In anticipation of this week's National Spelling Bee (hooray!), a website I visit regularly, Language Log (languagelog.ldc.upenn.edu), has posted a list of "America's most misspelled words in 2026" as compiled by a website I have never visited, Unscramblerer (unscramblerer.com). The good news is that it's still just May, and there's plenty of time remaining before 2027 for us to get better at tomorrow, which, apparently, we love to put an extra m in. Americans are a generous people.

It seems the list was compiled by an Estonian, so it's mostly interesting as a lens for how outsiders interpret how Americans use our own language, at least as filtered through Google (the source of unscramblerer's data). For example, in their explainer, they call out the difficulty American spellers have with silent letters, giving the example of the "silent" c in schedule. As an American, I can definitely say that particular c isn't silent to us, though they're correct not to ask us to spell scissors. Unscramblerer also seem to think we struggle with color. Is this really a list of misspelled words in the King's English? We already knew British people talk funny, so it makes sense they would spell funny, too.

Even outside of those context clues, I'm not sure I have a great deal of faith in the rest of their list. Their "most common" misspelled were bougie (hooray, Marxism!), favorite, and through. The first is obviously already slang (though, again, in my experience, I've found it far more common in UK exports than native to the States), the second commonly drops the silent o when used in pidgin and comic strips, and even McDonald's prefers to drive thru. Granted, those are more fun than what I suspect remains the real worst offender: its / it's. I know the difference, yet its something I still type wrong all the time.

According to the list, the most commonly misspelled word in the state of Georgia (as in Oklahoma and Wyoming) was Chihuahua, which coincidentally happens to have been the question to the Daily Double answer "In Northern Mexico, a capital city, a state & a desert all have this name" in yesterday's episode of Jeopardy!. I'm pretty confident that I can spell that one (hooray, dogs!). I checked, and I have posted the word in three previous Wriphe.com blog posts in the past twenty-one years, so even if I have misspelled it, I've hardly done so commonly.

To be thorough (thourough? thorogh? Thoreau?), I double checked for Wriphe.com posts with common misspellings of Chihuahua and found none. However, Google tells me the most common misspelling is Chiwawa, and I'm quite sure I would never type such a thing intentionally. So if I misspelled it in here somewhere, which remains possible as spelling is not among my stronger suits and I can be very creative with my typos, it probably looks something more like Chihuahuah with a completely unnecessary extra h. As a generous American, I do so love to make things more complicated than they actually are.

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Today is my fiftieth birthday. That's a nice, round, easy-to-add number, which is probably why I remember figuring in elementary school that I would turn 50 in the distant, future year 2025. That seemed a very long way off back then. A 50-year-old me still feels a long way off, and I guess that's just going to have to be good enough.

UPDATE: Look at this sweet stack of books that my aunt gave me! Famous Last Words: An Anthology, A Brief History of Death, Pulp Empire: The Secret History of Comic Imperialism, The Fires of Lust: Sex on the Middle Ages, But Can I Start a Sentence with "But"?: Advice from the Chicago Style Q&A, Who's a Good Dog?: And How to Be a Better Human, Canine Confidential: Why Dogs Do What They Do, and Show People: A History of the Film Star. (Don't blame her. I picked all of those titles out from a University of Chicago Press catalog. What can I say? I like to read about death, comic books, sex, grammar, dogs, and movies, maybe even in that order.)

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The 100th annual Scripps National Spelling Bee finals are tonight at 8PM on Scripps-owned Ion TV. Somehow, the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, owned by Scripps' rival Cox, fails to mention that. So if you spent the past year waiting to hear Dr. Bailly pronounce "grandiloquent," "centenarian," or "hullabaloo," don't miss your chance.

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Right now, if you ask Google how to "define misspelled" (you know, as one does when they have doubts about whether they have spelled the commonly misspelled word "misspelled" with the appropriate numbers of es, ls, and ses), you'll get this:

If you're a pedantic bastard like me, you may have noticed that the past tense is given as "misspelled" (as expected) but the past tense verb used in the example sentence is actually "misspelt," which is not among the variants listed for verb tenses. Did Google make a mistake? Obviously, further research was needed.

Although "spelt" has been listed as an alternative form of "spelled" since Noah Webster's very first 1806 A Compendious Dictionary of the English Language*, the word "misspelt" does not appear among the several hundred thousand words in my beloved 1977 Webster's New Twentieth Century Dictionary Unabridged, Second Edition. Nor does it appear now on the Merriam-Webster website. Therefore we can be pretty sure that "misspelt" isn't an English word, at least not in America.

Fortunately for everyone, Google does give its sources, and their dictionary is provided by Oxford Languages, which is an arm of the Oxford University Press which publishes the Oxford English Dictionary, the most highly esteemed dictionary of English English. Sure enough, those Brits have no Puritanical American qualms about unconventional spelling:

So what lesson, if any, can be drawn from this exercise? Is Google surreptitiously trying to force American to learn a foreign language? Are the British playing the long game to get Americans back for the War of 1812? All I know for sure is that it's harder than I thought to misspell "misspell."

* Technically, America's first dictionary spelled them "fpelled" and "fpelt" where the old-school long s was printed using the f letterform on the era's moveable type printing press. It's worth noting that Webster was considered an eccentric in his day for even attempting to standardize spelling. Even Shakespeare could have cared less about which letters went in which words. Per Love's Labor's Lost, act V, scene 1, lines 45-46 in the 1623 edition of the First Folio: "Yes, yes, he teaches boyes the Horne-booke: What is Ab speld backward with the horn on his head?"

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To whom it may concern:

On Tuesday, I wrote

The lady who answered the phone, who I'll call Uma, seemed new at her job.

Doug wrote in to say that I should have written

The lady who answered the phone, whom I'll call Uma, seemed new at her job.

Doug is usually right about such things. This case, I thought, was the rare exception. The second who modifies the same lady as the first who, and since lady is the subject of the sentence, I determined that both should be who and neither whom.

But, as I said, Doug is usually right about such things, so I decided I would consult some other sources to be sure. I simplified the sentence a little to make it easier to describe because Doug and I agree that the first who is correct and I didn't want to confuse our Artificial Intelligence overlords.

1. Microsoft Copilot confidently told me I was right:

2. ChatGPT seemed to want to appease us both before obsequiously declaring me to be perfect:

3. Google Gemini decides to ignore the parts of speech that it doesn't like on the road to ruling in my favor:

That's three of the most widely used AI's on the planet telling me that I'm right. Which can only mean that I was wrong. Who is not the subject of that relative clause; I is. (Boy, that was a fun sentence to type!)

After a little old-school Googling, I found the best explanation of this situation was provided by the Writing Resources Center at William & Mary (which taught Thomas Jefferson how to write English so they must be pretty good at it):

Introducing a Dependent Clause:

Within the clause alone (not the whole sentence), if the pronoun is a subject, then who is correct; if the pronoun is an object, then whom is proper. For example:

Many people dislike the new chairman whom we have elected.
[In the clause "whom we have elected," the pronoun whom is the object of the compound verb have elected. One would say, "We have elected him."]

I am scared of the old woman who lives on Main Street.
[In the clause "who lives on Main Street," the pronoun who is the subject. One would say, "She lives on Main Street."]

Someone should tell AI the same thing my high school English teacher would have told me: go open a dictionary. In this case, I recommend specifically Merriam-Webster, whose detangling of who and whom at merriam-webster.com/grammar/who-vs-whom-grammar-usage tells the story of a sandwich, the dog who apologized for eating it, and the lying cat who set him up. Must read. 5 out of 5. And, as expected, in total agreement with Thomas Jefferson and Doug.

Sorry I doubted you, Doug.

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When an old man dies, a library is burned with him.

I occasionally worry about what will happen to this blog when I'm no longer alive or otherwise capable of maintaining it. No one owns anything in the virtual realm, and all sites (and all the knowledge they contain) evaporate like mist as soon as they are no longer profitable enough to maintain the energy cost of their digital existence. Since I have selfishly chosen not to have any children of my own that I can emotionally manipulate into keeping Wriphe.com alive in perpetuity, I probably need to accept the fact that once I'm gone, any evidence that I wasted so much time at a computer keyboard will be gone, too.

Which makes me wonder, what will the world really miss? Is the minutia evidence of my life really worth preserving? To answer that question, I climbed a mountain and asked a wizened sage... no, just kidding. I wrote a script that sorted and counted all 550,000 words I've recorded in the past 21 years to see if they gave me any indication of the site's value. (Note that my quick-and-dirty script returned many character strings you won't find in a dictionary, like movie titles, odd proper names, web addresses, and "g-g-ghost.")

The most common word at Wriphe.com: the

No great insight there. The is the most common word in the English language, which is no big surprise considering that it is the only definite article in the whole darn language. According to Wikipedia, it accounts for "seven percent of all printed English-language words." For comparison, it currently accounts for only about 5% of Wriphe.com. Heck, all first person singular pronouns (I, me, mine, my) combined make up only 3% of Wriphe.com! I guess I don't talk about myself enough.

After stripping out the top 50 most common English words (according to the same Wikipedia source), I get the following list:

1. my (3,110 occurrences)
2. it's (2,045)
3. about (1,847)
4. like (1,840)
5. me (1,769)

Ok, fine. Maybe I do talk about myself enough. Yeah, nobody in the future is going to need all of that.

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"Love is the most important thing on Earth. Especially to a man and a woman."

My Webster's New Twentieth Century Dictionary, Unabridged has eight different definitions for the noun form of love, chief among them "a strong affection or attachment or devotion to a person or persons." That pretty much matches the good captain's use of the word. (I'm sure Kirk also loves the fifth definition: "sexual passion or its gratification," which, you may note, does not require any "person or persons" on this earth or any other).

Maybe I'm devoid of strong passion, but my personal definition of love has always been a little more concrete. So far as I can tell, anything you love is something that you value more than yourself. For most people, that's not a lot of things, if any. (It's no wonder I'm still single after all these years.)

The word gets thrown around a lot (especially by starship captains on the make), but how often is it accurately employed? It's a common trope of art and literature that one lover would be willing to die for another, and I accept that most parents (usually) place their children's interests before their own. But how often do you meet anyone willing to lay down their lives for property? Or strangers? Or a whole society? Or chocolate? Maybe we don't encounter those people often because they don't have long lives.

Conversely, my definition of hate is disliking something enough that you're willing to destroy yourself to destroy it (also a common trope in literature, usually for villains and anti-heroes). I've used that word a lot in my life, but like my use of the word love, it has usually been an exaggeration when all I really want is a word stronger than dislike or disapprove. (Despise? Detest? Disdain?) Rationally I recognize that anything I might hate is rarely actually worth my being sacrificed for it.

Obviously, human beings are not governed by the Three Laws of Robotics, which place the priority of self-preservation dead last, meaning that by my definition, Asimovian robots have a greater capacity for love (and hate) than human beings. I don't know what Mr. Spock would have to say about that, but I'm reasonably certain that Kirk wouldn't hesitate to love a machine, assuming it had enough I/O interfaces.

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A random thought while doing the dishes: Why is unwise a word but unsmart isn't?

Unsmart does not appear in the dictionary on my desk, my trusty Webster's New Twentieth Century Dictionary Unabridged (which I still use deep into the 21st century because I don't want to grow up, I'll always be a 20th-century kid). Unwise is also nowhere to be seen in either The American Heritage Dictionary, 2nd College Edition we keep upstairs or my copy of The Official Scrabble® Players Dictionary, Second Edition. If it's not in the Scrabble® Dictionary, it's not a real word.

However, the Internet has never cared about reality. Merriam-Webster online recognizes "unsmart" as meaning exactly what you would think it means (i.e. "not smart"), but their example for how to use the word comes from the October 18, 2022 issue of Elle magazine:

Tweets swimming reports from Barton Springs pool; carries an unsmart phone so as not to be distracted by the internet; has lived in France; and read Anna Karenina in 16 hours.

So in this case unsmart means essentially landline. That's nothing like unwise (in word or deed).

Elsewhere, the online Oxford English Dictionary also has an entry for unsmart, going so far as to quote itself when it says "OED's earliest evidence for unsmart is from before 1500, in the writing of Robert Henryson, poet." Curiously, that citation is absent from the Online Etymology Dictionary, but I looked up The Complete Works of Henryson at the University of Rochester's Robbins Library and did find this in the "Prologue" of his 1480s work Fables, lines 22-25:

For as we se, ane bow that ay is bent
Worthis unsmart and dullis on the string
Sa dois the mynd that ay is diligent
In ernistfull thochtis and in studying.

As you can see, that is not English. (Henryson wrote like what he was: a Scotsman.) It's Middle English, where smart had nothing to do with intelligence but a "stinging, sharp pain." In other words, in this case unsmart is akin to relax. I wouldn't say that's unwise either.

So call someone dumb, but don't call them unsmart lest you sound stupid.

Next time: Why is uncharismatic a word but unfortitudinous isn't? Actually, wait. No, this one makes sense. Never mind.

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For reasons I won't go into (mainly: vanity), I've recently been re-reading old blog posts. What stands out the most to me is not how damn clever I am (I already knew that) but how I have a real problem typing the word "it's" when I mean "its" and vice versa.

For the record, "its" (no apostrophe) is the possessive form of the traditional gender-neutral singular pronoun, used to demonstrate ownership, as in:

The battle station is heavily shielded and carries a firepower greater than half the star fleet. Its defenses are designed around a direct large-scale assault.

Meanwhile, "it's" (with an apostrophe) is a contraction of the unpossessive, laissez-faire "it" and the present tense third-person singular being verb "is," as in:

The target area is only two meters wide. It's a small thermal exhaust port, right below the main port.

As you can see, despite the its/it's pair being one of the most common confusions in the world of English grammar, I obviously know they're two different words, and I know how they should be used in a sentence (and I've known ever since Star Wars). So why do I so often type one when I mean the other? Is it a birth defect? A mental illness? Keyboard gremlins? I wish I had a better answer than "I'm too lazy to proofread my own posts," but here we are.

Now let's blow this thing and go home.

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I'm proud to report that Wriphe.com has picked up a new reader! According to her email (subject line: "I like your blog!"), Hannah has followed me over from Boosterrific.com and has let me know that she has now read every single Wriphe.com post going back to the beginning in 2003. She might be more dedicated to this site than I am.

Obviously, after reading that much drivel, Hannah has questions. Fortunately, most of her questions are about my favorite subject: me.

Let the self aggrandizement begin!

Why did you start blogging in the first place?

Back in the day — this was before Facebook and smartphones existed, mind you — I was in art school in Athens, GA, and wanted an easy way to keep in touch with friends and family who lived across the country. I do not enjoy A) talking on the telephone or B) repeating myself. So I built a place where anyone who cared to know could come to get critical updates about whatever it was I was doing at the time. I can't say as it worked, really, as only a couple of my friends (and my mother) have ever visited regularly. I still have to answer "what have you been up to?" too often for my personal tastes.

How do you decide what to post about?

At the core, the point of everything that I do is to keep myself entertained. I am very selfish that way.

I come from the land of Lewis Grizzard. (Google him.) Grizzard made a strong impression on a lot of people; many thought he was a real bastard, but my favorite restaurant still has a menu item named after his favorite dish: brunswick stew on a pulled pork barbecue sandwich served with onion rings, I never met him personally, but my encounters with his writings during my formative years led me to believe that one of the best possible occupations was "humorist newspaper columnist." So I generally approach content at Wriphe.com as my own soapbox and diary with a goal of making it an enjoyable read in the (poorly imitated) vein of curmudgeonly satirists like Grizzard or Dave Barry or television's Stephen Colbert or Andy Rooney. (Google him too.) Quoth the Poppins: "A spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down."

When it comes to creating individual posts, I start by saying to myself, "Oh, shit! I haven't posted anything at Wriphe.com in the past two days!" I picked an every-other-day schedule because it's just often enough to keep me motivated and just long enough to let me regenerate ideas. I ask myself, "Is there anything on my mind?" Sometimes there is, and I type that. And sometimes there isn't, and I stall (or punt).

And some days people ask me a bunch of questions and I answer them.

How long does it take you to craft a blog post?

I wish I was half as clever as I like to think I am. On average, probably about thirty minutes. Honestly, it's probably longer and I just don't want to admit that publicly. Sometimes it takes a very long time, especially for the five paragraph "college admission" essays in which I want to be sure I've gotten all of my punchlines just right. Grammar matters, but so does rhythm and timing. (The core of comedy is subversion of expectations. And banana peels.)

Hannah had more questions than that, but that's a good start. I have to have something to post later, after all. These posts aren't going to blog themselves.

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