Tuesday, December 29, 2009
1. Capable of being extended or shaped by beating with a hammer or by the pressure of rollers.
2. Capable of being altered or controlled by outside forces or influences
My cookie dough refused to become malleable so I kicked my grandmother in the face.
Talk about bad marketing. The definition of this word promises violence, corruption, mind control and possibly bad 80's hairstyles. I mean, what do you think of when you hear the phrases, beating with a hammer, or controlled by outside influences? Personally I think of High School, made for TV movie's about teen violence, cult influences and Looney Toon characters being murdered in humorous ways. When I first read the definition of this word, I thought, "Well this ought to be good."
But no. This word is used mainly for metal work, welding, plumbing and occasionally jewelry crafting.
The beating with a hammer aspect leans more towards how to make a piece of metal into the shape of a swan and less towards, how to kill a man in two blows or less using common household tools. I have not been this dissipointed since that day I was told I was not adopted.
This word is like buying a DVD called Hot Young Sluts Take it in the Butt and receiving a children's book about caterpillars becoming butterfly's, much to your child's disappointment. Or people who use the words curvy or voluptuous when they really mean obese with heart problems, frequently requiring wheelchair access.
Worse yet, the example sentence that Merriam Webster provided me with was, "Grandma took the cookie dough out of the refrigerator and allowed it to soften to a consistency that was firm yet malleable."
And after that build up we don't even get to see a crotch shot? Merriam Webster is a cock tease and I'm going to rape her one day if she's isn't careful. Probably at 2:00.
* P.S. This is what part of the alphabet would look like if Q and R were eliminated.
* P.P.S. If you don't get the 2:00, you get raped reference, I'm not sure if we can be friends.
Monday, September 7, 2009
MEANING: Something extraordinary: humdinger
Example Sentence: If I participated in something ripsnorter, I certainly would not talk about it.
This word does not fit it's definition. It's like a large, prison tattooed, bounty hunter with mother issues named Daisy. If a cop came up to me and asked if I was did something ripsnorter, I would immediately nod and put my hands forward so it would be easier to cuff me. Sometimes I feel like definitions are created by some dude named Chip randomly throwing darts at a billboard of new words.
"Well, Ripsnorter it is."
"Do you want to try again Chip? I don't feel like it fits."
"Nah, my wrist hurts."
"Ok, next definition...um, a good person who does things without wanting credit for their good deeds."
"I don't have my glasses on, what did it land on?"
"Good work Chip, it's 4:00 PM you can clock out now."
Sometimes I feel like my preposterous name was created in just such a fashion. I was born, a dart was thrown and because my parents had bad aim I was named Eugenia Miriam Borkowski. If my parents were basketball players I would be named Wamp Pow Pop Awesome, which is what people who are close to me are hereby instructed to call me. Take note, one person who can touch me without me screaming.
However, it is a good thing that my parents were left handed because the names Eugenia and Miriam and Borkowski were, coincidentally right on the boarder of the names Adolf Fucking Hitler, which would probably make it EVEN harder for me to make friends. Although Fucking Hilter Adolf is a kind of cool name. FHA has a nice ring to it.
* For some reason when I typed ripsnorter into Google Image the images that came up consisted primarily of dogs so I opted to put up a picture of my parents on the night I was conceived instead. On a lighter note if you google image hot anal sex a picture of the actress Anne Hathaway comes up, right after a photo of me. It's so appropriate that it's inappropriate.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
1. : extravagant exaggeration
I once called in sick to work saying that I woke up and couldn't feel my legs, despite what people think, I swear it was not purely hyperbole.
I am both an intensely good liar and a very bad liar. The good part comes from the fact that I know how much you should exaggerate to make a story good and the bad part being that when people hear my grossly exaggerated stories that take them with a grain of salt.
The problem with my aptitude to exaggeration is that occasionally insane things DO actually happen to me; the spider in my bathroom WAS as big as my hand, the man DID have a birthmark on his forehead that looked exactly like a swastika, the man who broke into the building WAS wearing a Santa Claus outfit. But because of my reputation, in the minds of my family and friends, the man who broke in was simply wearing white pants and a red coca cola tee-shirt, the birthmark was a mole the size of the top of a pin and there was never any spider.
It's a difficult cross to bear and therefore from here on out I'm going to under exaggerate everything that happens to me in an attempt to counteract the curse. I may come home covered in blood with cigarette burns on my face and no shoes and instead of telling you the GODDAMN HILARIOUS tale of being initiated into a gang I will simply say, "Nothing, I ate a sandwich, it was okay."
You see what you are robbing yourself of? Joy. Entertainment. Excitement. A momentary escape from a meaningless existence where, for a fleeting moment, you are transported to a fantastic realm, where reality is just another word for boredom and everything is a little bigger, a little brighter and a little more fantastic than what actually happened because what actually happened would be hardly noteworthy.
Actually, I just have nothing exciting to relay.
Monday, July 20, 2009
MEANING: 1. A person who idolizes Shakespeare
EXAMPLE SENTENCE: If you fancy yourself a bardolater it's best to also have something tough to back it up with, like, "And I also collect machine guns."
I'm a bardolater. Except for instead of Shakespeare, it's booze and instead of a idolization it's more like an quirky personality trait or a funny habit or as my therapist said right before I fired her, "A sick addiction that must stop immediately if I want to live past the age of 26," Judgmental anyone?
Actually I know a lot about Shakespeare, or Shaky-Shakes as I call him in private. I know that he was a pretty good writer but lacked the biting humor that greater writers such as myself possess. I've heard rumors that he was bisexual and more over I have proof of it. I knew that his neighbors often complained about his loud music and that he rarely washed his pants. I also once took a Shakespeare class where we were required to "translate" his sonnets into modern day lamens terms. It was in Community College, ok? For example the teacher would say,
"But be contented when that fell arrest,
Without all bail shall carry me away,
My life hath in this line some interest,
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay."
And Tyrone would scream from the back of the room,
"Mutherfucking Shakespeare was arrested, yo."
Tyrone was the smartest person in the class, by far. I thought the sonnet was about falling asleep on a hay bale.
In fact if you want to know anything else about Shakespeare, you should probably just ask him, I’m done with this gay literary bullshit, I’m gonna go watch reality TV and really learn something.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
1. not to be persuaded, moved, or stopped
No matter how good you are at tennis a wall will always beat you, those fuckers are inexorable.*
This attribute, in my opinion is something that you are born with, not something you can cultivate or hone. I am certifiably not inexorable. I can be persuaded, moved or stopped with the promise of a cookie. In fact, I can do two at once, I'll move and stop at the exact same time and BLOW YOUR FUCKING MIND.
I once was persuaded to go to the New Jersey Ikea at 8:30 in the morning after throwing up all evening from a very rare and romantic illness (booze and drugs). I put up a fight at first. Put my foot down in a very real, strong way by calmly and confidently saying, "Uh, do I have to?" And when I was told that I did have to I didn't take it laying down, no sir-e. I waiting until the person in question had turned around and then I flipped them the bird. AND I also proceeded to mumble under my breath, "One day I'm gonna murder you." to which my needy friend said, "What did you say?" and I stammered, "We should get...a...mirror...too." And then just to stick it to the man, I threw up in a 19.99 steel polished trashcan shaped like an elephant in an Ikea showroom.
You see how I did that? That's called standing up for yourself folks.
It's not that I'm a push over it's just that I'm usually so drunk that my equilibrium is off and it's literally REALLY easy to push....me...over. When I'm sober it's a little harder, you have to have a running start and distract me by saying, "Look an polar bear!" before you come charging at my poor defenseless person.
The interesting thing about this affliction is that people who lack an inexorable demeanor usually become serial killers, or go on shooting spree's, or say really mean things behind your back. That's why neighbors of vicious serial killers in the news always are quoted saying, "He was such a nice guy, quiet, polite...he helped me take me trash in alot and once he even came to Ikea with me even though he was sick!" You rarely hear them say something to the effect of, "Well of course we knew this was coming, he was a boorish bully, totally stubborn and mean spirited, a total serial killer in the making. Nobody is surprised."
It's what my sister would call a quiet storm.
The moral of this short bedtime story being, don't make your friends go to Ikea, sick or not. Because they will end up stuffing a rag filled with chloroform into your mouth, putting you into a plastic trash bag, chopping up your body with a ax and stuffing you in their freezer all the while smiling and offering to help their neighbors take in their trash cans. Either that or they will say something really mean about you behind your back, which to me is way ruder.
*A spin of of a Mitch Hedberg joke. If you do not know him, your life has been wasted.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Dear Freakishly Die Hard Fan (s),
I would like to express my completely insincere and forced apology for my lack of diligence with this blog. Normally, I would blame it on the fact that I am really fucking busy. Like, seriously, really busy. But in this case, I was moving all week. Remember that dude ,who created the earth and the universe and glorious things like puppies and rocks...in like six days and then had to crash on Sunday cause he was so tired. Well, I'm a lot like him, but craftier, nicer, more attractive and more important and obviously way busier.
So, to my millions (three) of die hard (bored) fans (family members) who wake up every day on the brink of suicidal depression and look to me as their one and only source of comfort and warmth in this cold, faceless, foreboding world. I'm sorry I let you down. Thanks to all of you for your letters of concern and the fancy cars you bought me and the many packages filled with cocaine and cash, that was really sweet and I appreciate your bribes and more importantly I accept them. So, no more lallygagging. I'm back bitches. Until I have something more important to do, or someone cooler to hang out with, or am tired or hungry or in a bad mood, or a mood too good to be shared and if there's nothing good on TV--you can count on me. I will be there for you, seekers of knowledge, 9% of the time.
And if I become lazy again with my posts, just keep sending me bribes. They really work!
Monday, June 29, 2009
1. a fear of imperfection, defects
If atelophobia is wrong, baby I don't want to be right.
Yeah, I get this. I myself have never known what it's like to not be completely perfect. I get up every morning and go look in the mirror, searching desperately for some flaw to have manifested in my perfectly shaped features, my chiseled jawline, my perfectly defined brow. But goddammit I always just see the same Greek God standing before me, perfection to it's core. Some mornings I even appear to be glowing, and yesterday for some reason I realized that my hair had turned into pure gold.
So I think, OK, that's fine I can deal with being physically godlike, as long as there is some flaw in my character or personality, my opinions or intelligence then I can rest easy. So I search and search and search and still I find nothing. My wit is sharp, I have an IQ of 189. My political views are fair and balanced, perfecting tittering on the brink of what is right and good and moral and smart. I always say the right thing. I win every contest I enter, every endeavor I attempt is successful, every word uttered from my perfectly shaped mouth, divine. My oatmeal is always perfectly cooked, my hair does not have split ends and rumor has it that Aphrodite brought in a picture of me to her plastic surgeon when she got her nose done.
It's not that I fear you mortals with your issues and your acne and your horrible human attributes, it's just that I don't understand you. And I feel like I give and give to you specimens of flaws you just take and take and take from me.
"Eugenia, I have polio, touch me so I can be cured."
"Eugenia make this water into wine."
"Eugenia come hang out with me so I can know what Heaven is like."
And if one more of you falls to the ground weeping as I pass you, desperately trying to touch the hem of my garment, I'm gonna lose it. You people just have no boundaries. Did I give you permission to touch my wings, little blind girl with the horrible red birthmark shaped like India on your face? No, I did not.
So I suppose I have developed a slight phobia about the epidemic of rampant imperfection that seems to affect everyone but me. Can you blame me? Maybe you people should stop being so envious and needy and try and put yourself in my diamond studded perfect size 7.5 shoes for a second. Not as easy as it looks eh?
On an end note, if you crazy lunatics try to touch me again my bodyguard Sven will put you in a headlock, because unlike me--who has never known what anger is like and can remain clam and poised in the worst of situations, Sven has issues with rage and has no qualms with killing or physical annihilation. Just ask his wife and kids, oh wait you can't: they're dead.
Friday, June 26, 2009
1. A poem in which shepherds converse.
This time children, try to write an eclogue that does not contain bestiality.
To reiterate, that's what the word used to mean, now it's more informal and you can call a poem that involves a duck and cup of tap water an eclogue as long as they converse. A rhyming diddly where two bums talk about cheese? Eclogue. A ten page poem where two stoners say dude to each other over and over again. Eclogue.
That's just so sad. Yet another example of a word who can't just be itself, who has to change in order to be accepted. I for one was perfectly happy when eclogue meant a poem in which shepherds converse but clearly it was insulted at one point and felt the need to reassess it's life, rethink it's priorities and sadly reinvent it's old image so that the world would accept it.
Eclogue probably went to it's high school reunion and the word it used to get a boner for in high school was there with some guy who used to be on the debate team and weigh 98 lbs but later started taking steroids and bleaching his hair and turned into douche who wears promotional Corona sunglasses on the back of his head, thinking it would land him more chicks.
And those two douches were like, "So what are you doing with your life now Eclogue?" And the poor word was too embarrassed to say that he still was a poem about shepherds talking just like he was in high school so he lied and told everyone that he has grown as a word and expanded and now meant pretty much anything.
Did he get the girl? No, of course not. Because girls don't like anyone who changes and grows and expands their personal definition. Girls like emotionally stunted, immature losers who will verbally abuse them and borrow money from them to pay for their band's practice space.
And that ladies and gentleman is the moral of this little story. Don't change, don't grow and certainly don't redefine yourself. And if you're in a band and want to borrow money from me in exchange for occasional drunken sub par sexual encounters that neither of us will remember...call me.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
1: any eellike, marine cyclostome of the order Myxiniformes, having undeveloped eyes, a barbel-rimmed, circular mouth, and horny teeth for boring into the flesh of fishes to feed on their interior parts.
My body dysmorphic disorder makes me think my chiseled features and rock hard abs are more akin to a hag-fish then the world renowned supermodel that I am.
This word, apart from it's highly amusing definition, serves me with a kick ass insult which I will now pepper my already boorish vocabulary with. I am constantly looking for combination's of words which encapsulate the rage I want to unleash upon the person/subway system/poorly made sandwich they are directed at: but because of my lack of innovation I always end up saying, cock-sucking, muther-cunting ass-fucker, or stupid fat meanie instead of the articulate insult I wish I could come up with. Now I see the error of my ways and will substitute these cliche excuses to say,"Pardon my french" with....Hag fish.
Yeah, I'm talking to you, the subway agent who would not return my glorious gold one dollar coin after it got eaten by your machine. You are no longer a depressed, unsympathetic idiot with an uncommonly large head, you can now go home and tell your family that some white girl called you a Hag-fish.
And to the cab driver who "didn't have any change" and forced me to forfeit my two dollars after giving you a $20.00 for a $16.00 dollar ride. I'm sorry I said that you should go back to your own country and I apologize for saying that your wife has a mustache. What I meant to say is that you both are Hag-fishes and you both have mustaches.
Last but not least, to the little kid on the subway today who meant to throw a Cheeto at your friend next to me but hit me in the face instead with that greasy bit of cardiac arrest inducing filth? Well, it was delicious, but I would have preferred if it was made of Hag-Fish.
P.s. I dare you to not think of an angry vagina if you look up images of an actual hag-fish. So, maybe we should put the word pussy on hiatus, let it nap for awhile and substitute the word hag fish instead.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
1. A large tomb, usually an ornate stone building.
Even after death I will be superior to you, my mausoleum will be bigger and shiner and encrusted with diamonds, yours will be lame and ugly.
I always thought that I wanted to be cremated. I imagined a gala of darkly clad weeping loved ones throwing my remains into a large body of water and after deciding that was not dramatic enough, agreeing that the only way to fully tribute my memory is to set themselves on fire and die with me. In my mind this event is publicized world wide and there would be a moment where every single person in the world would simultaneously fall to their knee's, reach there arms to the sky and scream, "WHY??? WHY? Take me instead!"
Now, although this is a very realistic scenario, I just gave it some really deep thought (for 15 seconds) and decided that in additional to all of that, I want a mausoleum constructed in my honor. I want guards standing watch at all times. Actually, a bouncer named Bubu will do. He will be there to check ID's because my grave may look like a depressing tomb from the outside but on the inside it will be a CRAZY disco! So, you'll have to be 21 to enter, obviously. Or you can try to bribe Bubu, but he only accepts hand jobs and self help books, so don't embarrass yourself by trying to pass him a 20.
Are you kind of hoping I die tomorrow so this magical place becomes a reality immediately? Well tough luck folks, cause I went to a witch doctor this morning and she said that Dead Eugenia Disco will not be opening until 2075.
Deal with it.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Baroque; lavish; over-the-top.
Call me crazy, but I find these outfits a bit churrigueresque.
Well of course this word means "lavish" and "over the top". That's like naming your dog Sickem' and the being upset when he bites you. Or named your daughter TeenageSlut LikesIt InTheButt and being heartbroken when she becomes a porn star. I find it very doubtful that there was not a simpler spelling for this word. Was churrig already taken? Nope, I just checked churrig is totally free.
This type of word makes me think that whoever is in charge of creating words (who is in charge of making up words, by the way...can I be in charge?) got food poisoning and had to call in for a reinforcement. But then the reinforcment's grandmother died so they has to call a sub. But then the sub had to go to the vet to put it's hamster to sleep so he called a temp. But the temp attempted to kill himself the night before because he discovered that The Neverending Story was not a documentary so he had to call his cousin Louie was totally free cause Louis is a loser who never does shit. Louis dropped out of 3rd grade because it was too stressful and now he sits on the couch all day playing with himself and smoking pot from a bong shaped like Beavis and Butthead.
So thanks Louis for words like Churrigueresque, you were obviously just trying to order a churrio from a Mexican woman but you were slurring too bad from all the whipits you were doing and messed everything up. You were responsible for this piece of shit too, huh? And I have it on good authority that you also invented the word, awesome.
Also Louis, you look ridiculous wearing a sheet as a superhero cape, and your balls are falling out of your boxer shorts. Get a grip man, you're 39 years old.
Search Engine Submission - AddMe
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
1. A cricket or grasshopper.
2. A small or young eel.
3. A lively or lighthearted person.
This Prozac makes me as merry as a grig.
This word is clearly having an identity crisis. And it's bullshit because this epidemic may spread. Soon other words will take heed of the precarious nature of this word and feel like they too have the right to attach numerous meanings to their old meaning just to screw with our heads. Chaos will ensue.
Can you imagine if the word sandwich meant a tasty layered snack AND a neon green bowling ball AND and invitation for anal sex? Why not take a word like love and attach an alternative meaning to it like,
1: a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.
2: The intent to kill a person with no warning; usually involving ice picks, blunt objects or sawed off shotguns.
That way when someone says I love you, you can say I love you too, even if you really want them to die.
My mother told me than when she was living in South Korea and trying learn Korean she would accidentally ask people for sex when she meant to ask them for soup because the words were exactly the same and she would put the emphasis on the wrong syllable.
Well that's all fine and dandy but that's why I don't live in KOREA, I live in AMERICA where everything is perfect and beautiful and each thing has has its very own word. But then grig had to come along and fuck everything up for me. Well I'm not going to take this sitting down. I'm going to make up three new words for baby eel, grasshopper, and cricket.
From here on out a baby eel will be called a baeel. A grasshopper will be called yummmmcrunch, and a cricket will be called a....um, uh. Fine it will be called an um-uh.
Got it? Good.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
1. Of illegitimate birth
2. Not genuine: false
Just because 95 percent of my memoir "never actually happened" does not give Oprah Winfrey the right to call it spurious.
My mother used to call me a "storyteller" which is a much nicer word, in my opinion, than liar. A storyteller is someone who wraps you in a mohair blanket and snuggles next to you by the fire, relaying tales of unsung hero's who save little (Caucasian) kittens from burning buildings. Where as liars tell you that cats cannot understand English and care not if you rescue them or let them go to kitty hell.
Story tellers lull you to sleep with tales of little (Caucasian) girls confined to wheelchairs---who, because of the power of love--stood up on her own two legs (with a Journey song playing in the background, obviously) and went on to win the Olympics for long jump. On the other hand liars will tell you that they once had a friend who had MS and she died, not from her disease, but because she lied about what she had for breakfast and the Lord struck her down.
I have always been of the opinion that reality is sweeter with a little bit of sugar involved; you can replace the word sugar with ignorance or gullibility or whatever your pathetic fad diet accepts but honestly isn't life so much sweeter when you believed anything is possible? When you are sweet and naive and susceptible to everything and oblivious to the dangers which engulf everything from your tap water to your daily commute?
Yes, unicorns don't exist and the concept of something as magical as a horse with an added super power of a ummmm....horn, is beyond our frame of what can exist in reality. Because, seriously if we all believed in the possibility of adding a pointy, permanent weapond to our person, the world would fucking EXPLODE. Cause if it's a permanent attribute, you can't have a law against having it. That why penises are still legal right?
I guess my point is that I believe in honesty when it's important but when it's not why not substitute importance for utter entertainment and the art of lifting spirits? Why not tell your manic dinner mate that you saw a woman lift a disheveled car off of her crushed pittbull with one finger while blowing the biggest bubble gum bubble EVER...instead of saying...the truth...that you saw a sad woman with a pittbull almost get hit by a car but she didn't...and then you got a cup of coffee and they put sugar in it even though you told them you were diabetic. Bor-ing!
If you can give your pathetic friends a moment of hope or something which entertains or inspires them, then why not? I believe in photo shopping my stories in order to make them more entertaining, easier to swallow and in the end, easier to digest. I guess if I had kids I would puree their vegetables and put them into cupcakes, understand?
Which reminds me...today I saw a pink elephant getting evicted from his apartment and he was getting tasored by a bunch of exotic white tigers....but at the last moment the elephant put on a multi-colored tutu and started playing Claire de lune on his magic harmonica's and all the tigers put down their tasor guns and joined hands and....
Never mind. Fuck it. You don't give a shit.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
1. Marked by or suggestive of high spirits and lively mirthfulness
It's odd how your sour temperament can naturally turn to a joncund state of mind after three scotches, two xanax and a partial lobotomy.
People who are in a good mood always like to shove it in your face. Like people who just got laid for the first time in nine years who walk around town whistling and giving out unnecessary compliments, like they are in some 1950's musical and are just waiting for someone to hand them an umbrella so they can levitate into the fog and do some complicated dance number on top of the electrical lines.
"What a glorious day, the world is filled with possibilities. The sun is shining, here have five dollars, you're beautiful. La-la-la-la. "
The other day I was half asleep making my way out of the subway. I was late for work and had just been stuck in the tunnel for 10 minutes wedged next to a man eating McDonald's for breakfast and a mariachi band listening to the conductor say what amounted to, "Lageries and gentalzeen, we arrre fuccccckkeeeed, and I'm too tiaaared to expllllayn whyyy. BLAH!"
As I exited the train, a man rushing down the steps bumped into me and spilled coffee on my jeans and half my arm and in my effort to clean myself up I accidentally spilled the contents of half my bag onto the damp, filthy sidewalk. As I struggled to regain my composure, a look of completely merited irritation on my face; a man, wearing a purple Jansport backpack heavy with Green party political buttons, John Lennon sunglasses and what I'm pretty sure was a handmade hemp necklace passed me and said, "You should smile more, or your face will get stuck like that."
Call me crazy, but unless you are walking with someone who is goddamn hilarious, you are recently in love or you are listening to a witty podcast on your iPod, walking around the streets of New York smiling at strangers is creepy, desperate and just plain irritating. I always imagine that those weird people who walk around grinning like fools are either thrilled that their new anti-depressant seems to finally be working, or they have just killed someone and are overcompensating.
Granted I have those moments when I'm playing hooky from something and the sun is out and Maggie May just came on my iPod and I'm having a good hair day and my anti-depressants are finally working and I just killed someone and got away with it. And I feel happy, jocund even. And I want to tell everyone they are beautiful and give everyone five dollars. But I don't, because I have tact and self control and I don't feel the need to remind everyone that I am happy and they are miserable.
I'm pretty sure that's how you get punched in the face.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
1. A large-scale slaughter
It is recommended to start out with a few small-scale slaughters before trying your hand and a hecatomb.
There's really nothing I love more than ritual animal sacrifice. Especially when it is done in the name of keeping the God's "happy".
There is an image in my head which I equate to figures like Santa Clause, The Lord and most Greek God's. The image is of a large obese man, balding slightly, a wife beater stained with barbecue sauce stretched over a large distended stomach. This man wears flip flops and unzipped cut off shorts. He sits in a reclining sofa chair and drinks beer all day, crushing each can against his forehead when finished and chucking the deflated cans at the feral cats which swarm about his house.
Occasionally a little winged servant will nervously knock on the screen door and ask the slurring belligerent God if there is anything that us mere morals could do to make his rage stop and bring peace to the earth. To this the nearly unconscious God would grunt, scratch his stomach and burp loudly before yelling,
"Shit man, I don't know. Make 'em kill a bunch of fucking cows or some shit."
The trembling winged servant will bow and politely ask how many cows or some shit had to be slaughtered to keep him happy.
And to that the gracious God would scratch his balls and say,
"You best kill a lot of mutherfucking bovine or I'm gonna be fucking pissssssssed, mutherfucker."
And thus a lot of motherfucking cows were hacked up and peace on earth was restored, chaos was kept at bay and there was much rejoicing.
“For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him.”- John 3:17
Dear Merriam Webster,
Remember last week when I came home at 5 am smelling like sin, immediately took a shower and wouldn't look you in the eye? You asked me if there was someone else and I pretended to have a seizure so I didn't have to answer you? Remember when you came home early from work and caught me looking at a different word of the day website and my face turned red and I made up some excuse about it just being a pop up ad?
It wasn't a pop up ad my dear Webster, and there is someone else. I didn't mean for this to happen, I was perfectly happy with your words, I love your audio pronunciation and your Did You Know? section introduced me to more Latin word origins than I ever thought possible. But I need more. We started out so strong. We met, we hit it off, I gave you my e-mail address and you gave me words like Lickerish and Hachury. But it just seems like you don't care about me anymore, a few days ago you were so drunk you didn't even get out of bed all day and when I demanded you give me a word you mumbled the word posture and threw up. Posture? Then today I wake up determined to make it work with you and what word do you give me? Philadelphia Lawyer. I feel like you're not even trying to make this work.
I just want you to know that until this morning, nothing happened with me and dictionary.com. Sure, I thought about it, but I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt. But today something happened, I gave dictionary.com my e-mail address. He hasn't even written me a confirmation e-mail yet so who knows what will happen. But I did, and I want to be honest with you, it felt damn good pressing that subscribe button.
I don't want to end it with you, I just want to have choices ok? I still want to be friends and I occasionally still want to enjoy your words I just want the choice to have other words too. Does that make sense?
Sunday, May 24, 2009
1: lacking something needed or desirable
2: Lacking possessions and resources; especially : suffering extreme poverty
When you feel lost and destitute, just remember that one day you are going to die.
Occasionally I like to pretend I am in a soap opera. But one that is set in the 1910's and involves women sending telegrams to their thwarted lovers who may or may not be in a coma. Plus, diseases like cholera and scarlet fever are a much more romantic way of death than say....heroin overdose or terrorist attack.
And that fact that people in those days used to die of a broken heart makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. Especially when that fact was stated in their obituary. "George Upskirt, after thirty years of marriage died of a broken heart when his beloved forgot he was allergic to peaches." Where as now a days nobody dies of broken heart, they die of stupidity or drug induced seizures after their heart is broken.
"Paul Smith died expectantly, after trying to prove that he was not gay to his girlfriend of six years, by having marathon sex with 34 strippers. He is survived by almost everyone."
So, occasionally when I've been watching too many poorly adapted Bronte movies, I like to pepper my phrases with a list of words which make me feel like a character in Jane Austin novel. Destitute is a word which is high on that list.
I don't understand people who don't love language and who choose to use words like, broke or upset when there are words like destitute. Why would you say, "I can't go to the beach today cause I lost my wallet last night and I have no credit cards or money till Monday."
When you could say,
"The waves must wait for me till the morrow due to a folly on the part of yours truly which left me in a dire state of utter destitution."
Right? Um, I mean, doth my vindication fall on deaf ears?
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
As in, "No you idiot, your other deasil."
According to ancient Scottish custom you can bring someone good luck by walking clockwise around them three times while carrying a torch or a candle. In a pinch a cigarette or a match will probably work, but try and use a glow stick and you will be in a world of pain. The direction one walks in, in this custom is called deasil.
Does it make we weird that I kind of want to go buy a tourch and make this my new "thing". To the point where when people associate me with it, as in, "Oh Eugenia? Is that the girl that's always walking around people with a touch?"
As I child I cultivated a completely forced form of OCD in order to get things I wanted.. I would tell myself that if I held my breath for a minute in a half and then doused my head in water while chewing a stick of peppermint gum, my mother would buy me an ice cream cone. Or that if I could succeed in not scratching the itch on the tip of my nose for five miuntes, then I wouldn't have to go to school the next day.
For a brief period of time I was obsessed with filliping my house over and walking on the celings. I would lie for hours with my head falling over the back of the couch imagining what a thrill it would be to sit next to my light fixtures and see my furniture and belongings secured to my celing. This became the fixation with my OCD. I would tell myself that if I said the alphebet backwards before I got on my school bus I would go home to find my house flipped over and I could finally be at peace. It may come as a surprise to you, that my spells never worked. But maybe i jusy never found the right spell. Or as it were, the right ancient custom made to bring good luck to some and flip over the houses of others.
Now, all I have to do is find a friend with too much time on their hands, figure out how to make and old fashioned torch and put the number to my local Fire Department in my speed dial.
Well, at least I know what my plans are for the next six to seven hours. God Speed.
Monday, May 18, 2009
1 : Inordinate desire for wealth : avarice, greed 2 : Strong desire : lust
At least I'm in good company when I am basking in the shallow pool of my own cupidity.
Ah, anything with a deadly sin in the definition is bound to be something we all can releate to. Merriam-Webster felt the need to inform me that the root of this word is Cupid, as if I didn't already make that conclusion.
Initially I thought it was mean spirited that this word had to come out of the wood works and tarnish the reputation of sweet, naked, good natured little Cupid. But the more I though about it, the more I've come to the conclusion that Cupid had it coming. He's kind of an asshole.
First of all he's a pervert, child or not, his mother should put some goddamn pants on that boy before he gets a ticket for indecent exposure. Secondly, he goes around shooting people. And I don't care if his arrows are made of sunshine and joy, I'm sure they still hurt, or at least startle you. I got hit in the head with a giant leaf the other day and I'll tell you, with the way I screamed, it might as well have been a brick. I thought I was being attacked by a bat. Thirdly, he basically goes around drugging people into thinking they are in love. Oh, I'm sorry he brings "soul mates" together. You know what else brings soul mates together? Booze, and drugs and general desperation or loneliness.
Ecstasy makes you feel the same way I hear, and after you're done telling the cab driver you are in love with him and grinding against a sign post for sexual gratification you wake up feeling dirty and bruised and wondering why you are wearing three wedding rings and have a leash around your neck. Which is probably similar to the way Cupid's poor victims feel after their roofies wear off and they wake up one day, fat and decrepit clinging to the hand of someone they have never had a real conversation with.
So, you creepy little lewd, naked, baby child druggie; call me crazy but I say you're lucky a word like cupidity came along and slapped you in the face with some honesty. I would much rather the God of Cupidity slipped something into my drink than you. And let me just say that it's really hard to have a conversation with you when you're pointing a bow and arrow at my face.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
1. Having moral integrity : acting in strict regard for what is considered right or proper
2. Punctiliously exact: painstaking
The scrupulous nature of my neighbors makes it difficult to run the brothel/crackhouse buisness I am starting, out of my apartment.
People with moral integrity are so rare I think creating various synonyms for the concept is a waste of time. We only have one word for unicorn right? With that said, if anyone is so argumentative that they are considering Googling synonyms for Unicorn right now, don't bother; I just did it and the only other option is Unicamel. If you try and use Unicamel as ammunition to debunk me, you clearly don't know the difference between horses and camels. Hint: one lets you ride it and the other one spits on you.
The main issue that I have with this word is that I feel it's a wolf in sheep's clothing. It's definition is one of righteousness, proper breeding and correct social conduct, but it's eventual intention is the boy who won't hop a fence with you into a no trespassing zone because he doesn't want to get caught, the guy at the liquor store who won't let the fact that you forgot your ID slide; the friend who won't go to the park with you and swing on the swings because they just turned 30.
A scrupulous teacher will give you an F when, instead of taking a test, you pass her a note that says, "It's too beautiful outside to be taking this exam, sitting in this room is dishonest.". A scrupulous lover will tell you that it's past midnight and you both should just go to bed. And a scrupulous dog will thank you for letting it off it's lease but insist you put it back on, lest it get too excited and run away from you.
Essentially the basic component of this word is moral obedience, which is something which I'm not sure exists. Even if we try to fit into a spot which encapsulates what we think is proper and good and moral; we will slip and draw out of the lines. Something shiny will catch our eye and we will falter and trip. And upon tripping we will start to make excuses and say it feels right. It's alright that I broke this rule because that rule never fit me anyway.
Your definitions will change. Definitions about yourself and those outside the lines. Things that are so easy to judge until you trip and fall right on top on them and realize that that undefinable space you fell into suddenly feels like home.