A language virus, rampant in our culture, may not be deadly, but it fogs the mind and conveys a meaning contrary to what a writer intends.
Flash back to almost two weeks ago, when the top story in the national news was the car crash that almost cost Tiger Woods his life. His car went out of control, left the road and rolled over, leaving him trapped inside the wreckage.
Now consider this sentence, delivered by a veteran reporter for the flagship newscast of a major TV network:
"Showing no signs of impairment, firefighters used an ax to extract him."
That sentence says firefighters showed no signs of impairment.
In fact, the sheriff said it was Woods who showed no signs of impairment, meaning that he appeared to have neither alcohol nor drugs in his system.
How did the reporter create this confusion? By compressing two distinct facts — Woods' non-impairment and firefighters' freeing him from the car.
The reporter knew what he meant to say, but he (and his editor, if he had one) did not make sure that the sentence said what it meant.