.

Assholes.

I sat up in the bed and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. I looked across the room at my window and saw someone standing outside. I sighed and got out of the bed. I walked over to the window and opened the curtains.

Blah, blah, fucking blah, Mary Sue. No one gives a shit about every fucking move you make.

Her pacing is very weak, isn't it?

It's fucking nonexistent.

It was my stupid boyfriend.

Fuck you.

He was bouncing around the window, blowing his breath in his hands.

HAHAHAHAHA ... Bouncing around the window, Dallas? On a pogo stick, perhaps?

I ain't doing shit. It's this stupid Suethor.

It must be awful to be a puppet on their strings, Dallas, and we'd pity you, but it's much too funny.

I'll show you something funny, you sons of bitches.

Strangely, we suspect this might involve the physical assault of our persons, so we will regretfully decline.

When he saw me looking out of the window, he pointed at the window and mouthed the words "Open the window." MISSING PARAGRAPH BREAK! I barely cracked the window.

"What do you want Dallas," I asked him. MISSING PARAGRAPH BREAK! He gave me a look.

... and then she handed it back.

"What do you think I want? Let me in, it’s fucking cold out here," he said. MISSING PARAGRAPH BREAK! I sighed again and opened the window all the way. MISSING PARAGRAPH BREAK! Dally climbed in and walked straight to my bed and sat down. MISSING PARAGRAPH BREAK! I closed the window and turned to him, with my arms folded across my chest.

Why aren't you snipping this boring shit?

The suethor thinks she has to narrate every single thing which happens. We can't wait until Mary Sue has to use the facilities.

I can.

"What are you doing here, Dall MISSING QUESTION MARK! ," I asked him. MISSING PARAGRAPH BREAK! Dally stretched out on my bed and shrugged.

"I felt like getting out," he lied.

How does she know I'm lying? I'm a great liar.

She has forgotten whose head she's supposed to be in.

I put my hands on my hips and gave him a look.

"I just gave you one of these," Dallas said. "I don't want one. Thanks, but really."

That was shitty. I don't talk like that.

Our hearts are broken.

None of you have a heart.

Picky, picky.

"At three o'clock in the morning?" I knew Dally was lying. Something was bothering him. MISSING PARAGRAPH BREAK! He looked at me for a minute, thinking about whether or not he should tell me the truth.

I wish this bitch would get out of my head and stay in her own.

Spit in the ocean and see if it comes back, Dallas.

Fuck you, NOADS.

"I couldn't sleep," he finally said. "Mom's yelling at Dad for coming home late again."

I uncrossed my arms and walked over to my bed. I looked down at him, at his face. He looked tired.

No shit, bitch, it's three in the morning, and you've got me out here spilling my fucking guts to some Mary Sue.

Interestingly enough, we could see you speaking this way to Johnny, perhaps.

No fucking way. This touchy-feely shit is for chicks, not guys.

I felt bad for giving him a hard time. I should've known it was his parents at it again. If they weren't fighting each other, they were fighting with Dally.

This is actually true.

It's not terrible by this point. She has some definite pacing problems, and her characterization of you is off -- she thinks throwing in the random "fuck" covers it, but forgets you're not likely to confide in a girl, even a girlfriend. Speaking of, how's Sylvia?

The usual; she can't get enough of me.

Funny how she didn't make it into this story.

Well, if my canon girlfriend were in this piece of shit, how could I suck face with Mary Sue?

Perceptive as usual, Dallas.

I hated that. Dally was such a great person,

HAHAHAHAHA!

Fuck you, NOADS.

but it didn't help when his parents were being assholes towards him. I smile TENSE SHIFT! at him and ruffled his hair.

I'm not fucking eight years old, I'm eighteen.

Actually seventeen. Really, we find it quite funny anyone believed your fake ID listing your age as twenty-one.

Ever think about minding your own business?

"Scoot over," I said, climbing in the bed next to him.

Alright!

Are you ready for the flowers and poetry?

I just want to rock the headboard.

We're afraid Mary Sue requires wooing first.

Fine, I'll buy her one drink.

Not the sort of wooing in which you make her tipsy enough to doubt her better sense, but the sort of wooing in which you proclaim your love, preferably publicly.

Does she realize it says S.E. Hinton on the cover, not Walt Disney?

He put his arms around me MISSING COMMA! and I put my face in his chest.

Is she a zombie, trying to eat your heart?

I wish she was; at least I'd be dead.

And perhaps become a zombie yourself?

That would be cool; I'd go munch on some Socs.

He smelt nice.

We suspect she doesn't know what smelt means.

What does it mean?

It's a fish or a process to refine metal.

Is this bitch saying I smell like a fish? Because I ain't no chick.

Crude, Dallas. Very crude.

I closed my eyes and sunk into the bed in Dally's arms. We lay there in silence for a while.

She does realize I'm a guy, right?

And a teenaged one.

She's never been laid. I bet you a hundred bucks.

We don't encourage your bad habits, Dallas.

I felt Dally's soft breath blow on the top of my head.

"Ally?" Dally whispered my name.

... because even Dallas isn't dumb enough to whisper another girl's name while laying in bed with Mary Sue.

Did you just call me dumb?

*whistle innocently*

"Hmm?"

"Do you ever think about what you'll be doing in the next five years?"

I'll be dead, that's where I'll be.

Such an optimist.

I laughed softly to myself. That was a good question. Where did I see myself in the next five years? I never thought about that. I've always just thought about the here and now and nothing more.

Such is evident in your plotting abilities.

Pessimists.

Lampooning us, are you?

"No," I told him.

"I have," he said, pulling me closer to him. "I want to be married with two kids. I want to have a good job so I can support my family, but I'll come home MISSING SPACE! ... MISSING SPACE! on time MISSING SPACE! ..."

What the fuck is this shit?

Your dreams of the future.

Fuck that; I just want to stay out of jail. And who the hell in their right mind wants to have kids? They'd just grow up poor and get jerked around by everybody with a dollar in their pocket.

And you called us pessimists?

Dally's voice was soft and dreamy-like. I got the feeling he was talking more to himself than to me.

I don't talk to myself. I'm not crazy.

What if I told you that Dally was a dreamer? Would you believe me?

No.

What if I told you that Dally asked me to watch a sunset with him?

No.

No, what?

I won't watch a sunset with her.

You asked her.

No, I didn't.

What if I told you Dally used to believe in this world and that people could change for the better. MISSING QUESTION MARK! What if I told you Dally could care and love just as much as the next person. MISSING QUESTION MARK! What if I told you Dally loved his parents right 'til the very end MISSING SPACE! ... MISSING SPACE! would you believe me?

Hell, no, I wouldn't believe it, because it isn't fucking true. If they died tomorrow, the only thing I'd be worried about is making myself scarce for the funerals.

You're all heart, Dallas.

Thanks.

*peek ahead* This thing is long. Shall we snip the bit where you charm Mary Sue's slightly daffy, yet loveable grandmother while Mary Sue looks like a bitch for snapping at a harmless old lady?

Snip the rest of it; see if I care.

I finally decided on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that said, MISSING QUOTES! If you want some MISSING SPACE! ... MISSING SPACE! Come get some! MISSING QUOTES! It was one of my favorite shirts. My grandma doesn't TENSE SHIFT! like it, MISSING SEMICOLON! she said it made me seem like a tomb-boy.

I thought you were snipping.

We couldn't resist "tomb-boy."

That shirt doesn't make her sound fun and playful; it makes her sound like a whore. Where in the hell did she get a shirt like that in 1966?

Hammerspace.

*snip for Dallas and Grandma chatting*

Dally blushed slightly. I knew they had to have been talking about me, by the guilty look on Dally's face.

I don't blush, and I don't feel guilty.

*snip for Mary Sue getting some pancakes*

"How come you don't get on to Dally about his shirt?" MISSING PARAGRAPH BREAK! Dally's shirt had a midget on it that was holding his crouch and saying, "Size doesn't matter if you know what you're doing."

Why is she so preoccupied with what everyone is wearing? Dallas wearing a shirt with a photo of a midget and a legend implying he has a small penis on it isn't going to move the story along at all, suethor.

*scowls* I've got a big one.

Of course you do, Dallas.

Don't fucking humor me, NOADS!

Show us and prove it, then.

Perverts.

Spoilsport.

"Actually I think Dally's shirt is kind of cute," my grandma said. MISSING PARAGRAPH BREAK! I gave her a weird look. MISSING PARAGRAPH BREAK! She continued MISSING COLON! . "That little boy is so brave not to let his size bother him."

Dally and I laughed. My grandma could be so naive sometimes. I looked at Dally. He still looked tired.

Daffy!Grandma could be an okay character in an original story.

I'm just waiting for the old bag to realize I spent the whole night banging her granddaughter.

Please, Dallas, you're blushing in this story. Do you really think you even have a penis, let alone use it?

Fuck you.

You keep saying that, yet you never deliver.

"Did you not get any sleep last night MISSING QUESTION MARK! ," I asked him. MISSING PARAGRAPH BREAK! Dally blushed again. MISSING PARAGRAPH BREAK! I knew something was wrong. Dally has never in his life blushed twice in one day MISSING SPACE! ... MISSING SPACE! no matter what.

I don't even blush once. Give me back my balls, bitch.

"I got a little bit of sleep," he said MISSING COMMA! looking down at the empty plate in front of him.

"Now Dally, don't lie," my grandma said to him, then she turned to me. "He didn't get much. He said that you were having a nightmare MISSING COMMA! and you were keeping him up."

So the old bag's okay with me sleeping with her granddaughter ... you are right – I don't have a dick in this story.

We told you so.

Yeah, yeah. Does this girl have a fucking clue? If some old lady caught me in her granddaughter's bed, she'd beat me half to death with her giant old lady bag before I could fall out the window.

What an amusing image, Dallas.

Up yours.

*snip for Dally and Grandma worrying about Mary Sue's nightmares*

Bitch is stealing Pony's wangst.

You've become quite adept with the fanfiction jargon, haven't you, Dallas?

Shut the fuck up.

They started after my parents and older sister died in a house fire when I was twelve. I was the only one who survived that night.

Well, here's the typical Backstory of Wangst (tm).

I don't feel sorry for her.

Hard to feel sorry for a two-dimensional Mary Sue.

That's when I moved in with my grandma. At first MISSING COMMA! before the nightmares started happening, I was afraid to go to sleep, for fear that if I did there would be another fire and I wouldn't be able to save my grandma. Then my grandma took me to the doctor MISSING COMMA! and they put me on medication to help me sleep. And that's when I started having those nightmares MISSING PERIOD!

Don't say that.

What, "missing period"?

Yeah. *winces*

Pregnancy scare lately, Dallas?

Go fuck yourself.

What interesting suggestions you have, Dallas.

"How come you didn't tell Dally about your dreams MISSING COMMA! sweetheart?" MISSING PARAGRAPH BREAK! I looked at my grandma. She had no idea how hard it was to have these dreams. And then to tell someone else about it, like it was nothing?

"It's no one's business what I dream about, grandma MISSING COMMA! ." I said coldly. I got up from the table. I suddenly didn't feel like eating.

Why is she acting like such a bitch? She ought to be glad she's got someone who gives a shit whether she lives or dies, cuz I don't.

She's showing the reader how edgy and cool she is and how no one understands her.

I understand she's a whiney little bitch.

I stalked back to my room and slammed the door behind me. I threw myself on my bed and stared at the ceiling. I hated having those dreams, especially now that Dally knows TENSE SHIFT! . I wished there was some way I could forget about that night, MISSING SEMICOLON! that way the dreams wouldn't be so real. I used to tell my Grandma that I wish I could forget.

*yawn* More wangst. Poor little orphaned Mary Sue. Don't you feel sorry for her?

No.

Well, that's what the suethor was going for. It didn't work?

No.

But a Backstory of Wangst (tm) and tearful recollection of it is supposed to make you like her and feel bad for her, maybe even feel protective.

Didn't work.

*snip for Dallas begging to comfort the Sue*

Yeah, fucking right.

"I'm sorry I didn't wake you up. You kind of stopped crying when I woke up anyway, so I didn't think I had to," Dally apologized to me.

I'm fucking apologizing?! Bullshit! I call bullshit!

It does seem to be another case of Pod!Dallas.

It's that fucker Matt Dillon's fault. I don't look like that pansy asshole.

We agree, Dallas. We find you much more appealing than Mr. Dillon ...

Stop eyeing me like that.

I felt bad that Dally thought it was his fault. I shouldn't have gotten upset at him, MISSING SEMICOLON! he gets enough of that when he's at home.

"It's not your fault, Dall," I said. "I just didn't know I was still having those dreams, well MISSING COMMA! not that I was remembering them in the first place."

"How come you didn't tell me about your dreams?"

" MISSING SUBJECT! Don't even like having them MISSING COMMA! so why would I talk about them?"

I don't fucking have dreams. Period. Dreams are for the weak.

"You talk about everything else," Dally said. MISSING PARAGRAPH BREAK! I wanted to slap him.

Bitch, you touch me with disrespect, and you won't have a fucking hand anymore.

Cranky, cranky.

I'm tired of these Mary Sues thinking they can hit me and not get hit back.

You'd hit a girl, Dallas?

If she hit me first, you're damn right I would.

What if she threw ... say a soda ... in your face?

Depends on how good-looking she is.

And what if we threw one in your face?

I'd kick your asses.

Touche.

But it was the truth MISSING SEMICOLON! . I did talk about everything else, especially if it bothered me. It just didn't dawn on me to tell Dally about my dreams.

"I don't know, Dall," I sighed. "I just hate to even think about that night, let alone dream about it." MISSING PARAGRAPH BREAK! Dally grabbed me into a big hug and held me there.

"You still should have told me," he said and then kissed me on top of my forehead. MISSING PARAGRAPH BREAK! I reached around his waist and hugged him back.

*gags* I'm not your romantic whipping boy, suethors.

You don't want to fulfill all their fantasies of what a perfect boyfriend should be?

No. I don't even do that for Sylvia, and I can actually stand her.

They'll be crushed.

They'll get over it.

I loved Dally and everything about him. It was his father I ended up hating. He's the one that changed Dally. He's the one that turned Dally into the cold MISSING HYPHEN! hearted person that people loved to hate.

I wish people hated me, then maybe they'd quit writing me into these stupid romances.

You do get that a lot.

You're telling me. Now can I get the hell out of here?

You want to leave us so soon?

Yeah, especially when you're looking at me like that. It creeps me out.

We ask for so little. Just fear us, love us, do as we say, and we will be your slaves.

I want the hell out of here. You're really starting to creep me out.

You won't stay with us? It's only forever – not long at all.

Gone. Now.

So demanding ... we move the stars for no one, Dallas.

*clap of thunder*

*shrug* He didn't even start with "I wish" ...

A Primer on Who We Are and What We Do for Those Too Stupid to Get It

2008-04-01T22:59:34Z

We are a group of Outsiders fans. Some of us have cherished Susie's work for many years, while others are newcomers to the fandom. We all have something in common: We are canon and grammar nazis, and we don't give a shit about your tender feelings, especially when you visit an abortion of a fic on a fandom which has far too many already.

We like to think of ourselves as a team of battlefield surgeons, going from one wounded, pitiful fic to another. Some of them still have a pulse and will make it to triage. There are others for whom we can only give a hit of morphine to ease their gory deaths, because they are dreadful abominations which should have never been put to paper, let alone seen the light of the internet.

Yes, we are fic killers, and it brings us no shame.

There are people who have no talent for writing. One could explain the Holy Trinity (character, plot, technique) of writing to them again and again, but it will never sink into their thick skulls. Not only do they enjoy mediocritcy, they wallow in it. We call these loathsome, slinking, stinking creatures fanbrats.

Like calls to like, and the fanbrats gang together like lemmings or schools of fish. They compliment each other's horrid piles of steaming shit and are terrified to speak the truth -- it stinks worse than a three-day-old corpse left in a sauna. The truth might expose them to the slings and arrows of truth themselves, and not only are they thin-skinned, they know, deep down, in their secret heart of hearts ... they just aren't any good.

An honest assessment of their writing is to a fanbrat as sunlight is to a vampire: They crumble before it.

The maladies "creative writing" suffers under the torturous attentions of fanbrats are many; no plotting, bad premise, out-of-character, poor pacing and two-dimensional characterization chief among them. Yet, point this out, and fanbrats shriek like banshees: It's their story, and they'll do what they want. Unfortunately, what they want to do is suck like a vacuum cleaner set on high.

If a fic can be saved or a writer has potential -- a good grasp of prose, perhaps, despite a terrible execution -- we give concrit. It is harsh and it is no bullshit, but it's there.

Many times, those we find plying their pathetic wares on ff.net are rank amateurs who absolutely lack talent. We tell them so, and we tell them why we disliked their story. Why should we not? They have opened themselves to the opinions of anyone with a modem and a mouse when they posted it publicly. We have no doubt they expected praise, but what of it?

Small children leave their stockings pinned to the mantle on Christmas in the expectation there will be toys and candy in the morning, but if mommy or daddy drank up the welfare check, Santa isn't going to make that stop. The world is a cruel place sometimes, and none of us are guaranteed an easy time of it.

What we are not is your friend, your mother or your father, your teacher or even your beta. We have no obligation to be nice to you or couch our criticisms or opinions of the dreadful word spew you call a story in polite terms.

Let us repeat ourselves: We have no obligation to be nice to you.

Even the stupidest of you can understand that, can't you?

We accepted no onus or burden to be kind or even helpful in our criticism. If we don't like your story, we will say so, despite whatever arguments you might muster on why we should be nice to you, offer you helpful criticism and warm your bottle up to room temperature. No matter the mewlings, we are not going to change our minds and tearfully plead your forgiveness on bended knee whilst crying out "mea culpa."

Regardless of whether you suddenly decide all criticism must be polite or it must teach the recipient something (despite the fact the recipient will more than likely recoil in horror at the idea someone thought their keyboard-mashing attack on the English language was less than stellar), that is not so. You can not dictate the terms of how one might react to any story you submit to a public forum. The sole control you have is whether you choose to make your writing public or not.

If you can not resolve yourself to the fact someone in this great big ol' world of ours will be less than orgasmic on reading your turd of a story, then we suggest you not put yourself through the wringer by putting it on a public site where big meanie heads like us might click on it and tell you exactly why it's a piece of shit.

In the immortal words of Dallas Winston: We're never nice.

Artistic license: not an excuse for sucking

2008-03-27T02:43:18Z

Ah, fanbrats. How we enjoy their squealing ... if we didn't enjoy making them miserable, why would we do what we do? Other than worshiping Susie and having a healthy respect for the characters and world she's created. Obviously, we are most interested in listening to them pathetically mewl about how their stories don't actually suck -- they are using artistic license. Unfortunately, it's not artistic license if it's not any good.

Andy Warhol practised artistic license.

E.E. Cummings practised artistic license.

You, fanbrat, do not.

You see, there is a distinct different between yourselves and Messers Warhol and Cummings -- they're artists. Yes, it's true: In order to practise artistic license, one must be an artist. Artist isn't part of the phrase for shits and giggles, pretties.

To be an artist means you have studied your craft, learned it, perfected it. It means you have vision.

Sure, Warhol painted soup cans and made silkscreen prints of celebrities, but that wasn't because he couldn't paint landscapes or portraits. It didn't mean he didn't understand the difference between realism, impressionism, abstractionism and surrealism. It mean he was trying to make a statement with those soup cans and celebrities. Warhol was intrigued by society's obsession with celebrity and branding. He was using art to make people think -- it's what artists do.

Cummings was avant-garde, but that doesn't mean he couldn't write sonnets. He could and did. He didn't just go batshit with syntax, typography, capitalization and spacing -- he also was trying to make a statement. Cumming's poems are meant to be read out loud, and they are meant to be viewed as a visual statement. Cummings also was a visual artist and incorporated it into his poems.

Artists can break the rules because they know the rules. Your ignorance of grammar, characterization, plotting and pacing isn't artistic license, it's ignorance. Call it whatever you like -- using your imagination, creativity, artistic license, it's your story and you'll do what you want with it -- it's ignorance. You may fool other ignorant fools like yourself, but all those who understand the rules and techniques will see your "artistic license" just for what it is: a weak, paper thin excuse to disguise your lack of craft and caring.

Fanbrats =/= artists.

Fanbrats = hacks.

And, now, because we enjoy snark, and this whole essay was a bit too passionately earnest -- we do love our high horse -- let's spork some fanbrats, shall we? First, anonymous:

You need to get a life.

Yawn. You need to get some originality. We've heard that one before. Didn't bother us then; doesn't bother us now.

People writing stories are trying to get constructive criticism that actually helps to improve their stories.

Fanbrats are writing stories to daydream about getting off with a hot guy, and sometimes to actually get off. They wouldn't know concrit if it bit them in the ass, nor would they appreciate it if they received it. We offer constructive criticism in reviews, however, this LJ is our playground, and fanbrats enter of their own accord and take the risk of being exposed to snark and spork if they do so.

You know, in some part I agree with you: if you don't want criticism, then don't post.

Is this the part where we're supposed to start relaxing and believing you've come over to the side of good, before you hit us with some one-two punch of scathingly observant criticism? Because that's our shtick, and you titled this post "GET A FUCKING LIFE!" (in all caps, too, the better to hear you with, grandmother), so we really don't believe you believe what you are saying.
We believe you think criticism is for other people, but you're a speshul snowflake, aren't you, Miss Anonymous?

But you're just bashing them for their beliefs.

Oh, absolutely. We loathe Christians, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Liberals, Republicans, Democrats ... the list goes on. It's a pity you didn't include lifestyle choices, because we hate gays, heterosexual couples living in sin and married couples, too.

Maybe if you were actually helpful

When did we accept an onus to be helpful? Why should we be nice? Because you think so?

they wouldn't get so pissed off about what you're saying.

Why don't you try giving them some honest critique, and see what sort of reaction you get? We assure you, if your review isn't 100% positive, they will whine, then ignore you. They're fanbrats. It's what they do.

And there are WARNINGS for a reason.

You don't say? You know, we've always wanted to master the obvious. Do you give lessons?

If you don't like slash, don't look for slash stories just to bash.

Ah-ha, a slash lover. You don't really care about the poor fanbrats getting sporked and snarked, do you? You're just asshurt because you're under the impression we don't like slash.
You know, we were impressed with your more-than-adequate grammar skills until you showed yourself to be a rabid slash fangirl who apparently can't deal with the fact others might not enjoy the same subgenre you do.
That being said, we've never sporked a story purely on the basis of having a gay sex scene. We've sporked stories on the basis of having poorly written gay sex scenes. We've sporked stories for having poorly written heterosexual sex scenes as well.
Unfortunately for the subgenre of slash, it attracts writers more interested in writing porn than writing actual stories. That wouldn't bother us, but most of it is badly written porn, and that just won't do.
For a good slash story -- although we hesitate to call it that, because of the negative perceptions being attached to that label -- read On the Wrong Side by Hahukum Konn.

If you don't like the pairing, don't read the pairing ... it's easy enough to do.

Again, we don't review based on pairings. We review based on failure to understand the English language and basic writing techniques. It's easy enough to understand.

And, greaserlvr54, who didn't appreciate our review for Growing Up a Winston, which had serious clarity and pacing issues.

There is on purpose for this fanfic,

We're sure there is, pretty.

and that is for the readers of the Shadow Winston Trilogy

... Shadow Winston Trilogy ... dear, sweet Jesus, we think we might need fresh sporks, some bleeprin and obscene amounts of alcoholic drinks. Stat.

to get to know the character Flick better.

We enjoy character pieces; too bad there wasn't anything to enjoy about your fic or your character.

Pardon my French, but don't give me any of that "I don't know about the sixties" **.

Shit isn't French, so why are we pardoning it?

My father tells me all of his stories

Is that where you got your storytelling abilities? You really got screwed, didn't you?

about his life

We're still waiting to see why we should care or how this is pertinent.

while growing up in the queens;

It's not "the queens," it's "Queens," and you misused the semicolon. When you abuse grammar, God gives C. Thomas Howell another grey hair.

where Dally and his family live.

Regardless of your father's stories, your character's behavior wasn't believable as that of a girl in the late 1950s, and hookers did not wear miniskirts which showed their hey-nah-nahs during the period. Listening to family legends doesn't count as research.

Oh, I perfer the term abstract to confusing.

Spellcheck -- when will fanbrats start using it? We don't care what terminology you "perfer" -- whatever that means -- your story was confusing. Abstract isn't a synonym for confusing, nor is your fic nonrepresentational or particularly esoteric.

Mary B

NOADS

And, lastly, this, from Nightwing, who didn't appreciate our comparing her shrill author's rant with a Maury Povich guest-style "fuck you."

Wow u must be really tough! NOT! An overweight person who shops at HotTopic, i guess u must be that person!

You know, we almost consider this a work of self-parodying art. Look at the pure form of it, including the abysmal grammar and the utter lack of originality, humor and wit. Yet, you can sense her rage and hurt. People should be drinking whine and talking about how this has a nonrepresentational, esoteric message.

A Convenient "Feminism" or "No, Fanbrats, Paris Hilton Isn't a Rolemodel"

2008-03-09T22:29:20Z

The sixties were an interesting time, full of social unrest and upheaval. We could write an entire essay on how many of the problems in today's culture began as social experiments in the sixties, but that could not be done without acknowledging the giant steps taken forward during the sixties -- not necessarily because of the free love and hippie movements, which we believe to have been failures much like some of the rhetoric they were based on, such as communism -- steps such as the civil rights and women's liberation movements. They shared the same time frame and some of the same roots. Certainly they shared the same passion.

It is interesting to note, however, in Susie's "The Outsiders," no black people exist (they do make an appearance in TWTTIN) and girls play a very minor, supporting role. In fact, the only girls who make an actual appearance are the two rich girls, Marcia and Cherry. It's just another reminder "The Outsiders" is not concerned with sexual or racial equality. It's a book about the class divide and focuses wholly on that issue.

We did not expect an exploration of all the issues of the day, especially since the book is hardly a weighty tome and it was written by a teenager, albeit a very talented one. It is simply a good adventure romp which happens to take a look at an issue which hadn't received much attention since Sinclair claimed there might be a little more Italian in people's Italian sausages than they expected. It has the added benefit of some truly excellent characterization, something most writers understand you either have the talent for or not.

However, it is very firmly set in the time (without being dated, as a book exploring sexual inequality might be by this time), not only through the dialogue and small details (name five gas stations within your hometown which offer full service and don't charge extra for it), but in the attitudes of the characters.

Especially toward girls.

Throughout the story, girls and woman are extensions of men. Kathy is Two-Bit's girlfriend, and Mrs. Mathews is his mother. His sister doesn't even rate a name. Sylvia is Dallas' girlfriend, and Sandy and Evie are Sodapop's and Steve's. Mrs. Curtis is the Curtis boys' mother and their father's wife. She doesn't get a first name, either.

Even the two girls who actually appear, Marcia and Cherry, are extensions of the men in their lives. Marcia, despite her sense of humor, is very firmly Randy's girlfriend and an interest of Two-Bit's.

Cherry, the Soc girl who enjoyed sunsets and had dreams and insecurities, was not the one who showed Ponyboy things were rough all over; it was Bob's death and Randy's confiding he had been looking for boundaries which did that. We will credit her with opening Ponyboy's eyes to the possibility of it, although he himself initially rejects it in canon.

Cherry was Bob's girlfriend, and, even after his death, this is how she is identified.

"Her being the dead kid's girl and all ... "

She was able to spy on the Socs for the greasers because she was Bob's girlfriend. She felt responsible for the situation because, as Bob's girlfriend, her interaction with the greasers brought them to his notice, which, in turn, started the tragic turn of events ultimately leading up to the death of the three boys. As Bob's girlfriend, she couldn't bring herself to visit Johnny in the hospital, despite the fact she had liked Johnny as a person.

Even Cherry, the strongest female character, is limited because she is a girl.

In the Outsiders universe, girls and women are both defined and restricted by their relationship with the male characters.

This is why Mary Sue sticks out like a sore thumb.

We would estimate very few, if any, fanfiction authors grew up in the late forties and the fifties and thus have first-hand knowledge of living in a world where a woman wasn't expected to do much more than become a hairdresser or secretary, eventually marry and produce children. This is why research is important; if you don't understand what you are writing about, you appear a fool to those who do understand.

If an author did do research, they might learn a woman who was particularly ambitious might go to college and become a teacher or another profession considered suitable for women (a pregnant teacher usually was relieved of her duties once her condition was apparent, and the practice continued until the mid- to late-sixties, depending on the community). Those women who didn't marry, either through chance, obligation or desire, were dismissed at "old maids."

Women usually did not live alone. Most transitioned from their father's house to their husband's. Those who did leave home without a wedding ring usually lived in college dorms, sorority houses (which were much more circumspect then) or with other professional women (i.e. secretaries, clerks, typists and the like). Those who struck out on their own were looked at askance.

This did not mean women had no social lives or were chained to their homes like slaves. Since many homes were one-income (meaning the male in the relationship was usually the breadwinner -- many women did not continue employment after being wed, and almost none did after having children), most women had more free time, especially with the invention of new mechanical devices such as washing machines and vacuum cleaners (imagine using a washtub and scrubbing board to do all your clothes).

There were women's clubs, churches and church groups and parent booster organizations. People participated in charitable groups, many of which had ladies auxiliaries. There were veterans' groups, volunteer fire departments and social clubs, like the Elks, which had such auxiliaries attached.

In addition, there was more of a sense of community. Large shopping malls and large box stores were few and far between. Neighbors knew each other and shopped in the same small businesses, the owners of which usually lived in the community as well and were known to their customers.

There was no internet, and not every family -- especially poorer families such as the greasers -- owned a television set, let alone multiple ones. Of those homes which did have a set, there were only "The Big Three" -- CBS, NBC and ABC -- available, and they went to test patterns in the late evening and early morning. Color television didn't become available until the later half of the 1950s, and, again, it was expensive. There wasn't any cable or dishes.

Neither did every home had a telephone. In fact, so few did, ten-digit numbers weren't even necessary; phone numbers were a combination of letters and numbers. The instant access of cellphones, email and instant messenger was unknown. There wasn't a global information network, so when things happened halfway across the world, it took time for word to get back.

That was the world the greasers (and Susie Hinton) grew up in. It was a world where the neighborhood kids played together, because what else were they going to do all day? It was a world in which you gravitated to other people like you -- those of the same approximate age, the same gender and the same social class (their dad wasn't making much more than yours if they only lived four or five houses down). It was a world in which tradition and similarity wasn't only valued, but prized.

It was a world where boys grew up and got a job at the mill or the refinery, because their uncle or dad worked there and could get them a job. It was one in which the uncles and fathers of your neighborhood friends worked at that same mill and would be getting jobs for them as well. If you were lucky, you would belong to a union and thus work in an only mildly dangerous environment. If you were unlucky, it would only be as safe as the law dictated, and the law wasn't all that strong nor enforced very much at the time.

If you were middle-class, maybe you'd become a middle manager somewhere or go into the family business. If you were well-off, you might attend college and have your pick of careers, likely coming back to your hometown and becoming a professional, such as a doctor or bank manager.

This world had its faults -- most notable (and easiest to point out) racism, sexism and classism -- and it would shortly be obliterated by the world-changing events of the late sixties, but that was the world in which the greasers operated. Feminism was only a gleam in the eye of the forward-thinking in New York and San Francisco, and it wasn't even on the radar in the Southwest.

We have just spend a good deal of time and effort to make this point: Feminism did not exist in mid-sixties Tulsa, no matter how much of a rule-breaking, barrier-shattering heart-breaker you want your Sue to be.

Good girls wore skirts below the knee and didn't show off their cleavage. "Bad" girls wore shorter skirts (no microminis, even if it was the sixties -- the miniskirts then would hardly be considered daring now) and tighter blouses. Jeans were uncommon, although pants were not unheard of, they were usually capris or slacks. Girls didn't wear tennis shoes unless they were cheerleading, and since it wasn't very athletic at the time, they were more likely to wear saddle shoes.

Being a good girl wasn't all about the clothes or whether or not a girl ratted her hair (that was a bad-girl trait, by the way). It was about how a girl acted as well.

Girls usually didn't fight with other girls. It was considered low-class, fish-wife-style behavior. It happened, but rarely, and nice girls certainly didn't do it. Girls never got into brawls with boys (domestic disputes not withstanding).

Good girls did not drink themselves into drunkenness for the sheer hell of it. Even bad girls weren't doing keg stands. It would be extremely unlikely any woman would find herself drunk enough to perform a Mardi Gras-style flashing.

Girls weren't doing train-bangs. If a man wanted to see a lot of a woman without going through courting, he likely attended a burlesque show, which were the forebearers of strip clubs, although the women usually wore costumes which were much less revealing than what a modern stripper would wear.

In fact, there really aren't a lot of differences between the good girls of yesterday and today, although the "bad" girls of today are a whole different breed. They are more obnoxious, more promiscuous, more drunken and more lewd. They have less respect for themselves and others, and they tell themselves they are feminists.

Suethors, feminism isn't about beer chugging and spreading your legs so often you develop not one, but multiple, sexually transmitted diseases. It's not about calling your girlfriends bitches or treating other women who are dressing and acting in the same manner as you are like whores (although it does say a lot about your own self-image). It's not about pushing the limits and boundaries of appropriate behavior purely for the sake of it.

It's about having the same chances and standing on the same footing as men. It's about being a wife and mother because you want to be or being a senator because that's what you want to do. It's about being equal, not degrading yourself by flashing and flaunting everything you have to strangers in some desperate, sad bid for attention. It's not about turning yourself into some perverse one-note stereotypical party girl.

It's about the freedom to be who you are, not about the ability to destroy yourself.

So your bed-hopping, alcohol-swilling, curse-spewing brawler of a Mary Sue isn't just an anachronism, she is nowhere near cool nor is she a trail-blazing feminist out to show all the shy misses of Tulsa what they are missing.

The way you present yourself is the way you will be treated by most people. If the greasers are presented with a girl who doesn't seem to respect herself or expect respect from others (and let's not get into "she fight people who treat her badly" nonsense -- if she acts like her body is a disposable convenience, then she has no true respect for herself and getting into brawls is only another facet of that behavior), then they are certainly not going to give her any respect.

They will treat her exactly as she invites herself to be treated. She will be used, likely sexually by Dallas or another male character who is less than tender-hearted, and dropped like a snotty tissue.

Dallas is not going to get down on one knee and propose to a girl who makes Sylvia look like a choir girl. Soda is not going to abandon his sainted Sandy for a girl who curses and acts like the worst stereotype of a truck driver. Sensitive Ponyboy isn't going to fall for a girl who thinks an appropriate greeting is "'S'up, beeeyotches?!" Shy Johnny isn't going to be head over heels about a girl whose vagina bears a resemblance to the Grand Canyon.

Since Steve, Two-Bit and Darry are asexual to most of the fandom, they are (mostly) safe, but even if they came to the attention of Mary Sue, we assure you they have enough respect for themselves not to date a girl whose drunken promiscuity would likely have them visiting a free clinic and urinating into a cup.

They would not like, respect or protect your "tough girl" Mary Sue. They would be disgusted by her and likely mock and abuse her. They are teenage boys, not therapists, and probably don't have the life experience or maturity to look beyond your self-insert's outlandish behavior and see an insecure girl with a deep-seated need for attention. Children can be cruel, and teenagers even worse.

When Mary Sue warps time, space and logic to make the characters do things ordinary people wouldn't do, let alone have them acting outside of their established canon characterization, this is bad writing.

And everyone knows how much we hate bad writing.

Should a blinged-out, celly-toting, belly-ring-wearing tattooed diva of today be dropped into the Outsiders world, the canon characters' reactions would probably be shock and astonishment.

So we are throwing out a gauntlet, so to speak: Is there any among you badfic warriors who has the iron stomach and madness to write a fic in which an actual suethor is dropped into the Outsiders, while keeping the boys in character and the setting accurate?

We'd dearly love to see it.

Greasers Against Badfic

2008-03-09T17:35:20Z

This fic was so atrocious, we needed a whole cast of guest sporkers. May we introduce the newly formed Greasers Against Badfic?
Ponyboy Curtis, president.
Um ... hi? And when did I volunteer to be president of anything?
Hush, Pony, wait until you see the fic. Then you'll be glad we volunteered you.
Steve Randle, vice-president. Feeling better now, Steve?
No thanks to you.
Two-Bit Mathews, secretary.
Hey, everybody! *waves*
I can't believe you made him secretary. What the hell were you thinking?
And here's Dallas Winston, treasurer.
Yeah, make Dally our treasurer -- he'll ransack the treasury!
Shut it, Mathews. Better'n having a thief like you.
That hurts, Dal.
Yeah, I can see you're dyin' over there.
This is Greaser Gurls by get-on-my-level14.
What the hell kinda name is that?
Steve, we have the feeling you're avoiding the fic.
Shut up.
We promise there isn't any slash in this one.
There'd better not be.
Still haven't recovered from "White Angel," Dallas?
Fuck you.
What's "White Angel"?
Can we get to this? I've got homework.
You've always got homework.
No, I just do mine.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Outsiders only the girl greasers
Thank God you don't own us, bitch.
I'm agreeing with Dal on this one.
I'd like to protest the concept of being "owned" by anybody.
This chick owns all the greasy chicks? Can I borrow a couple blondes?
Name: Kris Scarce
Age: 14
Hair: very dirty blond
Eyes: piercing green cat like eyez
Wait, this is a story?
This isn't a story ... I don't know what this is.
What the fuck is this?
It's a list.
I can see that, Randle.
*shrugs* You asked, Dal.
I ain't sporking this shit. This is stupid. *stalks off*
He'll be back.
I dunno ... when Dal gets mad, it's better to just let him go.
It's Sheol; he can't go far.
Girl version: Ponyboy
WHAT?!
Hahaha ... Ponyboy's a girl.
Well, Pone, I always thought you were a bit of a wimp, but ...
*glares*
Bio: Sweet, mother-like, smart, youngest, loved by all
Mother-like. That's rich. When'd you start mothering anybody?
I dunno. Maybe if he wore a dress ...
*sighs* I hate fanfiction.
Don't worry, Ponyboy, the next one is good.
Name: Cornelia "Knuckles" Scarce
Knuckles? What sort of nickname is Knuckles?
We think the suethor is trying to sound tough. Note she's related to the Ponyboy-clone.
She's not a clone of me!
Knuckles doesn't sound tough. It sounds stupid. Was this chick dropped on her head when she was born?
I'd like to drop her on her head now.
Age: 18
Hair: blond
Eyes: light blue
Girl version: Dally
*sighs* See, Dal's reaction to this woulda been priceless, and you let him go. He should have been made to spork.
Like you've had to spork all that much, Two-Bit. Shoot, I think you like it!
You've only done it once, too, Steve.
Yeah, but you should have seen the piece of shit they broke me in on.
We don't believe in being merciful.
No kidding.
Besides, what's the fun in sporking mediocre fics?
*rolls eyes*
Bio: Smokes, drinks, talks trash, baddest bitch of them all.
Because that's all there is to Dallas.
I dunno, that's pretty much Dal in a nutshell, except for the talking trash bit. Dally was never much for running his mouth, more for punching people.
Note it doesn't say she's a fighter.
It says she's the "baddest bitch of them all."
You oughta be glad Darry isn't here. That mouth, Ponyboy.
I'm only reading what it says!
Punched a soc in the noise
How do you punch a Soc in the noise? I'd like to try that.
Maybe their mouths? That's where all the noise is coming from.
I always thought they talked out of their asses, myself.
and caused him to have his noise tilt to the side.
We think that's probably referenced as breaking his nose, suethor.
Maybe she didn't break it. Maybe the whole thing did just tilt to the side. *tilts to the side*
Are you trying to be funny?
Maybe. Are you laughing?
No.
Then I wasn't.
*snip! because this is awful*
Girl version: Johnny
Poor Johnny.
*lights cigarette, takes drag* Well, it's just the next step. After all, they've girlified Johnny so much, the only thing left was to make him a girl.
There had better not be a female version of me.
Bio: Used to be funnest girl to hand out
What did you hand out, suethor?
with until she got rapped when she was 13.
Rapped by what? Knuckles?
She misspelled "rape."
*groans*
We agree, Steve. If you can't spell it, you shouldn't be allowed to write about it.
She went to this party and started flirting with this girl’s man. She found out and got her boyfriend drunk and he took Chuy to a room and rapped her. It was a soc.
When did Socs start inviting us to their parties?
Hey, I wouldn't mind going to a Soc party.
*stares*
Free food is free food.
You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?
actually the girl was her best friend.
*snorts* Some friend.
I think this girl's been watching too many soap operas.
They are called daytime dramas, now, Ponyboy.
Whatever they're called, she needs to lay off of them.
The girl thought she was flirting but actually she was asking a homework assignment.
Then why didn't her boyfriend tell her so?
Pony, give up on logic.
Yeah, Pony. Logic doesn't live here anymore.
*snip! for more stupidity*
Name: Kelly " Knives" Scarce
*rolls eyes*
Age: 19
Hair: light blonde
Eyes: light blue
Girl version: Two-Bit
*smirks at Two-Bit*
*grumbles*
At least she's blonde, Two-Bit.
Bio: Funniest girl that you can ever know.
What about all the girls you can't know?
They're funnier?
Loves to say what’s on her mind.
She is the female version of Two-Bit!
What I say has the distinction of being funny.
You like to think so, anyway.
Stevie, I can't help it if you don't have a sense of humor.
Don't call me Stevie.
Can cheer you up in second.
In second gear?
I bet she doesn't even know what second gear is.
Loves knives.
Who doesn't? *whips out knife*
*rolls eyes* Most everybody?
Owns a special knife that her uncle gave her before he got shot.
He couldn't very well give it to her after he was shot, could he?
Maybe he didn't die. *shrugs*
Always carries it around. That’s why her name is Knives.
How come none of you call me Knives?
Because you only carry one knife?
If I carried two, would you call me Knives?
No.
Why not?
Because we wouldn't.
Use to cut herself to see what kind of damage it can do.
It leaves cuts, and I didn't even have to cut myself to figure it out.
If you cut me, do I not bleed?
Wanna try it and see?
Let's not, and say we did.
Loves blonde boys. (oooo this could be interesting)
Not if it's like anything else you've written so far.
She's got an "e" on the end of blond.
So?
So, it's wrong.
Name: Rasco Scarce
What sort of name is Rasco?
A stupid one.
When you're right ...
Age: 17
Hair: light brown
Eyes: violet
I've never seen a girl with violet eyes.
Maybe she's got a disease?
Girl vision: Sodapop
Hey, look, Steve, it's your dream girl!
Shut up, Two-Bit.
Bio: Fairest one of all. Loved by all (and I mean love wink )
Is she a slut?
Probably.
Aren't they all?
Understanding, cheerful. Had a boyfriend but dumped her to be with someone else.
I thought everyone loved her?
Guess not.
Hart broken at first but came on top with her game. Seen with her sisters. Loves to give kisses.
See, I told you she was a slut.
If she's the feminine version of Soda, what does that make him?
A stud.
Isn't that ... we don't know ... sexist?
What the hell are you talking about?
Fraternal twins with L.
Who's L?
Why did you ask? The Suethor is going to tell us anyway.
Yeah, Pony, don't encourage her by showing even the smallest spark of curiousity
.
Name: Elena "L" Scarce
Age: 17
Hair: light brown
Eyes: violet
Again with the violet eyes. Who has violet eyes?
*loud cursing*
Dal, you're back!
I ain't happy about it.
I didn't notice.
You missed your feminine self, Dal.
No, I didn't. That fucker was in "White Angel."
Girl version: Steve
Great. She's probably a cutter, too.
What the fuck is a cutter?
Do you really want to know?
No.
Bio: She’s in between Kris’s Sweetness and Knuckle’s toughness. Can be sweet at times but it could change quickly if being mess with.
That's repetitive. We wonder if she's got some sort of mood disorder.
Why?
The switches from "sweetness" to "toughness."
Nah, that just means she's a girl. They're always turning it on and off.
Shutting it down.
Being general pains in the ass.
So she's realistic?
No. She'll be one of those weird hybrid creatures which are tough enough to get themselves in trouble, but get all weepy and clingy when she wants one of us to save her.
I never knew you were such a student of fanfiction, Ponyboy.
If your character was assassinated as much as mine is, you would be, too, Two-Bit. But hardly anyone writes about you.
I know; I'm lucky.
Defends anyone and helps anyone.
If I were a fool, I'd be optimistic.
But is usually the lazy one.
*sighs* Listen, Suethor, I go to school full-time and have a part-time job. I am not Two-Bit.
*shrugs* How's that working for you, Stevie?
Just fine. At least I've got money to take my girl out. And don't call me Stevie.
Okay, Stevie.
There I hope you like the characters
We fucking hate them.
They aren't even accurate representations of what we would be like as girls.
You are one weird kid.
but believe me this is going to be good. Please review!!!
No.
I'm am so sorry that I can't spell so please let me now.
Spellcheck. Know it. Use it. Love it.
That would be great love you all.
Commas apparently aren't your forte, either.
Sorry they’re no one for Darry.
He's the luckiest son of a bitch I've ever come across.
Don't think he doesn't know it and rub it in, either.
I’ll make someone for him later.
Be still our hearts.
Can we go now? Homework, you know.
Of course ... we'll be back to sporking soon enough.
Not if I can help it.
Was it so terrible this time, Steve?
I was a girl.
Well, there is that. We will endeavor to find a fic in which you are both male and heterosexual. It may take some time.
*glares*
I wanna know why there aren't any exits in this fucking place.
*coy* We could give you a tour, Dallas.
Never fucking mind.
I
Did you see what they did to Shepard?
Yeah, but they like Shepard. I'm safe.
Yeah, well, enjoy the tour, I'm outta here.
Wait for me, Dal!
Well, hurry it up, kid.
I'm coming, too. I don't like the way they're leering at me.
C'mon, then.
*disappears*
*disappears*
*disappears*
Still interested in the tour, Two-Bit?
If you don't mind me casing the place.
wouldn't mind a tour.
Nothing of much worth here ... unless you're interested in tortured souls ...

EDIT: We despise the way LJ plays havoc with our formatting. We'd move to JournalFen, if it wasn't so much work and we weren't so lazy. Hopefully, this is easier to take, now. The spork, not the badfic.