I discovered recently what I am . . . no, let’s not go there . . . actually, I’m a lexophile, one who loves word play, i.e., “You can tune a piano but you can’t tuna fish” or “writing with a broken pencil is pointless,” even to get the lead out. Here all along I thought someone accidentally dropped me on my head as a youngster, and I just never grew up, even while others threw up over my awful anecdotes.
Therefore, welcome, once again, to Lexophile Heaven — or are we heading toward that other place?
I didn’t like my beard at first. Then it grew on me.
This woman today said she recognized me from the Vegetarians Club, but I declared that I never met herbivore.
A thief who stole a calendar got 12 months.
The guy who fell into an upholstery machine last week is now fully recovered – and feeling stuffed.
Haunted French pancakes give me the crepes.
No matter how much you push the envelope, it’ll still be stationery.
I’m reading a book about anti-gravity. I just can’t put it down.
When she saw her first strands of gray hair, she thought she’d dye.
Here’s several pointless daily affirmations that ring somewhat true as I attempt the backstroke through the Slough of Despond (Pilgrim’s Regress?):
As I let go of my feelings of guilt, I can get in touch with my inner Sociopath.
I no longer need to punish, deceive or compromise myself. Unless, of course, I want to stay employed.
My intuition nearly makes up for my lack of good judgement.
I honor my personality flaws, for without them I would have no personality at all.
I need not suffer in silence while I can still moan, whimper and complain.
As I learn the innermost secrets of the people around me, they reward me in many ways to keep me quiet.
All of me is beautiful and valuable, even the ugly, stupid and disgusting parts.
I will strive to live each day as if it were my 40th birthday.
Today I will gladly share my experience and advice, for there are no sweeter words than “I told you so.”
When I say, “The other day,” I could be referring to any time between yesterday and 15 years ago (if I can remember back that far), while leaning a bit too hard on one of the favorite words of us resolute retirees – “tomorrow.”
Replacing words with the names of musical instruments in a sentence often goes undetected, accordion to a recent survey.
Bank teller: “Your account is overdrawn.”
Me: “Well, so are your eyebrows, but here we are.”
Fitness instructor: “Have you ever done a marathon?”
Me: “You mean like on Netflix?”
Somebody said . . . “Being a mother is boring.” Somebody never rode in a car driven by a teenager with a newly-acquired driver’s permit.
. . . “You don’t need an education to be a mother.” Somebody never helped a fourth grader with his math.
. . . “You learn to be a mother by instinct.” Somebody never took a three-year-old shopping.
My spouse told me to stop pretending to be a flamingo, and I had to put my foot down.
About to give up looking for my Webster’s Seventh Fictionary, I finally located it – holding up and balancing a floor leg on our sofa. Small wonder I hadn’t missed it sooner, once these words were reviewed and slightly screwed:
ARBITRAITOR — A cook who leaves Arby’s to work at McDonald’s.
BERNADETTE — The act of torching a mortgage.
BURGLARIZE — What a crook sees through.
AVOIDABLE — What a bullfighter tries to do (on the horns of a dilemma).
COUNTERFEITER — Workers who put together kitchen cabinets (for their own shelf approval).
LEFT BANK — What the bank robbers did when their bag was full of money.
HEROES — What a man in a rowboat does (canoe?).
PARASITES — What you see from the Eiffel Tower.
PARADOX — Two physicians (do they give second opinions, i.e., “You’re ugly and your mother dresses you funny”).
PHARMACIST — A helper on a farm.
RELIEF — What trees do in the spring.
RUBBERNECK — What you do to relax your wife.
SELFISH — What the owner of a seafood store does.
SUDAFED – Bringing litigation against a government official.
In my last job interview, the manager told me, “We’re looking for someone who is responsible.”
“Well, I’m your man,” I replied. In my last job, whenever anything went wrong, they said I was responsible.”
OK, so who’s responsible for this desultory drivel?
Jim Bishop lives in Harrisonburg. He welcomes your comments at email@example.com