"It is a good rifle for people who have poor aim, because of the nimiety of firepower coming out of the flared muzzle", the jocose gun dealer told me as he handed me the blunderbuss and he added "it is also a favorite of the drunk and cross-eyed, albeit I do not generally sell to those types".
Although moving the millions of turkeys to their correct destinations across the country was an impossibly complex logistical proposition, our fearless tractator had shouldered this Rube Goldberg challenge with much gusto and foison and had promised to return our funds as early as Black Friday, but, on his fourth helping of pecan pie on Thanksgiving Day, he succumbed to a fatal borborygmus and we never saw our money again.
My usual modus operandi was to avoid household chores en bloc, so when my wife asked me to haul out the dreck, I tried to convince her that it would soon dematerialize on its own, but she remonstrated sternly with the enormity of my dereliction.
“More doctors smoke Camels than any other cigarette”, claimed the 1946 tobacco ad, in hindsight an insidious shibboleth, but we were young and I still remember Lucille walking in Central Park in her pilose winter coat, waving her cigarette as if drawing an analemma in the sky, and me, a struggling actor, a silly waitron in love hanging on her every word.
“Well, it’s an unfortunate name for someone trying to make a career in finance”, I ventured this advice to my client Ima Ponziskim, “in addition, you seem to suffer from severe perspiration, I would say even hyperhidrosis, not only during the dog days of summer but also in the dead of winter, so I would recommend that you work in telemarketing and that you change your name to anything that does not associate you with Ponzi schemes, contraband goods, or other criminal activity.”
My wife and I interviewed the hawkshaw in our small town who had a reputation for being punctilious and diligent in all his assignments, but to us, he sounded like just another confabulator who spoke nothing but a bunch of bushwa, and we therefore resolved that another sleuth should investigate for us why our grass was growing more slowly this year compared to last year.
After one of the judges on American Idol – Writers' Series called me a poetaster (see 10 May 2011), I felt lost and addlepated until the one final contest in which I tried to summon my talent to the last ounce, to disinter my lyrical muse so to speak, but my sonnet failed badly once again and the same judge observed cruelly that "this is the sort of poetry that one usually finds scribbled on the filthy walls of a cloaca".
We were lying silently behind the last line of defense, a sconce outside the walls of our beloved citadel, the Great City Library, and each of us had made his pledge that he would sacrifice his life rather than allow the ranged forces of the booboisie to take it over and turn it into a shopping mall, fast food court, and multi-screen cinema but our last stand became scabrous and untenable when a lowly quisling among us, a bona fide Benedict Arnold of our time, sold a map of our fortification to the enemy and we were outflanked by a few dozen ultra obese invaders storming the library in their oversized SUVs.
"I can't stand Pat", the eminence grise declared candidly on 'The View', and although the show's gaggle of women urged him to reconsider his political nemesis in a more favorable light, he remained so obstinate and standpat that his blood pressure soared and spider veins appeared on his temples.
During our marriage, I did think it odd that she was frequently fear mongering in society about latent medical problems developed by the ear, nose and throat, but after our divorce, it emerged that, unbeknownst to me, she had been referring, for a fee, our friends and acquaintances to the care of her Southern lover, an otorhinolaryngologist from Savannah, a man with such a drawl that it took him a long time to pronounce his profession.
"My opponent promised to make all of you rich, but this is nothing but a peccant appeal to your basest greed and plutolatry", I harangued the crowd of 15 on the eve of elections in our hamlet, but it was in vain and I lost on the next day by a humiliating margin of 15 to 0, with even my wife favoring the awful demagogue.
On Father's Day, the patriarch addressed the gathered fawning mishpocha and pledged the same sempiternal paternal love to his children, and did it so convincingly that even the teenagers among them managed to keep their hostility in abeyance for one full day.
"Honey, I thought you meant sandbag", I protested soundly to my girlfriend while holding the ziploc full of the xanthic sand which I had amorously collected on the beach in Fiji, but it was a fine handbag which she had requested in a text message and she now rolled on the floor screaming and throwing her mobile phone against the wall in a brutal animadversion of all autocorrect features in the whole world.
Spelunking with our tour guide inside the Lascaux Caves, we hoised our flame torches closer to the walls and found the rumored old paintings, supposedly 17,300 years old but looking rather prosaic and amateurish as far as (allegedly) prehistoric graffiti go, and we questioned the guide about the officially accepted narrative: "How did you piece the long history together, and how do you know this wasn't some kid with a few crayons from just seventy or eighty years ago?"
“Only a shameless trendite like you would abdicate the true English language in favor of the slangish jargoon used by your friends”, my teenage daughter lectured one of her friends while I drove them, but the friend mocked her for mixing up jargon with jargoon, a derivative of the mineral zircon, and their banter sank into an endless stichomythia: "jargoon!", "no jargon!", "jargon!", "no jargoon!"... until I pulled over and left them by the side of the road.
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