Learning to be awesomesauce | Our Corner

I read an article somewhere last week and learned I am far more out of touch with reality than my daughter, Katy, has led me to believe. I admit I don’t remember who the writer was or where I read it, but I am sure I am not making this up, whatever it is. Let’s delve into it.

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I read an article somewhere last week and learned I am far more out of touch with reality than my daughter, Katy, has led me to believe.

I admit I don’t remember who the writer was or where I read it, but I am sure I am not making this up, whatever it is.

Let’s delve into it.

I have been using all the wrong words for longer than I can remember, which isn’t long, but it must be awhile – I think (I am trying to be very careful not to use the wrong word so this column may be very short – depending of course on… the its, whatever… the its… the bad words that is… is… are… its).

Back to the subject, apparently there is a snotty spit barrel full of words I have unknowingly been hacking up when I talk and write. The problem is I can’t say what the words are because if I do an inappropriate word ticket will arrive in the mail with a picture attached of my infraction and my insurance rates will go through the… high thing over my head (I think the R word was on the “if you say that word we will all begin whispering about you” list).

The writer thankfully paradiddled out a parade of “do not dare say this or that” to be afraid of… and I am now duly afraid of… the its… whatever the its… the bad words that is… is… are… its.

Earlier today I was driving to the office in Covington and a song inadvertently came out of my radio (I never know why these things happen). It was a hit song in the early 60s when hair was popular.

I heard the first line of the lyrics and panicked. I nearly drove off into a mucky field of prepositions without directional objects.

After calming myself, I checked my rear directional looking devices for the enforcement clauses. I appeared to have escaped a very close comma call.

I decided it would be a parviscient exercise to rewrite the lyric with the proper pulicosity to help me learn to hug and be smiley.

The song begins like this: Something I’m not suppose to say, something not suppose to say… “Itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka dot”… more things I’m not suppose to say.

The something I’m not supposed to say is easy pleasey. I’m sure yellow polka dot is out and would bring high gerunds of snorting and snarfing. Bitsy teenie weenie will make a dangling subordinate participle want to chase me with a 10-pound dictionary that has never been cracked.

That leaves itsy, which is fine piece of linguistologyness.

After hours and hours of oily toily, I saw the light of reformation hovering above me and I came up with this: itsy snitzy, wonky donkey, burlap boodle of plisky pribble.

Pretty awesomesauce, huh?

I feel confident I have now mended my evil, unforgivable ways and I have turned over a new…. something… let me check if this L word is OK. I’ll get back to you.

 

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