It had been going on for some time before I noticed it. I think it started with my wife, but the boys quickly picked it up, and now it has become a regular part of their vocabulary. It’s the word Plogged.
plogged - If a drain is so badly stopped-up that it is both plugged and clogged—it’s plogged.
I should have seen something like this coming. For years I’ve listened to my wife inadvertently dissect and reassemble clichés into forms that she feels work best for her at any given moment. “You can’t have your cake if it’s already eaten.” True, I suppose. “There are two sides to every pancake.” Uhh, yeah…
I’m pretty sure she butchers clichés just to see my reaction. These quasi Yogi Berra-isms are guaranteed to make me twitch, first, then tense up as I try to refrain from correcting her. I wrestle with this for a few moments but always fall back on the argument that if I correct her when it’s just the two of us, it will save her from embarrassment when she’s having a conversation with someone else. So I correct her. But she really doesn’t care. It is only natural that the manufacture of words would follow such reckless disreguard for language standards.
So now, the boys walk about dropping plog, plogs, plogged, plogging and other forms of this non-word into their conversation, as if it's an accepted part of the language. It's not—I looked it up, just to be sure. From plod the dictionary moves on to plonk (I don’t think that’s a real word either) with no plog between!
In her defense, plog is a word that probably should be in the dictionary. It says what it means, is convenient to use and easily remembered. Maybe she’s onto something, this combining of words to create new words. I’ve played around with it a little bit and come up with a few new words of my own.
yardvark – The neighbor who incessantly moves one side of his landscape to the other, then back again, leaving a good portion of his yard upturned at any time. He sustains himself by snacking on ants.
changevaporate – It’s what happens to loose change when you vacuum the inside of your vehicle. (Confess! Sometimes you vacuum up the pennies on purpose!)
cellularm – The ringing of any mobile phone, among a collection of two or more people, which causes heads to spin, arms to flap and pockets to be patted (hopefully one’s own pockets) as near panic causes all those within earshot (even those without phones) to be concerned that it is their phone that is ringing and that they might miss something that could be better than what they’re presently up to.
dietiquette – When one eats the last three brownies in order to spare their spouse the temptation, because, “You said you wanted to lose some weight!?!”
barbequest – The attempt to complete the preparation of just one meal on the grill, without something burning, falling to the ground, or being snatched up by the dog.
springots – The ingots of treasure that the dog deposited through the course of the winter that reappear in the spring with the melting of winter’s snow.
I’m going to submit these to the people at the Merriam-Webster Dictionary for consideration. Don’t tell my wife, but I’m including Plog in the list—though I’m experiencing an immeasurably deep feeling of uneasiness about it. I think the term for what I'm feeling is abysmalaise.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
The Cha-Chingo Dance
Awhile back, I took my car to a service station for an oil change.
Because I’m thrifty (my wife calls me the “Ch” word) oil changes are a task that I always handle myself. But since my son’s post-accident car replacement sits really close to the ground (and I don’t) I decided to take it to the local garage and have them change the oil. I thought, “It’s just an oil change. How much can it cost, fifteen... twenty bucks?”
I walked into the place just as a customer with an angry scowl was walking out. Nobody was at the counter but I heard a strange sound coming from the service area in the back. As I had stood, contemplating this sound, a garage employee burst from the door that was just behind the counter. He was winded, his face was flushed, and he seemed nervous as he apologized for my wait.
I told him what I needed; not bothering to ask how much it would be because, like I said, it’s just an oil change. He took my keys and directed me to their waiting area.
I didn’t have to wait long. Only eight minutes had passed when another employee (I’ll call him Sparky) breezed through the door from the service area with a big smile on his face and my keys dangling from one finger.
“All done!” Sparky brightly announced.
“That’ll be $53.00!” Chirped Sparky.
“Oh no,” I chuckled, “I had the oil change… the Bonneville?”
“Yep, that’s the one! That’ll be $33.00!” (He was beginning to annoy me) “Oh, wait! I forgot the E.P.A. disposal fee! That’ll be $36.31!”
Now I was the one with a scowl on my face.
I grudgingly paid my ransom and was just out the door when I remembered I had left my receipt on the counter. I stepped back inside and was surprised to see that Sparky had already disappeared. There was that sound again!
Rather than wait to be rediscovered, I decided that I would just poke my head through the doorway to the service area to let them know I was back.
I pushed the door open a little, and that’s when I saw it… the strangest thing.
Both Sparky and the other guy were dancing around the floor of the shop. Occasionally they would lock arms at the elbows and swing around square-dance style. Sparky was waving the copy of my bill over his head as subdued giggles squeaked out of him. The other guy was chanting in hushed tones to the rhythm of their shuffling feet, “Cha-ching…Cha-ching… Cha-chingo… Cha-ching!”
I quietly closed the door and slipped out.
My advice to all of you is this: If you ever enter a service station and hear an unfamiliar sound coming from the back, turn around and run.
Let the sound of the Cha-chingo dance be your warning.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Are You From Licking County?
You might be from Licking County if any three items from the following list apply to you:
1) Your mailbox looks like it was hit by a snowplow (which probably was).
2) Your neighbor’s favorite roofing material is a blue plastic tarp.
3) You are fully prepared (in fact, you expect) to live without electric service for 6 weeks of the year.
4) You count local gossip as the mainstay of available entertainment.
5) You know seven ways to gut a deer.
6) You find yourself driving city-ward weekday mornings and rural-ward weekday afternoons.
7) Your favorite color is plaid.
8) You personally know at least half a dozen farmers.
9) You recognize Blackhand Gorge as a place rather than a medical condition.
10) You’ve bought the hoakum the county engineer put out about potholes being intended for a traffic control.
11) You habitually check your mobile phone’s signal strength before attempting a call.
12) You and all the dogs that live within five miles of your place are on a first name basis.
13) A tree goes down and your first thought is to estimate how many cords of firewood just set itself down for cutting and splitting.
14) You used to get a lot of “snow” on the screen when your television signal was poor—now, with the improvement of digital transmissions, you get a lovely slideshow of impressionist artwork before the little dancing icon says, “No Signal….No Signal….No Signal….”
15) Your tool-of-first-resort, for any repair project, is duct tape.
1) Your mailbox looks like it was hit by a snowplow (which probably was).
2) Your neighbor’s favorite roofing material is a blue plastic tarp.
3) You are fully prepared (in fact, you expect) to live without electric service for 6 weeks of the year.
4) You count local gossip as the mainstay of available entertainment.
5) You know seven ways to gut a deer.
6) You find yourself driving city-ward weekday mornings and rural-ward weekday afternoons.
7) Your favorite color is plaid.
8) You personally know at least half a dozen farmers.
9) You recognize Blackhand Gorge as a place rather than a medical condition.
10) You’ve bought the hoakum the county engineer put out about potholes being intended for a traffic control.
11) You habitually check your mobile phone’s signal strength before attempting a call.
12) You and all the dogs that live within five miles of your place are on a first name basis.
13) A tree goes down and your first thought is to estimate how many cords of firewood just set itself down for cutting and splitting.
14) You used to get a lot of “snow” on the screen when your television signal was poor—now, with the improvement of digital transmissions, you get a lovely slideshow of impressionist artwork before the little dancing icon says, “No Signal….No Signal….No Signal….”
15) Your tool-of-first-resort, for any repair project, is duct tape.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Timing is Everything
Last fall, I built a small shack at the lake—then I cut holes in the floor. Come January, I planned to move the shack onto winter’s frozen water, in order that I might enjoy a bit of ice-fishing.
When the ice was thick enough to support a tractor, Frankie (a local farmer and owner of the nearby bait shop) offered to help, and pulled it onto the ice with his old Farmall H.
I spent a lot of time in my hide-out—fishing, eating, drinking, and napping… dreaming of catching the big one.
It’s a tricky thing to judge when the time is right to pull a shack off the ice. It was forecast to be warm on the day Frankie called me to meet him so we could retrieve mine. In fact, the temperature had been rising all night. By the time I met Frankie, there was an inch of slush on top of the ice.
Frankie pulled the Farmall to the edge of the lake. A half-mile away, there was a big John Deere pulling another shack off the ice. When the John Deere made it to shore without incident, Frankie decided it would be alright to take the Farmall out.
We rode through a cold spray of slush, and then chained the shack to the tractor so we could drag it back to shore. Frankie eased the Farmall forward to tension the chain—then gave it a tug. The shed didn’t budge. On inspection, the shed appeared to be shallowly frozen in the ice under the slush. I used a pair of fencing pliers from the tool box of the tractor to chip at the ice, and signaled for Frankie to try again.
Edging forward, he gave it another pull. This time, the shed seemed ready to break free, so Frankie dropped the Farmall into a lower gear and throttled-up before popping the clutch.
The shed remained locked in the ice as the tractor heaved forward then reared up like a circus pony! Frankie flattened the clutch pedal, causing the front end to drop through the ice with a crash and a splash!
The thrust of the tractor’s forward-falling plunge caused the shed to finally break free and skate forward, as the groaning ice slowly continued to open, seemingly intent on swallowing the tractor, with Frankie still aboard, motionless, and gripping the steering wheel. The ice eventually held—with the Farmall wedged in the gulf. Frankie, ever so gently, reached with his foot to feel for some good ice on which to make his escape.
We were still formulating a rescue plan when the lake refroze that night.
For the next several days, people drove out to the lake to see our Agricultural Ice-Sculpture. Frankie’s insurance agent was one of those visitors. The agent just shook his head as Frankie and I suggested elaborate plans to rescue the tractor. A helicopter was mentioned at one point, but by then the agent was walking toward his car.
I don’t know when the wreck went to the bottom of the lake—but that’s where it is today. I’m still working on a plan to salvage it (the tractor, not the shack). I’ve given up on the helicopter idea—it would probably just open a whole new can of worms insurance-wise.
Maybe, if I time it right, I can retrieve it when the water level of the lake drops this summer. After all, as I’ve learned... timing is everything.
When the ice was thick enough to support a tractor, Frankie (a local farmer and owner of the nearby bait shop) offered to help, and pulled it onto the ice with his old Farmall H.
I spent a lot of time in my hide-out—fishing, eating, drinking, and napping… dreaming of catching the big one.
It’s a tricky thing to judge when the time is right to pull a shack off the ice. It was forecast to be warm on the day Frankie called me to meet him so we could retrieve mine. In fact, the temperature had been rising all night. By the time I met Frankie, there was an inch of slush on top of the ice.
Frankie pulled the Farmall to the edge of the lake. A half-mile away, there was a big John Deere pulling another shack off the ice. When the John Deere made it to shore without incident, Frankie decided it would be alright to take the Farmall out.
We rode through a cold spray of slush, and then chained the shack to the tractor so we could drag it back to shore. Frankie eased the Farmall forward to tension the chain—then gave it a tug. The shed didn’t budge. On inspection, the shed appeared to be shallowly frozen in the ice under the slush. I used a pair of fencing pliers from the tool box of the tractor to chip at the ice, and signaled for Frankie to try again.
Edging forward, he gave it another pull. This time, the shed seemed ready to break free, so Frankie dropped the Farmall into a lower gear and throttled-up before popping the clutch.
The shed remained locked in the ice as the tractor heaved forward then reared up like a circus pony! Frankie flattened the clutch pedal, causing the front end to drop through the ice with a crash and a splash!
The thrust of the tractor’s forward-falling plunge caused the shed to finally break free and skate forward, as the groaning ice slowly continued to open, seemingly intent on swallowing the tractor, with Frankie still aboard, motionless, and gripping the steering wheel. The ice eventually held—with the Farmall wedged in the gulf. Frankie, ever so gently, reached with his foot to feel for some good ice on which to make his escape.
We were still formulating a rescue plan when the lake refroze that night.
For the next several days, people drove out to the lake to see our Agricultural Ice-Sculpture. Frankie’s insurance agent was one of those visitors. The agent just shook his head as Frankie and I suggested elaborate plans to rescue the tractor. A helicopter was mentioned at one point, but by then the agent was walking toward his car.
I don’t know when the wreck went to the bottom of the lake—but that’s where it is today. I’m still working on a plan to salvage it (the tractor, not the shack). I’ve given up on the helicopter idea—it would probably just open a whole new can of worms insurance-wise.
Maybe, if I time it right, I can retrieve it when the water level of the lake drops this summer. After all, as I’ve learned... timing is everything.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Tax Assistance
Pointless Disclaimer: The author of these instructions is not a Certified Public Accountant, an agent of the IRS, or an author. Anything taken as the truth must be returned immediately, and the offending party should remove one shoe and repeat the phrase: “Shame, shame, shame on me” until a passerby drops a green button into the shoe.
SIMPLE INSTRUCTIONS FOR COMPLETING ANY TAX FORM
Assemble the counterfeit documents that you have fabricated for this purpose.
Choose a work place that is hidden from possible witness to your impending fraud. This may be your kitchen table if it faces east, but it is better to work in a dark room or behind your back.
Dress comfortably. You are going to be at this awhile, and there is likely to be a good deal of thrashing about and cursing. It is an established fact that one curses best when one is dressed comfortably.
Select a blank tax form, any form will do—a bonus deduction will be allowed if the form is printed in Braille or Morse code. Position the form, with your counterfeit documents, in a precise arc or in three horizontal columns. Failure to select the correct configuration for your paperwork shall result in significant penalties, which will be disguised as more of those enigmatic fees in your monthly utility bills.
Enter your name in the box labeled: Name
At this point, it is recommended you take a break. Get some exercise to stimulate the circulation and to clear your muddled head. Walking makes for good exercise—a brisk march to the local pub may suggest opportunity for further stimulation.
You should now be ready to address the business at hand... but first take a nap. This ought to be done somewhere other than the pub.
Once you have risen and are feeling well rested, though perhaps a bit fuzzy, seek advice from any of the following (and only legitimate) tax authorities: psychic, witch doctor, prophet, sorcerer, guinea pig farmer and if available in your area, man behind the curtain. It is also recommended that you consult a cabbie... or your barber if it is Wednesday.
IMPORTANT! Do not contact the IRS for assistance in completing your tax form—they won’t disclose the answers until you have turned in your test, and contacting them will only draw attention to your flimsy documentation (Honestly, your left-handed script isn’t fooling anyone).
Once the appropriate professional advice has been secured and all of the spaces on your tax form have been penned with legible zeros, take another break. By now you should have come to realize that according to the United States Internal Revenue Code, Catch-22 of Paradox 666 it is impossible to complete any tax form.
Staple your documentation to the form, in triplicate, and bury this packet (now evidence) at the foot of a gingko tree. Tomorrow morning—move to another country, change your name, alter your physical appearance, and choose a new line of work. It’s the simplest thing, really.
SIMPLE INSTRUCTIONS FOR COMPLETING ANY TAX FORM
Assemble the counterfeit documents that you have fabricated for this purpose.
Choose a work place that is hidden from possible witness to your impending fraud. This may be your kitchen table if it faces east, but it is better to work in a dark room or behind your back.
Dress comfortably. You are going to be at this awhile, and there is likely to be a good deal of thrashing about and cursing. It is an established fact that one curses best when one is dressed comfortably.
Select a blank tax form, any form will do—a bonus deduction will be allowed if the form is printed in Braille or Morse code. Position the form, with your counterfeit documents, in a precise arc or in three horizontal columns. Failure to select the correct configuration for your paperwork shall result in significant penalties, which will be disguised as more of those enigmatic fees in your monthly utility bills.
Enter your name in the box labeled: Name
At this point, it is recommended you take a break. Get some exercise to stimulate the circulation and to clear your muddled head. Walking makes for good exercise—a brisk march to the local pub may suggest opportunity for further stimulation.
You should now be ready to address the business at hand... but first take a nap. This ought to be done somewhere other than the pub.
Once you have risen and are feeling well rested, though perhaps a bit fuzzy, seek advice from any of the following (and only legitimate) tax authorities: psychic, witch doctor, prophet, sorcerer, guinea pig farmer and if available in your area, man behind the curtain. It is also recommended that you consult a cabbie... or your barber if it is Wednesday.
IMPORTANT! Do not contact the IRS for assistance in completing your tax form—they won’t disclose the answers until you have turned in your test, and contacting them will only draw attention to your flimsy documentation (Honestly, your left-handed script isn’t fooling anyone).
Once the appropriate professional advice has been secured and all of the spaces on your tax form have been penned with legible zeros, take another break. By now you should have come to realize that according to the United States Internal Revenue Code, Catch-22 of Paradox 666 it is impossible to complete any tax form.
Staple your documentation to the form, in triplicate, and bury this packet (now evidence) at the foot of a gingko tree. Tomorrow morning—move to another country, change your name, alter your physical appearance, and choose a new line of work. It’s the simplest thing, really.
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