I don’t remember which port it was where they picked up a container “Said to contain panties de senora, five and a half tons.”
I don’t remember which port it was where they picked up a container “Said to contain panties de senora, five and a half tons.”
I remembered being coaxed, sweet-talked, to the center of the Columbus Junction swinging bridge. Big cracks between wooden slats.
Let’s be fair. My darling flat-nosed infancy ended a good while ago. Even adolescence is behind me—what with adventures under the sofa and mattress, the deaths of Lambchops, those months during which my nose, body, and voice grew, and for the first time, things got clipped: my heavy coat, my toenails, and, well, my little boy balls. So goes growing up
None of us is likely to be killed for mispronouncing Shibboleth, but once in the plentiful history of humans harassing one another . . . WELL . . .
I confess, like math, cosmology, and my mom’s recipe for Baked Green-beans, the traditional, mythical Christmas story may well benefit from honest review.
“Scooter?”
He didn’t come to the door. I walked into the darkened bedroom, and there he was, as I expected, lying in on the Matelasse Cotton spread.
It’s a chase I’m going to cut to here in this look at the F-word, even though I find a peek at the history of profanity resembles the first sip of a Moscow Mule – there’s more there, and there’s no reason not to reach the bottom – and let me tell you . . .
Scooter Sublime says, “You talking about me again?”
“Not you, silly dog.”
“Really? Sound like me.”
Hurt reigned. Hurt radiated. It pummeled Doug’s heart. It hurt like hell. It hurt like waterboarding hurts. It won’t let you die; it only makes you fear that you will;
You know, Words; those specific sounds we humans make using morphemes that magically move meaning mustered up somewhere in our brains into the world through a variety of factors but mostly through our mouths.
It was exciting, really, a letter that arrived last Saturday from the IRS.
“What’s to know about bacteria?” say we, with a shrug of a shoulder; we who know close to nothing about it.
“We agreed that the body she inhabited was doing its finishing work . . .”
When I was younger, I would never have said, “Just deal with it.” I didn’t know I could be curt. But now I’m nearly two.
I have a pup who needs me to return to some familiar time cycles: time to play, time to be outside, time for grooming, cuddling, roughhousing, learning, time to find mom’s sock and exchange it for a treat.
Go ahead. While you’re reading, try putting the word “while” in your nose.
“Scooter! No!” came my mom’s hissed whisper as she shot through the door and ordered me back inside.