I have to say, in my forty-odd years of wandering about the planet and writing about the peculiar habits of its inhabitants, I thought I had encountered every conceivable form of human eccentricity. I had reckoned without Modifierville, population 3,247 (and counting methodically), where the English language has been tortured into submission and forced to do grammatical gymnastics that would make a contortionist weep.

I arrived in Modifierville quite by accident, having taken what I believed to be a shortcut through rural Iowa but which turned out to be a detour into linguistic madness. My first indication that something was amiss came when I stopped for petrol and the attendant—yes, they still have full-service stations here, which is either charmingly old-fashioned or deeply suspicious—greeted me with the words: “Good morning! How may I serve you enthusiastically today?”

Now, I’ve been greeted by petrol station attendants in many countries, and while their enthusiasm levels have varied considerably, none had ever felt compelled to modify their verb so specifically. When I simply asked him to fill it up, he looked at me with the sort of pained expression usually reserved for tourists who attempt to order fish and chips in fluent Mandarin.

“Sir,” he said patiently, “you’ll need to specify how you’d like it filled. Completely? Efficiently? Lovingly?”

I stared at him. In my travels, I have encountered communities that worship cargo planes, tribes that consider it rude to make eye contact, and entire nations that seem to believe that adding mayonnaise to everything constitutes cuisine. But never had I met anyone who required adverbial clarification for the simple act of putting petrol in a tank.

“Just… fill it up,” I said, employing what I thought was admirably clear English.

He winced visibly.

It turned out I had stumbled upon what may be the only community in the English-speaking world where the adverb has achieved complete dominance over all other forms of speech. In Modifierville, simply doing something isn’t enough—you must do it descriptively.

The local newspaper, which I picked up while my tank was being filled (grudgingly, as it happened—apparently my lack of adverbial specificity had wounded the attendant’s professional pride), contained headlines that would have sent George Orwell running frantically for his typewriter: “Local Woman Bakes Pie Triumphantly,” “Dog Barks Suspiciously at Mailman,” and my personal favorite, “Tuesday Occurs Predictably.”

I decided to stay the night, partly out of journalistic curiosity and partly because I had developed the sort of morbid fascination that makes people slow down to gawk at highway accidents. The local inn, called The Adverbial Arms, was run by a woman named Betty who greeted guests warmly, checked them in efficiently, and showed them to their rooms proudly. She spoke as if someone had replaced her internal dictionary with a thesaurus that had been left out in the rain.

“Breakfast is served punctually at seven,” she informed me helpfully. “The eggs are prepared lovingly, the bacon cooked perfectly, and the coffee brewed passionately. Will you be dining with us hopefully?”

I assured her I would be dining definitely, though I was beginning to worry about what hopefully might entail in a place where even Tuesday couldn’t simply occur without editorial comment.

The next morning, I discovered that Modifierville takes its grammatical obsessions seriously enough to have established what amounts to an Adverb Police. These are citizens who patrol the streets listening carefully for instances of unmodified speech and offer gentle corrections to offenders. I witnessed one such encounter when a visiting businessman asked simply for directions to the post office.

“Sir,” said the Adverb Patrol officer politely, “you’ll want to ask for directions specifically. Are you seeking the post office urgently? Leisurely? Nostalgically?”

The businessman, who clearly had not been briefed on local customs, stared uncomprehendingly. “I just need to mail a letter.”

“Ah,” said the officer knowingly, “just is a perfectly acceptable adverb. But you’ll want to specify how you need to mail it. Quickly? Confidentially? Dramatically?”

I later learned that the Adverb Patrol was founded by the town’s mayor, a former English teacher named Harold Pemberton, who had apparently suffered some sort of grammatical breakdown in 1987 and decided that the only way to save the English language was to ensure that every verb in his jurisdiction was properly modified. His crusade had caught on inexplicably, and within a few years, the entire town was speaking as if they were all competing in some sort of linguistic Olympics.

The local school system has been completely reorganized around what they call “Adverbial Education.” Children learn to walk carefully, speak clearly, and think critically. The high school football team, the Fighting Modifiers, practices plays with names like “The Enthusiastic Handoff” and “The Devastating End-Around.” Their cheerleaders have developed cheers that would make a linguistics professor weep openly:

“We modify loudly! We cheer proudly! Our team plays boldly! Victory comes rightly!”

I attended a town council meeting during my stay, where I observed democracy in action as interpreted by people who cannot utter a sentence without grammatical flourishes. The mayor opened the meeting ceremonially, the minutes were read meticulously, and citizens raised concerns passionately about issues ranging from potholes that needed filling immediately to street lights that were functioning inadequately.

One particularly heated debate concerned whether the town’s welcome sign should greet visitors warmly or enthusiastically. The discussion continued endlessly until a compromise was reached: the sign would welcome visitors warmly during business hours and enthusiastically on weekends.

The economic impact of this linguistic peculiarity has been surprisingly positive. Modifierville has become something of a tourist destination for grammar enthusiasts, linguistic researchers, and people who collect unusual roadside attractions. The gift shop sells t-shirts that read “I Visited Modifierville Memorably” and coffee mugs emblazoned with “World’s Most Grammatically Correct Coffee.”

Local businesses have adapted creatively to their clientele’s expectations. The hardware store advertises tools that work reliably, paint that covers thoroughly, and customer service that helps genuinely. The local restaurant promises food that’s prepared lovingly, served quickly, and priced fairly. Even the funeral home has gotten into the spirit, offering services that honor the departed respectfully and comfort the grieving compassionately.

Perhaps most remarkably, crime in Modifierville has dropped dramatically. This is partly because it’s difficult to commit crimes effectively when you feel compelled to describe your every action, and partly because the local criminals have been infected by the town’s grammatical standards. The police blotter reads like a lesson in creative writing: “Suspect entered bank sneakily, demanded money politely, and escaped apologetically.”

I spent several days wandering curiously through this linguistic wonderland, interviewing residents who spoke openlyabout their commitment to proper grammar and their belief that the world would be a better place if everyone described their actions specifically. By the time I left, I found myself unconsciously adding adverbs to my own speech, much to the considerable alarm of my wife when I called to tell her I was driving home safely.

Modifierville may be the strangest place I’ve ever visited, and given that I once spent a week in a town in Minnesota where everyone insisted on speaking in questions, that’s saying something significantly. But there’s something oddly charming about a community so committed to precision that they refuse to let a single verb escape without proper modification.

As I drove away reluctantly (the town had grown on me unexpectedly), I couldn’t help but admire their dedication to linguistic excellence, even if it did make ordering a simple cup of coffee feel like negotiating an international treaty.

Still, I think I’ll stick to places where you can ask for directions without specifying your emotional state, and where Tuesday is allowed to occur without editorial commentary. Some things, I believe, are better left simply stated.

Addendum: A Most Peculiar Disappearance

I was preparing to submit this piece to my publisher when I received a phone call that left me profoundly unsettled. It was from my editor, who had been fact-checking my article and had made what can only be described as a disturbingdiscovery.

“Bill,” she said, in the sort of carefully controlled voice that editors use when they’ve discovered their writers have been making things up, “I’ve been trying to verify some details about this Modifierville place. Are you quite certain it exists?”

Of course I was certain. I had photographs, receipts from The Adverbial Arms, and a coffee mug that proclaimed “World’s Most Grammatically Correct Coffee.” I had even kept a copy of The Daily Modifier with the headline “Tuesday Occurs Predictably“—surely the sort of thing one couldn’t simply invent.

But when I checked my files, I found something deeply puzzling. The photographs were there, but they showed only empty fields. The receipts existed, but they were from establishments in nearby towns that I distinctly remembered driving past on my way to Modifierville. Most unsettling of all, my copy of The Daily Modifier had somehow transformed itself into a perfectly ordinary issue of the Cedar Rapids Gazette.

Naturally, I drove back to Iowa immediately. I followed the same route I had taken months earlier, turning off the main highway at what I was absolutely certain was the correct exit. But instead of the charming downtown district where Betty had served breakfast lovingly and the Adverb Patrol had corrected visitors gently, I found only an empty field with a small historical marker that read: “Site of Modifierville, 1847-1923. Town abandoned following the Great Grammar Dispute.”

I stood there for quite some time, staring perplexedly at the marker and trying to reconcile what I was seeing with what I clearly remembered. According to the historical society, Modifierville had been a perfectly ordinary Iowa farming community that had died out in the 1920s when the railroad bypassed it. There was no mention of adverbial obsessions, no record of Mayor Harold Pemberton, and certainly no evidence of a community that had collectively decided to modify every verb in the English language.

I spent the better part of a week investigating thoroughly. I contacted the Iowa Department of Transportation, which had no record of the exit I had taken. I called the phone number for The Adverbial Arms, which turned out to belong to a pizza restaurant in Des Moines whose employees looked at me strangely when I asked about a woman named Betty who described breakfast passionately.

The most unsettling discovery came when I tried to find other visitors who might have stumbled upon this linguistic wonderland. Despite Modifierville’s supposed reputation as a tourist destination for grammar enthusiasts, I could find no trace of anyone else who had ever been there. No reviews online, no mention in travel guides, no photographs posted by other bemused travelers.

I began to wonder if I had suffered some sort of breakdown, perhaps brought on by too many years of writing about the peculiar habits of ordinary places. Had I simply imagined an entire town of people who spoke exclusively in modified verbs? It seemed impossible, yet I could find no other explanation.

Then, last week, I received a package with no return address. Inside was a single item: a coffee mug emblazoned with “World’s Most Grammatically Correct Coffee.” The same mug I remembered purchasing, the same mug that had mysteriously vanished from my files along with all the other evidence of my visit.

Attached was a note, written in handwriting I didn’t recognize: “Some places exist temporarily. Some stories demand careful telling. Some towns disappear necessarily when their purpose is fulfilled completely. Thank you for visiting us memorably. —The Citizens of Modifierville”

I have no idea what to make of this. I am, by nature and profession, a rational person who believes in verifiable facts and documentary evidence. Yet I cannot shake the feeling that I have stumbled upon something genuinely extraordinary—a place that existed just long enough to remind the world that language, like everything else, should be treated with proper respect and abundant care.

Whether Modifierville was real or imagined, whether it disappeared mysteriously or never existed actually, I find myself continuing to speak carefully, choosing my words deliberately, and adding the occasional adverb when the situation seems to demand it appropriately.

After all, some experiences change you permanently, whether they happened literally or not.

And if you should happen to find yourself driving through rural Iowa and spot a sign welcoming you warmly to a town that takes its grammar seriously, I’d be enormously grateful if you’d let me know. I have some questions I’d like to ask specifically, and a story I’d like to verify thoroughly.