by Nicole DeMarco
I don’t know anything about parenting, but I do enjoy this since I think taboo language is a social construct and words receive shock value arbitrarily, not inherently.
Tasty and caffeinated
Even better iced
Goes well with muffins
Blueberry and even corn
Donuts of all sorts
Cramming for a test
My Dunkin’ keeps me awake
Should I want a rest
My classroom comrade
Nearing your demise
You’re gone and I cry
Before I continue, I’d like to issue the following disclaimer: if there exists a word (in English, or any other tongue) that means any of these things, I’m fully unaware. My goal in writing this is merely to pick up the slack of our Indo-European predecessors.
1. Starvacillangst [star-vas-ill-angkst] (noun): The anxiety one feels when unable to decide what he or she is in the mood to eat.
The hardship of the hungry! The frustration of the famished! Do I want a turkey club? Nachos? Pad Thai? Do I wanna go HAM (mmm…ham) on a sleeve of Oreos? Make a man out of some chips? Would some guac hit the spot? (No wait. Disregard that last example. Everyone always wants guac, no matter what).
The thing is, everything you think you might want to eat is a completely different taste, which makes narrowing down the selection even more of a Herculean task. If you settle on the wrong thing, your meal just feels like a colossal waste of eating and a caloric assault on your taste buds.
Ex: The menu diversity at Shirley’s local eatery gave her an overwhelming bout of starvacillangst, causing her to order one of everything.
2. Celerambulatorability [suh–ler-am-byuh-luh-tour-uh-bill-i-tee] (noun): The capacity to hastily decide if one has enough time to cross the street before getting hit by a car.
One must be swift-footed and sure to successfully pull off this jaywalk jog. Reluctance in step or hesitance in gait means either a) you’re now one of those douchebags stuck in the middle of the street between traffic lanes b) you suck because now your friends have to wait for you on the other side of the road or c) you actually got hit by a car.
Ex: Peggy Sue is a nice gal and all, but her celerambulatorability is abysmal; she’s lucky to be alive after today’s trek through NYC.
3. Interattirecide [in-ter-uh-tahy-ra-sahyd] (verb): To struggle in trying to choose between clothing sizes.
I can’t necessarily speak to the universality of this dilemma, but it’s happened to me often enough that I desperately hope it’s not another one of those “no that’s just you” problems.
Anyway, this is sort of the worst. Maybe one size is a better length, but tighter around the middle. Perhaps you’ve recently tacked on a few el bees and you’re not sure if your normal size can aesthetically accommodate your kimono arms. You get the idea.
Ex: I spent nearly an hour in the Urban Outfitter’s dressing room because I kept interattirecizing after trying on this hipster chic hobo dress.
It’s my ardent contention that these groups of people have a special place reserved for them in the fiery depths of Hades.
1. People That Won’t Stop Talking About Going to the Gym
Look bro, if you’re really pumping iron as hard as your Facebook status, Tweet, and Foursquare check-in suggest, the results will speak for themselves. Because modern science continues to fail me, your working out does nothing for MY waistline, and therefore, I don’t really care.
2. Dieters That Feel the World Ought to Know They’re on a Diet
Closely related, yet distinct enough to merit its own adjacent plot in Tartarus. Look, kudos to you if you wanna unclog your arteries and lower your cholesterol. Seriously. That’s swell. But unless you’re Kirstie Alley, there’s just no need to publicize your dietary exploits.
Oh, what’s that? Today you only ate three blades of grass and half a serving of kale? That’s neat. I had a muffin, four bagels, and three small children.
My main question for these folks is, “What do you want me to say?” Seriously, ‘cause I have no goddamn idea how to respond to the epic shitstorm of information you just laid on me. Like none whatsoever. Oh, your boyfriend cheated on you with your mom? You’re $200,000 in debt and the bank is going to foreclose on your house? You have the clap?
Do I commiserate? Do I minimize your suffering? Offer a tragic anecdote of my own? I only met you five minutes ago, so I really don’t know which route you’d prefer.
4. People That Preface Statements with, “No offense, but…”
Nice distancing move and all, but there’s a 99 percent chance that I’m still going to be offended by whatever is about to come out of your mouth. You probably could have guessed that, though, otherwise you wouldn’t have felt the need to use this verbal maneuver in the first place. Next time, don’t bother vainly trying to soften your bluntness. Just man up and say what ya gotta say.
5. Joke Thieves
You suck and you’re not funny. You ganked comedic intellectual property and thus, you’ve landed yourself eternal residency in Satan’s quarters. Extra fire and brimstone for you if you’re one of those people that merely repeats something someone just said, only louder.
6. Movie Talkers
“What’s happening?” “Who’s that?” “Do they die at the end?” Oh em eff gee, I don’t know. But, if I were a betting gal, I’d stake my life savings that if you just watch the film, you’d find out within the next 90 minutes. Until then, pass the popcorn and sta’ zitto!
I love this.
He will tell all of his friends that you are breathtaking. And when they smile politely he’ll repeat it, slowly, No, I mean really, truly breeaaatthhhtakkkiinnngg, will insist that they think about what it would feel like to have the very wind sucked out of them and placed inside of a music box. They won’t understand, but it will be the best way he will know how to describe why when you looked at him for the first time, all he could hear was music and the sound of his own breathing.
You will meet him at a pie-eating contest or at a bad house party or because you happen to be the only two people who like going to the park when it rains. He will be friendly and ask you for your name. You will give it to him. You will talk for hours and when he finally…
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The following is an empathetic address to my ambulatory comrades in sneakers, for they too understand the plight about which I am to write.
First, I by no means want to suggest that the gripes one may have with being stuck behind the wheel on the freeway-turned-parking lot are in some way illegitimate. No man, that sucks, too. I merely want to convey that there exists an anger that, while in a similar vein, is distinct and worth documenting.
Here’s the thing: if you’re driving and I’m walking, you’re just definitely going to arrive at your destination before I arrive at mine. There is simply no need to show a blatant disregard for common courtesy and human life by rounding corners at breakneck speeds while I’m strutting through an intersection.
Perhaps this can be chalked up to an ignorance of some extraordinarily basic (so much so that unawareness where these are concerned should probably merit a license revoking) traffic laws. Allow me to elucidate the masses. Those white lines painted on the ground between blocks? Yeah, not just a widespread modern art exhibit. That means there’s a crosswalk there. Aptly named, these portions of road are “walk” ways on which those travelling by foot “cross” the street. Mind blow, right? (God I hope not).
I can concede that it’s an entirely different ballgame (woo, sports) when you see some bozo jaywalking, or lazily plodding along like they own the streets. Those jerks should get a move on. But when I get the ever-indignant “what-the-fuck” hands from a driver who’s only pissed because I disrupted their crosswalk creep, I get mad. Don’t stare at me like I did something wrong. You’re only making me want to slow my roll and watch you nervously alternate between braking and accelerating, undoubtedly weighing the pros and cons of doing some time behind bars for a hit and run. In short, you’re giving me a complex.
Just one more thing—if you insist on careening about the streets with reckless abandon, could you at least get better taste in tunes? Because if I do one day get mowed down by one of these overly zealous, vehicularly-equipped folks, I really don’t want the last thing I hear before being creamed by your car to be the David Guetta-Rihanna-Justin Bieber mash-up blasting through your open windows.
Maybe the continuation of this phenomenon isn’t the worst thing in the world. After all, I have always wanted an excuse to yell, “I’m walkin’ here!!”
While it is paramount that these dilemmas be kept in perspective, there is surely no harm in delighting in the absurdity that comprises this non-exhaustive account of the quandaries unique to the Ipad-toting, Benz-driving, quinoa-munching members of the First World.
1. Deciding If Something Is More of a Tweet or Facebook Status
Speaking strictly from personal experience, nothing causes me to spiral into existential crisis mode quite like this debacle. Can my amusing anecdote about the annoying sluts that sit behind me in philosophy be adequately conveyed in 140 character or less? Could this screenshot get enough ‘likes’ to start its own organized cult following? I just don’t know. I couldn’t possibly post it onto both forums, lest I be called out for such an egregious violation of the sacred laws of social networking. Life is just so hard.
Somehow, “GO DUCK YOURSELF!” just doesn’t pack the same punch as the intended version of this…less than polite…command. How the duck is any self-respecting texter supposed to deliver scathing diatribes when up against a hurdle so insurmountable as autocorrects? Duck if I know. It’s really hard to communicate what a hardass bitch you are when actual profanities are punctuated by mentions of quacking birds, and that ducking sucks. (I promise there will be no more lame duck / fuck jokes for the duration of this piece).
3. Forgetting Your Headphones
This is especially dreadful if you’re a public transportation commuter. I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say you’d all much rather listen to the dulcet tones of your fave Pandora station than the cacophonous screeching of babies and the bumbling drivel of the schizophrenic dude next to you. (I am by no means trivializing the severity of this or any other personality disorder). This disaster can strike in other contexts, too. Getting that heart rate up at the gym is exponentially more torturous without your carefully made playlist available. If you’re super bougie, you’ll be mourning the absence of your Bluetooth earbud things that probably cost more than my first car.