Planes, planes, planes zigging and zorking across the Midwest today. Marquette to Milwaukee to Cincinnati to NYC this early afternoon. No bloggin from Africa likely this week.
Only nugget to report: a friend of mine from one of the three thousand weddings I attended last week informed me that his new favorite personal insult is "clownshoes." As in "Nice catch, clownshoes." Whether or not this insult is a direct offpsring from the oft-repeated description of Michael Bolton as a "no-talent assclown" is unknown. My friend says he enjoys clownshoes for the nebulous nature of the insult it imparts.
Being a fan of mean-spirited humor, and also a guy who always wanted to transcend the classic list of naughty words--be it through lowering the bars of taste, finding new conjugations and suffixes, or simple repetition of the classic effs and esses--I was intrigued.
And then on Saturday, I was in a boat fishing with my biggest brother and my dad. We were attempting to smoke cigars and fish at the same time, pretty much failing at both. My brother--who, I am amazed to report, can still outbelch me--mocked my habit of talking to fish while I tried to pull hooks from their mouths, and both he and dad had laughed uproariously when I inadvertently burned the fingerprints off my left pinky by brushing my hand into my cigar. By the time I lost my smokeestick by responding to a question while my head was out over the water, the trip had long since morphed into a danged rip-on-John-athon.
Mind you, I got two big bass into the boat, and bro and big poppa landed dork. For sure I was minding it: when my brother overcast by a few inches and snagged some weeds, I said "Nice cast, snackbag." And a little Microsoft error chime went off in my head: where did that come from?
Can't say, but I like it. I spent a good five minutes in the boat doting out loud over snackbag like a proud father. I have high hopes for it. Blog readers, this is my gift to you. Take snackbag to you story meetings, you water coolers, your lunch tables. Call editors, pupils, coworkers and acquaintences "snackbag," and cherish it as the oppurtunity it is: to use vulgarity without the social consequences the use of vulgarity brings.
I hope Ken Layne felt this proud the first time he told someone "It's 2001, and we can Fact Check your ass." Not that it is any more. But we still can.
