“Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. The detective must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor. He talks as the man of his age talks, that is, with rude wit, a lively sense of the grotesque, a disgust for sham, and a contempt for pettiness.”

- Raymond Thornton Chandler

From an essay that first appeared in The Atlantic Monthly (November, 1945)

Complete essay “The Simple Art of Murder” at http://www.en.utexas.edu/amlit/amlitprivate/scans/chandlerart.html

Now, the Tumbs® version - By Raymond Twitter, a.k.a. Becca “Can This BE Any More Stupid?” Chandler

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Down These Mean Tweets A Man Must Go

[Excerpt from the last few paragraphs of “The Simple Art of Murdering Good Taste and All That Is Holy in 140 Characters Or Less”]

In everything that can be called fart there is a quality of redemption. It may be pure tragedy, if it is high tragedy — like when you tweet while inhaling — and it may be pity and irony, or irony and stupidity, or T-shirts that say Ironman or I’m With Stupid, I’m not sure which; and it may be the raucous laughter of the strong man who likes weenie jokes. But down these mean tweets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither varnished nor afraid of bacon. The defective at this kind of website must be such a man. He is the hero, he is everything. ‘Everything’ meaning he is mayonnaise, he is extra onions, and he is the hot-sauce you specifically told the pimpled fast-good jerk to leave off.  He must handily wield a complete meme and a common meme and yet an unusual meme. He must have, to use a rather withered phrase, a meme of honor, bandied about by instinct, by irritability, without intelligent thought, and certainly without saying “lol”. He must have the best meme in his URL and a good enough meme for any URL. I do not care much about his private life; it would probably horrify. He is neither a eunuch (though we’re not sure) nor a satyr (though he looks suspiciously cloven-hoofed and smells like poop); I think he might seduce @lisarahmat and I am quite sure he would, without thinking too hard, spoil a virgin; he certainly would guzzle a full litre of Extra Virgin olive oil if desperate enough on a Saturday night.  If he is a man of laughable honor in one thing, he is that in all things. And he likes to BE in all things, whether it be his hands, a gerbil, or his favorite sock. He is a relatively weird man, or he would not be on Twitter at all. He is a crass man or he could not go among crass people. He has no sense of character, or he would not constantly talk about blowjobs. He will retweet no man’s original tweet dishonestly (for fear of @bcompton going after him with his #entirelyhugecock) and endure no man’s insolence without a due and dispassionate fart joke in revenge. Or just a fart, followed by raucous laughter. He is a lonely man, perhaps because he showers only on Bastille Day, and his pride is that you will treat him as a Favrd man or be very sorry you ever followed him. He talks as the man of one-tenth his age talks, that is, with rude wit, a near-pathological sense of the grotesque, a disgust for spam, a contempt for @aplusk, and much talk of jacking off. The tweet is his adventure in search of a hidden burp, and it would be no adventure if it did not happen to a man fit for, well, pretty much nothing. He has a range of awareness that makes a starling look like Einstein, his sophomoric posts astonish you, but they belong to him by right, ‘cause you can check the timeline.

If there were enough like him, I think this URL would be a very bizarre place to hang out in — and yet it ain’t stopping me, folks.

—Becca Thornton Wilder Bing Chandler