Egads. I will not be bested by the snickering post below. Schplogosphere be damned. The madness must cease.
1. Gratuitous
2. Poltroon
3. Effervescent
4. Toga
5. Masticate
6. Gaudy
7. Smorgasbord
8. Pontificate
9. Refurbish
10. Fizzle
Did you hear that Barbra Streisand is ditching her singing career to become a stand-up comic? Apparently she’s going through a funny phase.
The thing with the cavemen is that they resisted change. Or rather, they just weren’t into having it happen very quickly. Understandably. Who can blame a tired ancestor for just plodding along about his daily business, bumbling about in his mediocre way, hoping that things would somehow kind of turn out okay? That was, in a nutshell, the life of Meanderthal Man.
I always think of ratatouille as a simple French country dish with a bit of hearty Italian-ness thrown in. I’m always wondering how that happened. Actually, I don’t wonder about it at all, but to graduate from culinary school I had to write a paper for my course on Meta and Meme: Origins within Orange Peels and the Cross-Cultural Cultivation of Dish Discourse.
My advisor, Dr. Charles Fox, chastised me for using the phrase “lasagne-like”, but he pointed out that Italian and French may well have merged to form something utterly new. Cultural mingling across national borders, and all that. When it comes down to it, people just end up meeting. One thing leads to another and pretty soon they’re already exchanging peasantries.
I’m not generally crazy about going to visit my mother’s sister, even though she’s super nice and always gives us great presents. But she’s also old fashioned and eccentric and it’s a pain to get there because she lives way up in the mountains with a managerie of animals that she spoils rotten. Not to mention all the creepy things she hasn’t adopted.
Once on the way to visit her my brother was bitten by a rattlesnake. Course he got lucky because it turns out that she was the only thing that could have saved him. Auntie Bertha took him in and made a special tea, tucked him into bed and baked him his favorite cookies. Nothing cures a poison like the auntie dote.
My poor neighbor. Ever since his wife left him and his novel was rejected he’s gotten involved in some really bizarre forms of S&M. It got to the point that he actually hired a dominatrix to mock him and throw dirt at his buttocks while reading his erotic writings back to him and, of course, mocking him. She mocks and throws dirt, mocks and throws dirt. It’s crazy.
Now he’s callling himself the Mockee d’Sod. Totally embarassing.
Wow, Schlinky. I was really moved by your sad yurt-related break-up story. That’s rough, man.
Of course now they’re getting kind of passe anyway now that everyone in the pacific northwest has a yurt in their backyard. Good grief, who ever thought that a semi-portable, cloth-covered, wood-framed home would become a yuppie trend?
My buddy Jim D. was saying the other day that nowadays having a big ole tent/sauna/meditation room in your backyard is pretty much the same as owning an SUV.
I was like, yurt telling me.
Which knight of the round table discovered quite by chance the delight of soft serve ice cream coated in a chocolate shell?
Sir End Dippity
Thwork (v.)
The aggressive act of suddenly and subtlely righting and redirecting the pedestrian path of one’s partner while perambulating, preferably along the periphery of a promenade.
