“Liberal” is almost as dirty a word as “poo-gobbler” these days. Upon receiving the liberal label, most politicians’ skin sizzles and smokes like they were hit with holy water. Two of the more popular terms are “limousine liberal” and “latte liberal,” which remind me very much of other alliterative gems like “lipstick lesbian” and “lipstick librarian.” Though limousine-less, I’m a pretty liberal guy myself, and I think my fellow commie pinkos and surrender monkeys deserve a few new names—here’s a start: liverwurst liberals, Led Zeppelin liberals, la-la land liberals, lustbunny liberals, lounge lizard liberals, liquid lunch liberals, liver-lifter liberals, leprechaun liberals, lobster-liberator liberals, love handle liberals, leprosy liberals, lunar probe liberals, luchadore liberals, latchkey liberals, low-bandwidth liberals, and llama-licking liberals.
On most subjects, I don’t know diddly-squat. On many subjects, I don’t know diddly-shit. On some subjects, I don’t even know diddly-fuck. However, on a subject or two, I do know diddly-poo.
My favorite primate is the bonobo, a species that consists of—how do I put this delicately?—sex maniacs. Bonobos will have sex not only at the drop of a hat, but at the sale of a hat, the sight of a hat, the tipping of a hat, and even the adjusting of a hat. They do it heterosexually, homosexually, incestuously, and quite religiously, using many positions that some thought were unique to us human sex monkeys. Anyway, in the book Tree of Origin, Francis de Waal notes how these simian sexcapades make it hard for the boy bonobos to know whose spawn is whose. Then de Waal wrote this sentence, which I kind of enjoyed: “Male bonobos are obviously not keeping records; they are merely attracted to large, pink genital swellings.” Aren’t we all… On a non-bonobo note, my second favorite sentence this week is a brave admission by Ralph Wiggum: “I want to be a triangle.” Don’t we all…
Because somebody has to, I’ve noticed a great type of word: words with tudes, and I mean that literally. In my in-progress Dictionary of Words That Don’t Belong in Dictionaries, I’ve already included great words like “agro-goofitude” and “jackassitude,” and there are plenty I’ve found that might make the cut later, such as “funkitude,” “punkitude,” “hunkitude,” “girlitude,” “womanitude,” “barfitude,” “lunchitude,” “pornitude,” “hornitude,” “hottitude,” “lustitude,” “skankitude,” “stankitude,” “crotchitude,” “crapitude,” “creepitude,” “boobitude,” “orgasmitude,” “assholitude,” “buttholitude,” “what-the-fuckitude,” and—finally, the lovely and talented—“cluster-fuckitude.”
If a nutjob gave a blow job to a whackjob, and then the whackjob gave a knob job to the nutjob, would the economy improve?
Though I like lame ducks, lucky ducks, rubber ducks, dead ducks, black-bellied whistling ducks, ugly ducklings, and Scrooge McDuck just fine, my favorite duck will always be Peking duck.
Here’s a question for the guys out there: Do you bash the bishop or bash the banana? Usually, my blue-veined custard-chucker feels like a long yellow fruit, but occasionally it does seem like more of a high-ranking official of the Catholic church.
In Bill Casselman’s Canadian Sayings, there are plenty of colorful expressions, but few so intriguing as “He’s so sneaky, I wouldn’t trust him in a shithouse with a knife and fork.” I think we all know a few people—or relatives—who fit this disgusting bill, and thanks to Casselman, we have a new (or possibly old) way to introduce them to prospective employers. This expression is ripe for alteration, as there are a lot of other objects that we probably wouldn’t trust such a person with in the little boys’ or girls’ room, such as: an egg-beater, a vegomatic, tongs, tweezers, pliers, a strainer, chopsticks, salt and pepper shakers, an eye-dropper, a plate, a hammer, and a spoon.
The words of the week:
One of my favorite clichés is “spinning in your grave.” Maybe I have no respect for the dead, or maybe I just like things that spin (basketballs, tops, news stories, the little girl’s head in The Exorcist, etc.) a little too much, but I rather like the idea of the dearly departed having a post-mortem twirl. Sports announcers aren’t usually known for their creativity, but NBA studio commentator Charles Barkley has broken that stereotype by giving this already amusing expression a new, uh, spin: Sometime last year, after a spectacularly embarrassing Boston loss, Barkley insisted that Celtics (living) legends Larry Bird and Kevin McHale were spinning in their graves. On other nights, I’ve heard Barkley describe other pre-dead basketballers like Patrick Ewing and Julius Erving as doing similar post-life exercise routines. In the name of creativity and comedy, I think we should take a cue from Barkley and spread this broader and loonier usage like a VD. And if you don’t help me do so, I’ll be spinning in my grave all afternoon.