Semicolons: What an absolute waste of punctuation. Who really uses the semicolon anymore? You do? Really? Well then: You are a square.

Talk about being something it’s not. Semicolons, you are not a colon: You do not introduce the logical consequence to the fact stated before or introduce a description. You are like the Donald Trump in a world full of people with hair. Just because you comb that little bit of hair forward, semicolon, doesn’t mean one day you will be caught in a disastrous wind and it won’t blow right off. Global warming is watching and waiting for you, semicolon. The jig is up.

Nor are you a comma, dear semicolon, marking off separate elements in a sentence. Instead you are the Kevin Federline of the punctuation population. You parade around acting like you will contribute something decent to society, but all we get from you semicolon, are babies. More and more babies. And bad rap music. And because of you, semicolon, we have invented condoms and earplugs.

What’s more, semicolon, you can’t even find an outfit that fits you. You take comma’s bottom and colon’s top and you parade around like you are a fashion goddess. Did anyone like think Bjork was a fashion goddess when she killed a swan and called it a dress? When she took from nature what rightfully belonged to it and claimed she was a fashionista? No. They did not. They shunned her and she went crazy in an airport and now she is remembered for being crazy and a swan killer.

Semicolon, you claim you have purpose in life. You claim you bind two sentences together. You claim that you can replace an “and” or a “but” better than any other form of punctuation. Well, I’ll tell you something. You lie. Who doesn’t want a nice “but”? I know I do.

Semicolon, you are the worst disease known to mankind: You are athlete’s foot. When we least expect it, you appear on the bottom of a bathroom floor, spread by some sweaty, disgusting, unwashed heathen and you stick to us. You fungus. My backspace button is the fungal cream to your infectious itchy blotch on my big toe.

I predict a mutiny brewing against you, semicolon. For too long we’ve been parched with a need for a definitive end and haven’t been quenched by you. We’ve been punctuating our sentences to death with you and haven’t died. We feel nothing for you, be it the wind on our faces, the spray of the sea, or the warmth of a woman’s flesh. But what happened to all the rum, semicolon? Why do I come home at night and see you passed out in front of the grammar TV with a half-empty can of Colt 45? Bad taste, semicolon. About as boorish as your nasty cousin, the tilde.

But perhaps I should get to the point, semicolon… or, in this case, the period. You should stop showing your face in public, semicolon. No one likes you. You don’t complete our sentences like a period. You don’t connect us to our better halves like a comma. You don’t reveal things to us like a colon. You are useless.

If you’re reading this and you’re especially fond of using this waste of space, allow me to introduce you to a partner in punctuation you’ll find far more satisfying. He’s a dashing fellow. You know him as… the dash. He’s smarter than you. His long, straight rod is more tantalizing than your limp curve that looks vaguely like a an old woman taking a crap.

Ok, I know this is kind of pointless. But maybe that’s the whole hidden meaning behind my vomiting of words. If you take anything from my scouring of semicolons, let it be this: The dash is fun; he is without a peer. Wait… no… god dammit!