Are you ready to see what will happen with our reluctant companions? Me too! Oh. I already know. But,  I am good at pretending. Except for the part where I told you I was pretending. Forget I told you that.

Today’s Word:

groak

As in:

The two companions set off. They traveled in silence for miles, heading
towards the Land of the Misfit Mutants. I had been hastily shoved into a
bag, where I could hear and be heard, but wasn’t very comfortable.

“Do either of you have proper names? If you are going to face hardships
and adventure, you should know each other’s names.”

The Orc actually growled at me. More silence.

“Don’t make me scream. You wouldn’t like me if I screamed.” What good is
having a scream that pierces dimensions if you can’t throw it around a
little?

The Orc spoke first. “We already don’t like you.” He sighed, and before I
could work up a scream, he held out his hand to the barbarian. “People
call me Scalzi.” The barbarian grunted. He must’ve still been miffed
about covering the gratuity while the Orc stood around like a groak.

“I’m Wil.”

“Wil the Barbarian? That’s terrible!” I couldn’t help myself. Who ever
heard of a Wil the Barbarian?

“I’m not a Barbarian!” He sounded really annoyed. He took a breath. “Look.
I’m just a guy. I don’t really know how I got into this mess, and I’m
certainly not sure how to get out of it. My people sent me to the Oracle
mainly to get rid of me, and didn’t expect I’d accomplish anything. All I
have is a backpack and a talking clown sweater. It’s like some colossal
joke, only it’s not at all funny.” He lapsed back into silence.

The Orc shifted uncomfortably. Then he reached into his gear. “Care for a
Mentos?” The Orc proffered a mint.

The two smiled, and, the tension broken, settled into companionable
conversation.

After many days of travel, the details of which are unimportant, we got to
the outskirts of the Land of the Misfit Mutants. Wil put me on, and we
made our way into the valley.

The Land of the Misfit Mutants is filled with mythical creatures of all
sorts, some of which remain unknown to the wider world. There are
four-eyed fish swimming in the lakes, a fearsome creature with long claws
and a bad attitude called a Wolverine, a duck with fur that laid eggs, and
the terrible Catalypse.

I performed the Ritual of Catalypse Summoning, which involves pretending
to be allergic to it, plus 25 gold pieces. Ten minutes later, our new
Catalypse appeared. I told him briefly about the mission, and he agreed to
join us in the hunt. I relayed this information to the others, who lacked
the ability to understand the Catalypse speech, and who, without me,
would’ve gotten NO WHERE in their quest. Ungrateful…

Ahem. Bitterness later. Story now.

An interesting side note here. The Catalypse’s name was Herb. It’s a
little known fact that the real key to controlling one of these powerful
creatures is knowing its true name. Of course, I could be lying. Why would
I blab my secrets to you?

The two clambered onto the great creature, because flying is *way* better
than walking. Herb told me that the Lupine lived in the Land of Fire,
where the volcanoes smoked and lava flowed. It was a perfect spot for a
lair because Orcs and humans avoided the place.

****************
The end is in sight, and it’s looking like our heroes will soon meet their foe.  It seems like just yesterday they didn’t even know each other’s names, and now, they’re going to face mortal peril together.  It was just yesterday? Wow. Time sure flies, doesn’t it?

groak / GROWK / one who stands around while others eat, in hopes that he or she will be asked to join.

We continue our tale at the point we left off yesterday. That’s sorta the way these things work out. I hope you’re enjoying it.

Today’s Word:

imprecation

About this time, an Orc walked in. He was not expecting to find someone
with the Oracle, much less to find the two standing in awkward silence. I
decided to break the silence.

“What do you want?”

The Orc took a step back, terror written on his face, half because I had
said something and half because he’d finally noticed me hanging from the
Oracle’s hands. He looked like he was about to bolt.

The Oracle spoke, “No need. The stinky herbs told me all I needed to know.
Your people are also tormented by the Lupine. In fact, it affects your
people more frequently than it does the people of the pale-skinned
barbarian. You are to work together on this quest. This quest demands your
best efforts, and if one of you fails, the entire quest will fail. ”

“What neither of you know is that it is not just your villages at stake.
The fortune of the entire world hangs in the balance. You must succeed or
other worlds will suffer the same fate as Alderaan…”

Both the Orc and the barbarian looked confused. “Alderaan?” asked the
barbarian. “What’s Alderaan?”

The Oracle just laughed.

“Ahem. Yes. Well. The sweater is meant for you, barbarian. For you, Master
Orc, I have this Mighty Axe of Smiting.”

“What does it do?” the Orc asked eagerly.

“It cuts things. It’s an axe. I got it on sale.”

I had to laugh at this point, because the Orc looked like he’d just won
second prize in a cootie-catching contest, and had nothing to show for it
except a basket of wilting cooties and a pitcher of sweat.

The Orc glared at me. I laughed some more.

At this point, I should mention that Orcs and humans don’t really get
along. They fight over territory, religion and all the usual inter-species
bug-a-boos. Suffice it to say, neither was feeling excited about the
quest.

The Oracle got tired of them standing awkwardly in her cave, and held out
her hand for the expected gratuity.

Uncertain of oracle tipping etiquette, the Orc looked expectantly at the
barbarian, who took out a card, grumbled at the added value of the advice
and weapon given the mooching Orc,  and handed the Oracle a handful of
gold. With any luck, the offering was enough to avoid any imprecation on them or their quest from the Oracle.

“Thank you, come again!” said the Oracle, shooing them out of her home.

*************
See? Here we are at the half-way point, and things are going nicely, aren’t they? Tune in tomorrow, and we’ll have our heroes on the road.

imprecation / IM – pre – cay – shun / the act of cursing, to invoke evil upon.

Many of you probably saw the challenge issued by Wil Wheaton and John Scalzi, for an original story describing the picture here: http://whatever.scalzi.com/2010/05/30/fanfic-contest/

I had not planned to enter. It seemed ridiculous with as busy as I have been, getting behind with the Word of the Day, all of that.

And then, I had an idea. And I couldn’t ignore it.

So, I worked up an entry and sent it in.

The deadline to enter the contest has elapsed, and they received about 350 entries. The organizers of the contest are encouraging participants to use the stories as they like, and so, I’m re-purposing the thing for the Word of the Day. I’ve broken it up into parts, and added obscure words as unobtrusively as possible.

Today’s Word:

feuilleton

As in:

We used to be friends. We saved the world in the adventure of a lifetime, and they betrayed our sacred trust.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

To tell the story properly, I should probably do it in installments, you know, make it a feuilleton. And, I need to take you back many years, before the accursed “Tell-all” tour which conveniently left me out of the picture and out of the profits.

Bitter? You could say that. In fact, please do. I’ll just tell the story.

I was safely dwelling with the Oracle of Lorupchin, who is a really swell gal, you should go see her sometime. She loves visitors. Don’t let her reputation of insanity and poor hygiene keep you from saying “hi.” Unless you really don’t like the smell of unwashed crazy people.

Anyway, one day this guy came to seek the Oracle’s help. He tells her that his village has been facing an unknown menace. He says the creature comes in the darkness just before dawn and that the only evidence it leaves is the sound of screaming victims. Hunters have spied unusual tracks, almost like a wolf, but also like hooves. They have found no other traces.

The Oracle did her smelly herbs routine, and learned that the creature
responsible was a monster known as Lupus Lupine, a creature that is
invisible, but can manifest in many painful forms. Its preferred victims are females.

“The only thing that can defeat this evil creature is the Catalypse. This creature is as elusive as the Lupus Lupine, and they are mortal enemies. The Catalypse can track the Lupine by scent.”

“To capture a Catalypse, you must use this.” She holds me up, offering me to this barbarian. “This is the sacred vestment of Bozorebo, the
frightening Master of the Catalypse. It has many powers. It can end
careers and cause blindness. It gives the wearer +2 to attacks, damage and all defenses.”

“You must travel to the Land of the Misfit Mutants, wearing this vestment. The Catalypse recognizes that he who wears such a garment is not afraid of anything, and will respect the authority it signifies. Remember, he who controls the shirt controls the creature.”

The visitor cringed at the mere sight of me. It was that all-too-familiar mix of horror, disbelief and amusement.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, with barely contained mirth. “Come out of hiding, Allen Funt!”

The Oracle scowled. “If you don’t like my advice, you can figure out how to conquer the Lupine yourself. It is perilous to question or mock an Oracle. We’ve been known to add irrelevant tasks to a quest, just for laughs.”

At this point, I needed to protest. I was not interested in leaving my
cushy curio cabinet to go off on some damn fool idealistic crusade. I
shouted, “Do not, for the love of Bozorebo, let me go with that
barbarian!”

The Oracle rolled her eyes. “Oh yes. Did I mention it talks? It is quite loud and obnoxious. Its screams have pierced dimensional boundaries.”

*************************
That seems a good place to leave it for today.

feuilleton / figh – yeah – TOn / a work of fictions printed in installments.

Ten years ago, this week, a landmark decision was made in a California court. It has changed the dynamics in a very active workplace battlefield.

Today’s Word:

thurification

As in:

It has been ten years since California Judge Lance Ito ruled that people who smoke are protected under the Americans with Disabilities Act. The ruling, which supported the case of a California employee who was fired because they took “smoke breaks” which regularly averaged a total of 2 hours during an typical work day of eight hours.

The Judge ruled that, “Since those who smoke may experience severe physical, mental and emotional problems if required to work eight hours without reasonable time to have a smoke break, especially in non-smoking offices, their ability to perform their duties is severely impaired. It is likely that the lack of productivity caused by workers frequently stopping work to ‘have a smoke’ is less than or equal to the productivity levels of a nicotine addict suffering from withdrawal.”

The ruling infuriated non-smokers, who find it unfair that they are not entitled to the same number of breaks granted to smokers. “This ruling is not fair. Just because I don’t smoke means I have to work a full eight hour day instead of a six hour day. Sure I’ll live longer, but I think it’s time we demand equal breaks. I am outraged. No amount of thurification can cover up how poorly this decision stinks.”

The war between the smokers and the non-smokers over equal breaks has raged for ten long years, with neither side gaining a decisive advantage. During these ongoing battles, employers have been looking for a way to recoup some of the productivity loss as workers try to “out-break” each other.

These increasingly lengthy break times have lead employers to lobby for a ten hour work day to assure that eight full hours of work will get completed. “In a work environment where employees can have 15 minutes on every hour to smoke, and non-smokers are trying to take equal breaks, it’s nearly impossible for the employer to get value out of the wage that is being paid for workers,” noted one frustrated CEO. “Between the rising health care costs, for both smokers and non-smokers, and the absurdity of two non-productive hours in an 8-hour day, it’s no wonder the economic recovery is going slowly.”

***************
I’m very glad it’s Friday.

thurification \ THOOR-if-i-ca-shun\ : The act of burning incense, or of filling a room with the fumes of burning incense. From the Latin thus, thuris which is frankincense. I know I didn’t make it too clear in the story, but, well that’s a fume of a different scent, and it’s also poetic license.

I was home sick today, which was not my favorite thing ever. After I got out of bed, I dug into the ancient and not-as-vast-as-I’d-like archive to bring you this story.

Today’s Word:

floccinaucinihilipilification

As in:

It has been a decade since George Lucas made a surprising revelation, that he no longer intends to make nine Star Wars movies, but will stop at six.

This statement, which has incited thousands of Star Wars fans to riot in key cities, is being blamed for much more than mass hysteria.

Many claim that leaving the series only two-thirds completed will cause a huge rip in the space-time continuum, opening up a gateway between times, places and multi-space dimensions. These claim that the rip will cause massive chaos and will usher in the end of the world in the year 2013.

To avert this disaster, many writers are attempting to craft the final three installments of the saga. Some of the best known and well-respected science fiction writers have been assembled to discuss the fate of the heroes of the Star Wars universe, and, simultaneously, the universe itself.

One of the early drafts, which puts the Star Wars characters in a situation similar to the one faced by the people of the Earth, C3-PO and R2D2 are afflicted with problems associated with the year 10,000 problem of the G.C.E. (Galactic Common Era). During this time of uncertainty, the remnants of the evil Empire, starts to regain some of its strength by selling Y10K insurance and assorted overpriced gift packages, cookies, candies and gift wrap. The proceeds from these businesses have gone towards the building a third Death Star in secret, since, well they didn’t know what else to do.

To prevent the Death Star from being built, the Star Wars heroes travel back in time, find themselves in a place with distinct parallels to 1960s Earth, save some whales and John F. Kennedy, and come back to their own galaxy of the future to find a kinder, gentle Empire. The Empire of this alternate future, having learned the folly of building Death Stars, especially ones with a single really fatal flaw, is a dumb idea, is spending its resources improving the capabilities of its Stormtroopers to teach them how to shoot accurately.

Gorge Lucas’ floccinaucinihilipilification of the project has left many of the writers discouraged, but plan to bravely continue with their project.

****************

Maybe I should start writing Episode VII myself.

To you doubters out there, “floccinaucinihilipilification” is a word, and is the longest unchallenged, nontechnical word in the English language. The nice thing about floccinaucinihilipilification, is that it actually has a useful and usable meaning. It is also not cheating, that is, it’s not made up of a bunch of prefixes and suffixes just to make it longer.

floccinaucinihilipilification: / flox – SUH – naw – SUH – naw – hil – UH – pil – UH – fi – cay – SHUN / the estimation of something as valueless.

There are distinct rumors going around in my head that I might just be starting to get not only caught up, but ahead of things in the not-too-distant future. Ahead of things would really be a wonderful, awesome miracle, so if you could, think very good thoughts and that little fairy should take to its wings and fly. Hopefully, it will not then immediately fly into a windshield or something. That would be awkward.

Today’s Word:

demesne

As in:

There are dangers lurking in every office building. These dangers go beyond the leftovers in the shared refrigerator, beyond the creepy guy in the break room with the red stapler, and beyond the sharp corners of paper. This is the danger at the heart of the buildings themselves.

Within the design of office buildings, with their long stretches of identical halls and teasing passageways, is a a deep, malevolent intent. Buildings are keen to keep you, after all. A building intends to trap and confuse anyone who enters into its demesne. Those that, for even one moment, become lost or disoriented are in danger of being captured by the cunning creatures of the modern labyrinth. They only need a sliver of purchase to snag their prey, and they will snatch that sliver in the instant between breaths.

One of the most insidious of these lurking foes is the filotaur, a creature with the head of a bull, and the torso of a file cabinet. Its head remains hidden with the most sophisticated camouflage known to the animal kingdom.

When the creature strikes, late at night, when you are all alone, it folds you into its drawer-depths, and files you away, never to be retrieved.

Another creature from the bowels of hell and office buildings, is the waiting room couch, a creature more accurately called the sofastasaurus, which lies in wait for someone to rest her weight on its lap. The “lap” will flip the unfortunate soul into a fold of the membrane between the “back” and the “seat,” sliding them into its churning stomach. In seconds the trap resets, and the sofastasaurus returns to its harmless and even comfy-looking appearance. It loves to exude disorienting pheromones into the winding, identical passages, until its prey, tired of wandering aimlessly and confused by the sweet smell, the victim lets down his gaurd and relaxs on the inviting cushion-like seat. Too late! The trap has sprung.

Beware the terrors of the office building! Heed this warning. Always bring a buddy, and never, ever stay after hours.

*******************
You always knew there were dangers in the office.

demesne / di – MAN / realm or domain.

This is a follow-up to the story which mutated from the original idea in many ways. Here is a version that is closer to what I’d originally envisioned. Think of it as my own version of 13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.

Today’s Word

cachet

As in:

A crowd had started to gather near the mall’s stage where an unscheduled event had begun. It was a mere thirty minutes before the Beliston* Studio dancers were to take the spotlight for a holiday recital at the shopping mall.

The drama had been building for several minutes when one of the school’s instructors started conversing with a gentleman who had identified himself as a talent scout. The dance instructor was becoming increasingly agitated, and, what the gathered crowd had noticed, but which had bypassed the scout, was that the dance instructor, weakened from starvation, stress and exertion, was five seconds away from finding a weapon to beat the man to death.

The obvious threat, was excellent and compelling drama in any small town and the crowd was enjoying the treat. It was even better knowing that the scout was completely unaware of his own peril.

“Who are you to think you have the cachet to pronounce judgment on my students?!”

“Lady, you’re nuts. I’ve got as much right to have an opinion as any audience member.”

“An audience member! An audience member! Ha! You are a career wrecker, you! You monster! Shattering a child’s dreams!”

“I think you’re mistaken. I work for the Baltimore Ravens…”

“Shhhh, you! I don’t care about your obsessions! Nevermore, I say!”

“Now it becomes clear! I’m involved in a pointless conversation with a bird-brained nut job!”

“This conversation is more pointed than your head. Clearly, with your attention span, you have forgotten that you are here to shatter dreams, and I am here to stop you!”

“The only thing you’ve been able to stop is my ability to follow your hallucinatory rantings. Why don’t you just shove a bagel in your mouth and dial the craziness down to eleven. I’m going to take a seat.”

This was the last straw.

The starving, half-mad dance instructor ran straight at him, pushed him down and ripped a plastic chair out of the permanent fixture in the concrete floor, and ran after the poor man, who had finally realized his danger. He also had learned that you, never, ever, tell a starved, crazy dance instructor she’s crazy.

cachet / ca – SHAY / an indication of approval carrying great prestige. 2. a characteristic feature or quality conferring prestige

*An homage, perhaps, but, not a direct reference to a local studio with which some of my readers are well acquainted.

Today’s story grew up from a stay thought in my odd little brain. Of
course, many of you might say that is where all the stories come
from, which, incidentally, would likely be true. Of course, I still
had to find something suitable for…

Today’s Word:

steatopygous

As in:

Today on Masterworks Theater we bring you a rare treat. This work is
the only extant interpretation of what a few scholars believe is the
the earliest dramatic work. It was discovered by Dr. Winston
Albright, an Anthropologist/Archaeologist, who has interpreted a
newly discovered cycle of cave paintings as a dramatic presentation.

This short feature was produced by Dr. Albright, a sample of which is
reproduced below, with translations. Dr. Albright has titled the
work “Ugh,” which roughly translates as “Living and Working.” The
following scene takes place in the “corporate” working work of the
Neanderthal.

DO: Errrgh! Huh!

Translation: Our profit margins are significantly minuscule!
Who’s is responsible for this egregious inefficiency?

AK: Guuuuunnng. Nugg-Nug.

Translation: Nug is the incompetent one. He’s the boss’
nephew, and he has not been able to overcome his primitive urges.

NUG: Euuggh. Arrrrrrrghhh! Uh!

Translation: That is untrue. You’re jealous because your
father still drags his knuckles! We’ll see who will be downsized for
small profits!

AK: Ug. Errrrrrrpyg!

Translation: I am unconcerned by your threats. I may become
unemployed, but you will always be a lazy, steatopygous, imbecile!

Nug: Iggg GAHGggg!

Translation: Your insults will be reported to Human Resources, and you will find yourself shamed and unable to find and keep a mate. Your line will die out!!!!

OG: Puggoo UHHHhhh Jugggg! Nug!

Translation: Enough of this chatter! Solve this problem, or all of you, even Nug, will find themselves fed to the terrible lizards, and eventually turned into oil, and spilled into the Gulf of Mexico!

************************
Scary, isn’t it? Very little changes. I did enjoy writing this story.

steatopygous: / STEE-toe-PI-jee-us / fat-buttocked.

This is actually a favorite story of mine from a bygone era, known as the 1990s. You remember, last century.  Things were simpler then. There was no Facebook, money fell from trees, and if someone sent a “tweet,” it was a good idea to open a window.

Today’s Word:

quisquous

As in:

They called him Mr. Floyd. He was the Mystery Man. The one they called when they didn’t know who else to call. He was the Man of Last Resort. For, you see, he was the man who took care of the most difficult cases, the ones that required a special touch. The touch of Mr.  Floyd, the Man. For when the members of organized crime had a problem they could not solve, one that fell out of the normal range of criminal skill, it was up to Mr. Floyd to set things right.

One such case, the Pauli matter, brought Mr. Floyd into the streets late one night. The Boss had called, and Mr. Floyd walked into the dark, dank alley, flanked by two big thugs. And then it began…

“Pauli,” said the quisquous Mr. Floyd, “Can you explain to me why Wassily Kandinsky left his music to paint? Why is it you cannot grasp the fundamentals of post-modern abstract expressionism? Can’t you even differentiate between the neo-classical works of Carravagio and the surrealism of Magritte? Or worse, can’t you tell the difference in the comedic evolution of Mystery Science Theater 3000 since Joel Hodgson left Mike Nelson stranded on the Satellite of Love? Do I have to explain everything? Must I expound on the dilemmas of being qua being, or the fundamentals of Existential Thought? Why do I waste my time?…”

For, Mr. Floyd’s job, you see, is to confuse his victims. His talent is especially effective against those with limited education, cultural background and intellectual gifts. He is routinely called upon to deal with officials of the law to obscure mob activities in a flurry of rhetoric. He is called upon to frighten the more intellectually servile of the organization into doing exactly what the Boss wants them to do. Most go back to their work, their efforts redoubled. They promise to never make a mistake again, just as long as they never again must face the frightening, quisquous Mr. Floyd.

*****************************************
Thank you,  Mr. Floyd.

quisquous / KWIS – kwus / perplexing, puzzling.

I’ve been working on a few extra projects lately, and having a fuller-than-normal schedule has meant that things have gotten very complicated.

After tomorrow, though, I can breathe a little, and I’m really, really, really looking forward to the longs weekend.

Today’s Word:

putative

As in:

Despite putative knowledge that Vincent Van Gogh painted the
masterpiece “Starry Night”, would-be art forgers, Kyle Jenkins and Lucy Logan, set out to copy the work.

The two planned to trick someone into buying it. If that didn’t work, they had a very cunning back-up plan. To trick someone into believing that the one in the museum was a forgery, and then hold the one they created for ransom.

Unfortunately for them, they not only made a poor copy of the well-known work, painting the sky pink with black stars, they signed the work, which was never signed, with the name of Vinny Van Go.

Needless to say, neither of their plans was successful. The would-be criminals, in light of their incompetence, where allowed to remain free, and looked for work as animators.

******************
Shorter than usual, but, a posting.

putative / POO – TAT – ehv / : commonly accepted or supposed