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You ever send a work email and realize you've fallen victim to the Portigal curse? You're trying to be professional, and suddenly you've invited your colleagues to a "bored meeting" instead of a "board meeting." I once sent an email about a "pubic event" instead of a "public event." Let me tell you, that's not an event you want on your calendar. The HR department wasn't amused, but the waxing salon offered to sponsor it.
I've learned my lesson. Now, before hitting send, I do a thorough Portigal check. Because if you're not careful, your career might end up in Portigal, and good luck finding a job where your resume has more typos than qualifications.
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You ever been lost in thought? I was once lost in Portigal. Yeah, not Portugal, but Portigal. It's this mystical place that only exists in the spellcheck nightmares of your smartphone. I'm typing away, trying to tell someone I'm in Portugal, and autocorrect is like, "Nah, let's take him to Portigal—sounds more exotic!" So there I am, imagining this magical land of misspelled adventures. I picture it like Narnia, but instead of a lion, there's a grammarian waiting to correct your every sentence. "You shall not pass without a semicolon!"
But seriously, I think autocorrect is messing with us. It's like having a virtual roommate who's determined to embarrass you. I try to tell my friend I'm going to the pharmacy, and suddenly, I'm going to the "pharmaceutical."
And Portigal? It sounds like a place where all your lost socks end up, partying with missing Tupperware lids. I bet they have a flag made entirely of forgotten passwords.
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I decided to go on a road trip to Portigal. Packed my bags, filled up the gas tank, and set the GPS. You know you're in for an adventure when the GPS says, "Turn left into the uncharted territory of misspelled destinations." The GPS lady, she's not helpful at all. "In 500 feet, make a U-turn and head to Portigal." I'm like, "Lady, I'm not turning my life around for a typo." But she's persistent, "Recalculating route to Portigal." It's like she's in cahoots with autocorrect.
I finally arrive, and Portigal is not what I expected. It's just a regular town with extra vowels and a peculiar love for unnecessary consonants. I asked a local for directions, and they're like, "Just follow the qwerty road, and you'll reach the center of Portigal.
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Dating is tough, right? But imagine dating someone from Portigal. First, you have to find them. "Hey, I'm at that new restaurant in Portigal." Great, now I need a passport, a compass, and maybe Gandalf to guide me through the land of typos. And the language barrier? It's not English, it's Portigalese. You're trying to communicate, and they're like, "Sorry, I only speak autocorrect." You send a sweet message, and they reply, "I love ewe too." Did they just call me a sheep?
But hey, relationships are about compromise. So, I've started adopting their language. My texts are now a mix of English, Portigalese, and a few emojis for good measure. If a picture is worth a thousand words, an emoji is worth at least three typos and a mispronunciation.
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