Word of the Day: "crapulous"

I think I’m starting to master the ninja secrets of invisibility. It’s actually really easy. You sit very still, and close your eyes. The hard part is waking up. The ostrich has the right idea. I’ve no idea what any of that means.

Today’s Word:

crapulous

As in:

The neighborhood was sleeping, unprepared and unaware of the nightly terror that regularly visited through open windows and tiny openings in doors. Through any opening, the culprits would slip through, and commit the most clandestine of crimes.

So clandestine were these crimes, that most of the victims never even noticed. The invasions were nearly silent, the crimes, hardly noticeable. Dark cloaked and nimble, the burglers would steal their heart’s desires and sneak back to their homes before dawn.

Until a new nighttime stroller moved into the neighborhood. This particular type of thief had little interest in the delights of his fellows, small baubles and feathers held no delight for him. His out of the ordinary tastes threatened to upset the freedom enjoyed by the other nocturnal bandits.

Suspiscions were aroused when one of the neighbors discovered something amiss. A half-eaten prize lasagna had been in the kitchen awaiting a moment when the makers would return to the properly store the leftovers. When the kitchen was revisited, the owners noted that the remaining lasagna was gone, with naught but a single paw print to point to the culprit.

With a cold trail, the saddened lasagna bakers simply retired to bed.

The trail, however, had an ending. The deviant deviant was caught when the overly large creature, in a crapulous state, could not entirely return home. Stuck half-way through the pet door, the fat, lasagna thieving cat, had been caught, unapologetically, red-pawed.

*********
This idea started when I wondered what if, instead of cat burglers, there were burgler cats. Now, I’ve read through this a few times, and it stopped making sense at some point, and then it made some sense I think. All this means to me is that it’s likely time for bed.

crapulous / CRAP – you – loss / sick from over indulgence in food or drink. Admit it, that is not at all what you were expecting it to mean.

Word of the Day: "alopecia"

In Denver this year, the fall has been extraordinarily lovely and has really been prolonged. There are still very lovely trees with leaves in many colors all over the city. I’ve really enjoyed it. I’m a big fan of fall, and this one has been exceptional.

I wrote this story for a writing exercise, and remembered it today, thinking it would be a great story for the Word of the Day. As will become obvious, today’s story was brought to you by the letter “a.”

Today’s Word:

alopecia

As in:

An Animal Anecdote

As any antelope amicably acknowledges, aggressive alopecia acts as acceptable armor against attacking animals. At an acute adventure, as when an attacker attempts an ambush, all fibers abandon their abodes, allowing an antelope, blessed with acute alacrity, to avert abduction. Assuredly, other abilities would afford additional (and advanced) aid. Although an antelope's anti-predator accessories are an adaptation likely to activate amusement, arguments can be made that "acceptable" armaments, such as those armadillos acquired, aren't actually any more admirable. After all, armadillos aren't attractive.

As arguing against the Almighty and all His Angels is unlikely to accommodate any augmentation, animals appease themselves with attainable ambitions. There is no assumption of adulation or aristocracy among animals. Animals accept their abilities and adversities. Humans are an alternate animal, far less acquiescent.

Appreciating that this antelope antecedent has applicability within this awfully adulterated anecdote, my audience's attentions are now apprehended by a group of archers, with their arrows aimed at an antelope. Appetites are awakened; the audience will accept no anticlimax, anticipation amplifies around the amphitheater as an arrow arcs forward, soaring swiftly along in the autumnal air.

Arriving near its appointed antelope, assuming, even anticipating, at least a small amount of appeasement, the animal, alerted, ambles aside, admitting the ammunition to an admittedly accidental and unfortunate anguish, alighting near the animal's arse.

As the anticipated appetizer of antelope approaches, the audience awakens to the aforementioned alopecia, and attends to a new agony: each allotment arrives anointed with an astronomic amount of antelope hair.

**************************
Having grown up the daughter of a butcher, I’ve seen my fair share of antelope haunches, which is where I first learned about this strange phenomena. Antelope hair is short, and it all gets everywhere. It’s impossible to completely remove it from within the meat, even if the skin is removed.

alopecia / ALL – oh – pesh – ah / loss of hair, baldness. Which, of course, is why the hair treatment for men is called Pro-pecia, as in, pro hair. Or something. Just don’t open the pills anywhere near someone with two X chromosomes.

Word of the Day: "dubiety"

Doesn’t it seem like just yesterday we were enjoying the weekend, and not thinking about the horror of the work week? It was? Oh.

Is it Friday yet? No? You’re sure? Well then. I’ll just be over there.

Today’s Word:

dubiety

As in:

It looked innocent enough. After all, campaign buttons have been around for decades. Except... What was it doing on the floor? Just lying there, by the corner of the cubicle. Weirder, it wasn’t there before everyone left for the weekend. How did it get there?

All those who passed surely saw it. While it was right next to the cubicle, it wasn’t *in* the cubicle, so, even though it seemed likely that it belonged to the occupant of the cubicle, it hadn’t moved from its spot. There was more than a small amount of dubiety about whether the person supported the candidate emblazoned on the button, and did that matter in cases of “ownership?” Maybe someone simply collected campaign buttons.

As the day progressed, people kept checking for camera. Maybe it was a test? If someone picked up the button did that show support for the candidate? What if it did belong to the cubicle owner, and she came out and noticed?

Could it be a way for the company to learn their employee’s political sympathies? If they didn’t jibe with management’s would they find a way to phase out anyone whose politics didn’t match the corporate climate? Maybe there was a camera hidden in a file cabinet somewhere to capture the poor schlub who was gullible enough to pick up the button.

And then, as mysteriously as it appeared, the button vanished. No one seemed to know what had happened to it. Employees started to become even more nervous.

Finally, the pressure was too much for Ted, who got on the intercom, and screamed, “I can’t take it anymore! Where did it go! What does it all mean?! Are you people insane?”

Security was called, and Ted was escorted out of the building. As the led him out of the door, he passed a cleaning cart, and, in the trash, sat the innocent looking button. It seemed to “wink” at Ted, who started screaming all over again.

******************
I’m really going to be glad when the election is over. Yup. Ted might not be the only one screaming in handcuffs before it’s over.

dubiety / dube – EYE – it – ee / doubtfulness, uncertainty, doubt

Word of the Day: "manqué"

I found myself writing this story a few years ago, but, wasn’t actually doing much with the Word of the Day then. I didn’t have much but a few handfuls of image flashes on it, and didn’t know how it would end, (and, even as I type this, I don’t know how it will end) but, I knew how it started. This morning, I remembered it, and it grew a bit, and now, I’m stalling with an intro while I search in my collection of obscure words to find something to use for…

Today’s Word:

manqué

As in:

Ladies and gentlemen, the story you are about to hear is true. The names have been changed to protect the innocent.

It was Friday, October 24, 7:02 AM. It was a crisp, clear day in Denver. I was working the day watch. I have no partner, and the boss is a regular manager, reporting to a CEO, name’s not important. My name’s Monday. I’m a desk jockey on the 15th floor. I was crossing the parking lot from my car into the office building where I work. It’s a typical morning, nothing out of the ordinary. I spot a suspiciously discarded cigarette butt. The end of the cigarette has a lipstick imprint. I lean in for a closer inspection.

The butt was not flattened and appeared fresh. I pull out a small plastic bag with zip closure. Lifting the butt with a pair of tweezers, I put it in the bag, sealing it. With luck, the lab guys could still lift some DNA off the end. I continue to scan the lot for evidence of foul play.

As I took a few more steps toward the office, I note a pair of tire tracks left on the asphalt, approximately 5 inches in width. The marks are lined directly with the cigarette butt. No car is in evidence. To the right of the tracks, next to an open parking spot, is a small scattering of broken safety glass consistent with that used in car windows. It appears as though a driver side window of the car that had been in the space had possibly been smashed. Since there was no car present, I moved along to work, after collecting a few glass samples in a second plastic bag.

I got into the elevator at 7:08. There were two other people riding up with me. One, a Caucasian male, approximately 45, with graying hair, stopped on the 4th floor, and I noted that there was a distinctive scuff mark on the heel of his right show. I wondered for a moment if I should report him to the building’s security, but, I opted to mind my own business.

Walking to my desk, I noted that my message light was blinking, my trash can had been moved to the other side of my cubicle, and my signed picture of William Petersen was rotated 45 degrees from its usual position. I considered it may be prudent to lock it in the desk in the evenings.

My boss approached me.

“Morning. Your shoe’s untied, sir, and it looks like you were holding the baby at a height of 6 inches above your head, and slightly to the right, just before you left for work.”

“Gus! That’s just creepy. If you’re going to go around like some police detective manqué, could you at least, keep it to yourself?”

I was flabbergasted. Sure, I might’ve been something of a CSI in search of a crime, but, who was he to judge?

“Boss, as soon as I get a call from the lab, I’ll be out of your hair. Until then, it pays for me to keep my observation skills sharp.”

“Gus, they’re not going to call you, why would they? You’re a college dropout with paranoid delusions. You collect bits of trash in little baggies and call it “evidence.” The only way you’ll see a CSI is if you commit a crime, and then, they’ll just be locking you up.”

I pondered his comments, and, for a brief moment, considered committing a crime. Murder. I could see the ballpoint pen jabbed through his temple, with a cheerful looking spatter pattern decorating the side cubicle wall. Of course, I’d be the prime suspect, and would, in all likelihood, go to jail.

Sitting down at my desk, I smiled as my boss left. I could try for justifiable homicide, or maybe, “not guilty by reason of mental disease or defect.” Too easy. Maybe I could, instead, plan the perfect crime. Except, I knew there was no such thing. Someone was always watching. Someone like me.

7:53 AM. I went to get a cup of coffee. The coffee pot had been emptied, but no one had started a new batch. I scanned around, my boss had left his pen, a graduation present from his father 30 years ago, on the counter. Another day, another petty crime. My work was never done.

*******************
Happy Friday, everyone. Hope you all have a wonderful weekend.

manqué / mon – kay / Short of or frustrated in the fulfillment of one’s aspirations of talents, used after the noun it describes.

Word of the Day: "mome"

I’m very, very glad that tomorrow is Friday. I’m on the home stretch of having some actual time to get myself more organized and focused on producing the high quality stories that my readers so richly deserve. I’m not sure *why* you deserve them, but, I’m sure it’s true, and it sure sounds good, doesn’t it? If you have ideas about that, go ahead and drop me a comment. While you’re pondering whether or not to leave me something more than a comment, I’ll leave you to read…

Today’s Word:

mome

As in:

Jefferson Heights Middle School today honored its “Student of the Year” in a special ceremony for students, parents and faculty. This year’s honoree, Mitchell Hollingsworth, was chosen for his outstanding academic performance, citizenship, and first place project in the school’s science fair. His project, entitled “Building Better Communities,” was chosen to compete at the national science fair, and is attracting the notice of city planners across the nation.

One of the city planners, Pauline Wilkins, of Cleveland noted that Hollingsworth’s project is “extremely advanced for a student. It shows a level of familiarity with contemporary city planning that would be the envy of many professionals currently working in this field. His work on disaster preparedness is more detailed than the plans currently operating in many U.S. cities.”

Surprisingly, Hollingsworth attributes his success to video games.

“Video games don’t just teach kids violence, marksmanship, and bomb making. I learned about disaster preparedness from a really cool simulator game about hurricanes. I picked up lessons in economics from Star Wars Galaxies, and I learn lots of puzzle solving skills and new words. I also learned how to play with this really annoying guy who always starts flame wars in chat. He’s just a mome, and I ignore him now.”

Hollingsworth wants his classmates to know that not everyone who plays video games is a potential killer and threat to school safety, “Those guys just ruin it for the rest of us, who aren’t killers.”

Based upon the remarkable results video games have had in not only Hollinsworth’s but other student’s lives, several schools are considering abandoning their traditional curriculum for an all video game approach. Students will take DDR (Dance Dance Revolution) for Physical Education, History will be taught with Oregon Trail, and Social Studies will be taught using the various SimCity titles.

“Students often complain the their classes are boring, and this proposal will take edutainment to a whole new level,” noted school principal Paul Reynolds.

Perhaps anticipating this shift, several game manufacturers are creating games designed to teach the material covered in standardized tests required at various schools, thus ensuring that all students are not only engaged in the curriculum, but will still meet the criteria set forth by the “No Child Left Behind” legislation.

********************
I’m not so certain this story is fiction. Maybe it’s funny ‘cause it’s true.

mome / MOEM / Rhymes with gnome. A stupid, boring person.

Word of the Day: "costermonger"

I’m concerned, as I think there might be some sort of zombie virus going around. I’m craving brain power, and sleep, and walking about with a gaping mouth, and head tilted back, and with my arms out in front of me. I think I might’ve hit on why I’m still single.

Today’s Word:

costermonger

As in:

It’s been a week since the war began. No one even took it seriously then. It was laughable. If we’d had any idea that we’d be at the brink of an apocalypse…

I don’t know. Maybe we could’ve stopped it. But, how could we have even imagined? It’s ludicrous, really. The President’s launching a nuclear strike. The civilian casualties, well, I don’t even want to contemplate. It’s a measure of how scared everyone is, that no one is calling for a delay. No one even doubts that this is necessary. I can’t recall I time when I’ve ever been this scared. The worst part? I’m not even sure it will work.

It all started so innocently. I went to work as always. The store was quiet, as it always is at 6 am. The bakery was putting out fresh baked goods, the last palates of canned goods were wheeled out of the aisles, and I settled into my domain: the produce department. Sure, most people call me the “Produce Manager,” or “Fruit Boy,” but, I prefer “costermonger.” A throwback, perhaps, but, right now, we all would love things to be much simpler.

Anyway, I was checking the displays, when I came close to the some of the items that are on the controversial side, you know, genetically modified. Usually, I don’t think about them, they’ve never seemed that different from the regular fruits and veggies. Sure, there are some items that are odd, “plucots,” for example. Plums crossed with apricots. Who thinks of these things? And, broccoliflower? Really?

As I passed the display, a flash of motion caught my eye, and I spin around to see a stalk of broccoliflower pull itself to a standing position. I blinked, not comprehending, looking for wires, or some other explanation for mobile produce. Then, more of the items stood. They started forming lines, and marching along. They marched toward the very faint light from outside, somehow sensing the sun despite the bright lighting of the supermarket. As the got to the parking lot, they moved like a swarm, attacking a customer just coming into the store. The person didn’t react. I mean, what do you do when faced by a mob of plants?

Within moments, the foods forced themselves down the man’s throat, and soon after that, he started choking and turning blue. He fell over, and then stopped moving. What had I just witnessed? Who do I call, and how do I convince them that what I’m seeing is real, and a threat?

I’d thought that maybe something with the modified genetics had somehow caused the fruit to evolve to a violent, mobile threat. Yes, I know how that sounds.

If I’d been thinking, maybe I could’ve realized that all the produce I had was already dead. I mean, fruits and vegetables in a store, off their vines and trees, well, they’re not living plants. Somehow, genetically modified “frankenfruits,” coming to life and attacking people, well, that sounds vaguely *sane* compared to the truth. Zombie produce? Come on!

Now, of course, everyone knows the truth. It started to get bad when the fruits from the store started infecting all the plants outside. Trees started to uproot themselves and infect grasses and bushes. Then people started to get trampled by forests of monsters craving chlorophyll from living plants. The insatiable army of undead plants has speed up the greenhouse effect past our ability to stop the virus from spreading, or efforts to replenish oxygenating plant stocks. The world is counting on the nuclear strike to eradicate the virus, and hoping to be able to use stored seed and quarantined plants to begin rebuilding farms and forests. Hopefully, there will be some arable land left.

I’m going to close this entry for now. I hope that the plan works.

*********************
I had no idea this was going to “mutate” into a zombie story. Wacky. Sleep now.

costermonger / COST – er – mong – er / a hawker of fruits and vegetables, chiefly British

Word of the Day: "gracile"

I’m dipping into the re-run well again, as I’m losing the battle for sanity, time, creativity and sleep right now.

Today's Word:

gracile

As in:

When George and Helen Hampton purchased the lovely ceramic lamp from a seller on e-bay, little did they know what they had acquired.

The lamp, which featured an idyllic sea scene, was purchased for the bargain price of $21.07 (plus shipping and handling). When the auction ended, and the item paid for, the seller contacted the Hamptons to let them know it had been shipped. The seller told them that the lamp they were getting was a special, magical lamp, capable of transforming any room into a quiet, meditative spot. The seller was very anxious about sending the lamp to such a far away place as the Hampton's residence, and admonished them to contact her as soon as the lamp arrived, so that she was sure it had arrived safely. She wanted to be sure the lamp was going to a good home and was sad to see it leave.

Privately, George and Helen wondered why the woman had sent such a prized possession to auction, if sending the object away was such a hardship.

Soon the lamp arrived. It was safe. The Hamptons sent an e-mail to Margaret, the seller, lest she worry about the "magical" lamp.

Margaret was overjoyed at the news.

George gave her a positive feedback rating.

Weeks later, while watering his prize begonias, George noticed a gracile woman peeking into the windows of his home. She had stepped through the lilac bush, and had pressed her face against the antique glass. George demanded an explanation.

The woman, of course, was Margaret. Overcome with anxiety over the lamp, she had arrived to make sure the lamp was fine. She needed to see it again. She never meant to sell it, she was mad at it, and had put it on E-bay to punish it for hurting her, and now she wanted it back.

George told her no. She had sold it, it was theirs now and she needed to "get over the lamp and get off their property."

Margaret refused to leave.

George called the police.

George regretted ever giving her a positive feedback rating.

Months later, when the police recaptured Margaret at the Hampton's residence where George and Helen had been brutally bludgeoned with a heavy ceramic lamp, officers reported that the suspect was babbling incoherently. Among the recognizable phrases recorded at the scene were, "I still loved it," and "They didn't love you like I do," and "I never meant to do it."

*************************
This story was inspired by a true e-bay experience had by one of my former coworkers. In that story, the object actually arrived broken, and the seller was heart broken, but returned the buyer's money, and got the object back. I secretly wondered if the seller purposely packed the object carelessly. I suspect no one, except the seller, will ever know.

gracile / GRASS - ill / adj. Slender, slight.

Word of the Day: "bloviate"

Today is National Dictionary Day, which is celebrated every year on the birthday of Noah Webster. This week has started to catch up with me, so, I’m using a re-run, a story I wrote in honor of this day exactly 10 years ago. It was a story I wrote before the move to yahoo groups, and it has not been repeated since, which means for most of you, it is brand spanking new.

Today’s Word:

bloviate

As in:

The year was 1828. Noah Webster was about to publish his first dictionary of American English, and the momentous occasion was going to be celebrated with a ceremony at which he would give a speech. “Surely,” thought Webster, “I must expound upon the enormity and significance of the language and succinctly prognosticate to the purveyors of American education that the putative modes of communication, in their tyrannical and star-chambered origins, are soon to be made wholly extinct by the neoteric evolution of the language. My new dictionary obviates those lingual dependencies, and, despite possible tergiversation, and lexiphanic obnubilation, I will, without doubt, eschew obfuscation.”

Webster, who had a tendancy to bloviate, was never asked to speak again. Instead, he decided it was time to start a college, where no one could prevent him from speaking ever again.

***************
Admittedly, it’s a short tale. I’m not going to define the other words used. That’s why you have a dictionary. I will say I’ve used these in Word of the Day stories before, so you may yet see them again.

bloviate / blo – V – ate / to speak or write verbosely and windily. This word didn’t enter the language until 1897, so, admittedly, it never would’ve been applied to Webster during his life. It’s Webster that we have to thank for including in his dictionary and documenting the truly American words like “skunk,” “squash,” and “chowder.”

Word of the Day: "prolocutor"

Tomorrow is Boss's Day, which is the inspiration for this story. To be more than perfectly honest, I had no real notion that it was Boss's Day until my sister said she needed to go to get gift cards for her bosses. Apparently, she has six. Ridiculous.

Anyway, I might be giving away too much before I even get to...

Today's Word:

prolocutor

As in:

The protesters were out early this year. They met, as usual, at the biggest building in the city, where more than 500 employers had offices. Their protest was an annual occurrence, but, no one knew exactly why they bothered. After all, what power did the people in this typical office building have to meet their demands? And why were they the focus of the anger? No one in the building had done anything to create the object of their discontent.

Signs reading "Everyday is Boss's Day!" and "Death to Holidays Mandated by the Man!" waved on the shoulders of "business casual" garbed protesters.

A prolocutor with a megaphone, voiced the slogans towards the normal office workers going to work. "Who makes Boss's Day? Bosses. Does anyone feel that a gift to the boss comes with no strings attached? And who is the first person to be overlooked for a promotion? The person who failed to get the boss a card. This is harassment, pure and simple, folks! It's time to take away the "Boss's Day!"

*******************
Besides my sister's trip to get something for six bosses, she has a friend who works at a law firm, where the office secretaries had planned a lunch for the employees to buy for the bosses. Each employee's share was $40, $20 for the employee, and $20 toward the bosses' lunches. My sister's friend had to go through some hoops to get out of the lunch, because she couldn't afford it, and the social stigma associated was not insignificant. I type it again, Ridiculous.

prolocutor / pro - LOHK - cue - tor / Spokesperson.

Word of the Day: "noctivagant"

Look at the time! The day has caught me by surprise, and so, you've been waiting patiently all day for this little story, and I was keeping you from it. If it makes you feel any better, the story was eluding me, too.

Today's Word:

noctivagant

As in:

For almost two centuries, gardens of the world have been harboring malevolent entities. These creatures are welcomed at first, and lie in wait until the evening comes when they can begin their noctivagant mischief.

Under the cover of night and a guise of harmless joviality, the creatures awaken to bring terror to unsuspecting communities. Rage drives them to attack members of their own kind. Spite drives them to damage car tires. And, when the moon is full, no household is safe.

Pets have gone inexplicably missing, sometimes appearing days later, maimed in horrible fashion. Beyond physical injuries, they will no longer venture into the garden, by night or by day.

The bravest of these will peer into windows of their sleeping captors, starring for long hours before they slip into the house and murder the inhabitants in their sleep before making their escape.

When the police arrive on such scenes, they know that they will never bring the killers to justice. Too many times have they seen such violent attacks, and in each case, the tell-tale signs prove the identity of the guilty, whose identity won't be believed. A chip of ceramic, a smear of transferred paint in a primary color, all-too common clues left by the remorseless perpetrators.

After a lifetime of cleaning up and covering up these crimes, police detective Laura Klein, remarked, "You know, my dad had one of them in his garden. Thought it was cute. That was, until we found one lurking over the body of his favorite cat. He smashed that fat, smiling, piece of crap that very day. No more Gnomes in his garden after that."

*************
This story occurred to me after my brain somehow came up with the phrase "gnome-on-gnome violence," but, obviously, that didn't fit with the story as it developed. So, I'm mentioning it here, so, you can enjoy it too.

noctivagant / noct - EH - vague - ant / wandering by night

Word of the Day: "logodaedaly"

The specter of Monday the 13th looms dangerously over today’s story. I thought of this story over a week ago, but, it was resigned to circle my brain while I was in Boston for work. What’s clear to me is that perhaps, it is good that it got delayed until today, because it does seem to be a Monday the 13th type tale.

Okay. I’ve procrastinated long enough now. It’s time to reveal…

Today’s Word:

logodaedaly

As in:

The quarterly marketing meeting was well underway. The head of marketing was going over his agenda, while his translator provided the usual clarification.

“We’ve got to upsizzle our widgets. Totalimundo’s been downinated for 4 cycles.”

“We need a hot new product. Our sales have been down for the last year,” came the translation.

“Hand-n-yak some ideantions at me. We’re eyeballing some serious tightbeltinating, and pinkslippering.”

The translator looked around uneasily, then clarified: “Any suggestions? We’re looking at serious budget cuts and layoffs.”

“Well, we could focus on improving our customer service and making our current products the best they can be.”

Silence fell on the room. The head of marketing looked expectantly at his translator, who, said nothing.

The idea was repeated, in a slightly different fashion, in hopes that rephrasing would render it more comprehensible. “We could provide exceptional products and remarkable customer service.”

Again, silence followed.

The translator looked around helplessly. “I can’t translate that. Don’t you have any buzzwords or could you do some sort of logodaedaly to make this easier? There’s just no way to communicate those concepts to him.”

Everyone else looked around the room uneasily. “But, that’s just it. The idea is just that. No buzzwords, just plain, simple, quality and excellence.”

“Quality? Excellence? I can’t tell him that! There are some things that simply can’t be said to most marketing types. Can’t you just come up with something else?”

****************
I don’t think there’s anything more to be said about that.

logodaedaly / low – go – DEE – dally / Arbitrary coinage of words