While it all falls apart

It seems like every 12 months now – usually during the first few weeks of January – we’re treated to a literary phenomenon known as The Word of the Year. You know what I’m talking about. Brand-name dictionaries pick a newly popularized word they think got over-used the previous year (often it’s newly minted, too) and add it to the latest edition of their official glossaries.

In 2025, Merriam-Webster chose ‘slop,’ which the company says refers to “digital content of low quality produced usually in quantity by means of artificial intelligence.”

Not to be out-slopped, the prestigious Oxford University Press got hooked on ‘rage-bait,’ a compound noun rewarded with immediate inclusion in the Oxford English Dictionary. It is now forever defined as “online content deliberately designed to elicit anger or outrage,” in the hope, of course, that you’ll click on it and send a few ad cents to whoever’s managing the website. A good example might be, “Monetize THIS, you #!>!*\#?/!

If that doesn’t get your gorge rising, I don’t know what will.

Lots of folks have a few nasty words of their own for The Word of the Year, but not me. Language, as they say, is a living thing – even if it sometimes smells like it’s been rotting in the basement for a while – and I’m all for jolting it occasionally to bring it back to life. I do have a pejorative to pick, though, with the process for deciding just who gets to choose the vaunted verb. Or noun. Or adjective. Or adverb. Jesus. Somebody stop me before all those things come together into a full sentence!

In fact, I’m thinking maybe I might be the right person for the job. And to demonstrate my seriously deficient bona fides ( i.e., Oxford and Merriam-Webster shouldn’t let me anywhere near this), I have compiled an extraordinarily insightful collection of gratuitously invented words-of-the-year that say more than you probably want to hear about …

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1955    Antennanitis    A fictitious medical condition afflicting second-grade boys thought to be caused by constantly adjusting TV rabbit ears to get a better picture of Annette on the Mickey Mouse Club.

1962    Fwip   The sound Spiderman’s web makes when it shoots across the room. Also, what someone with a speech impediment does to a pancake.

1974    Dicklip    A reference to Richard Nixon’s flagrant untruths regarding the Watergate break-in, as in “I been dicklipped (lied to),” or “Don’t dicklip me.” For those of you who thought I might be going another way with this, you ought to be ashamed.

1991    Badfry    Purportedly linked to a nationwide recall of fast-food French fries, the verb is meant to suggest a disastrously undesirable outcome, as in, “You might want to find another stall. I been badfried.”

2006    Laundrofrat    A group of college men who band together to save money by doing all their wash at the same time in the same coin-operated machine. The term went viral when a single washing machine packed with 37 separate loads exploded in the college town of Dumbalz, Ohio, and left underwear hanging from telephone lines in a half-mile blast radius.

2013    Snowfaked    A word mashup coined when uncountable households along the Eastern Seaboard spent three days and hundreds of millions of dollars in February preparing for a disastrous Nor’easter, only to watch it turn into a Nor’wester.

2020   Snowf_cked    A word mashup coined when uncountable households along the Eastern Seaboard spent three days in February laughing at what they thought was a winter Nor’wester, only to watch it turn into a Nor’easter.

Don’t worry. That’s the last one.

You have my word.

So, I was clipping my toenails the other day when it suddenly occurred to me that there’s really no more than a shade of difference between an aphorism and an epigram.

Before I go any further, by the way, I want to publicly acknowledge how grateful I am to have toenails that require only relatively infrequent trimming to be licensed for exposure in polite society.

You’d be absolutely shocked if I told you just how many of my male friends have toenails that have been officially recategorized as unidentifiable keratinous growths, and as such deemed legally disallowed from making appearances at public swimming pools and beaches. Honest to god, I make them step into buckets of Clorox™ before they’re allowed past my front door.

Now, where were we. Ah, yes. Aphorisms and epigrams. I’ve been reading a book about the history of aphorisms, The World in a Phrase by James Geary, who, like me, “loved the puns, paradoxes and clever turns of phrase” presented in the best of them. If you need an example, here’s one from François-Auguste René de Chateaubriand (Yes, there was such a writer.) “Love decreases when it ceases to increase.” Geary says what defines it as an aphorism is that it’s short, personal, philosophical and has a ‘twist.’

We don’t disagree about that because, well … we have ‘dis agreement between ‘da two of us.

And in that bit of punning lies the crux of my opening point. That previous sentence (We don’t disagree, etc.) may look and sound like it could belong in the family of aphorisms, but it’s really more of an epigram. And now, I suppose, it’s incumbent on me to explain the difference – not an easy task when even the internet concedes that ‘epigram’ and ‘aphorism’ are often used interchangeably. The best it can come up with is that the latter generally aims to highlight a universal principal of some kind, while the former – although it may contain a dollop of wisdom – puts most of its money on wit and cleverness.

An epigram, perhaps, can be thought of as a poor man’s aphorism. That explains where the money went.

Nothing, however, can explain where I’m going next, which is on a revisionary trek through Benjamin Franklin’s Poor Richard’s Almanack in search of modifications relevant to life in the 21^st century. They could be aphorisms. They could be epigrams. They could amount to nothing more than silly sayings that never made it to Bazooka Bubble Gum™ wrappers.

What they cannot be, however, is ignored. You’ve come too far for that.

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“Women are books, and men the readers be.”  Although it DOES seem like the guys have to turn to dictionaries way too often.

“There cannot be good living where there is not good drinking.”  It’s impossible for me to come up with any words to improve on that observation. Mostly because my mouth is full of wine.

“Fish and visitors stink in three days.”  Which explains why the weekend lasts only two.

“Clean your finger before you point at my spots.”  Unless pointing at my spots was what made your finger dirty in the first place.

“He that drinks his cider alone, let him catch his horse alone.”  This, after that ‘good living, good drinking’ thing? Pretty harsh, dude.

“There are three faithful friends: an old wife, an old dog and ready money.”  Yeah. And guess which one I’m choosing!

“Today is yesterday’s pupil.”  Which means the poor son of a bitch never had a chance of getting to class on time.

“Great modesty often hides great merit.”  Sometimes, though, it just means the guy doesn’t have a lot going for him.

“Praise to the undeserving is severe satire.”  Hmm. Maybe that’s why everyone finds those White House Cabinet Meetings so laughable.

NEW YORK POST – A (fitness) model was left red-faced after almost climaxing in her Pilates class. The 25-year-old normally loves working out, but during a recent group session she panicked after a specific ab exercise saw her oxytocin levels rise as she fought back an orgasm. Exercise-induced orgasms are fairly rare, but not unheard of. A sex researcher estimates that roughly 10% of people have them.

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(Our hero, ruminating on a cold February morning.)

Man. This sub-freezing winter weather is the worst. Blanketed in dirty white. Battling SAD. Whipped by windchill into captivity in my own castle, where the only entertainment amounts to dumping wine down my gullet and watching in 4K as the atrophy spreads from my calves to my collar bone.

You know what I need? I need to get moving. Kickstart the old ticker. I need some exercise. Yeah. I gotta get some exercise.

Too bad I don’t have any equipment that might …  Hey. Wait a minute. Haven’t I got some kind of apparatus down in the basement – something I bought when the world was supposedly coming to an end during Y2K? What the hell was the name of that thing, anyway. Pytolis? Lipotty? Pie Plates? Hold on. I think it sounds something like coffee and a prescription drug. Pill, pill … PILATES! Oh, my God. I have a Pilates downstairs!

OK. Let’s see what we’ve got here. Holy smokers, is that it? My God, really? It’s a floor machine? Jesus. How am I gonna get down there? Those two soft things sticking up look suspicious, for sure. And what are those ropes for? Cripes. Looks like a little bit more than exercise might be going on here.

All right. I think this is how I’m supposed to fit into this thing. So … what parts of this sagging sack of flesh should I begin to address first. Thighs? Nah. It wouldn’t be wise to work on my thighs, since they’re just the right size. (Heh, heh. Nothing like a little exercise poetry to get you motivated.) The bi’s and tri’s family? I dunno. I think maybe I’m already getting enough of a workout doing reps with the TV remote and the wine bottles.

Hey. What about my abs? That six-pack is starting to look like a keg, you know? Yeah. That’s a good place to start. What’s the best way to focus on that particular muscle group? Let’s see. If I slip my feet into these leather stirrups and reach back here with my arms for something to hold onto …

Whoa, whoa. This is definitely NOT a position I’d like to be photographed in. And I’m thinking it wouldn’t engender a hell of a lot of pride in my mom, either. OK, OK. Let’s just take a deep breath and see what happens here.

I’m thinking I probably should try to do a sit-up, and …

Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Is this thing sliding back and forth? Jesus! I’m strapped to a set of rails! What kind of demonic contraption is this, anyway? And why does it feel so good? So very, very good …

(Cheesy electric guitar music rises in the background as our hero slowly loses consciousness and the camera fades to black)

NEW YORK (AP) – In (a recent) study, scientists discovered that pups can understand new names by eavesdropping. Ten gifted dogs watched their owners hold a new toy and talk to another person about it. Then the pups were told to go to another room and retrieve that specific toy. Seven out of 10 successfully learned the names of their new toys. [According to an animal cognition expert], the new work shows how “animals have a lot more going on cognitively than maybe you think.”

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(Duffy, lying under a living-room window in the warm winter sun)

Jesus, what’s that guy who feeds me mumbling about now? And who’s that babe on the couch with him? My God, does he EVER stop entertaining?

(lifts his head for a better view)

Let’s see. Crab dip. Castelvetrano olives. Vacherousse D’Argental with gluten-free crackers. Impressive. It would be nice, though, if once in a dog’s year some of my Beggin’ Strips™ landed up there with the hors d’oeuvres. Just sayin,’ ya’ know? It may be time to make an excretory point …

(smacks his lips and lazily rolls over on his side)

It’s kinda too bad, really. Nice fella, for the most part. Always can count on him for the premium kibble … and, yeah, even an occasional table scrap. Almost never complains about having to follow me around with that plastic bag, either. But, lord, he is such a doofus. Gonna have to take it to the next level if he ever expects to get a paw up with the available females in the neighborhood. Speaking of a leg up, I think it’s about time for a walk around the prop …

(springs excitedly into a sitting position)

Hey, wait a minute! What’s that thing she just pulled out of her purse? Some kind of soft toy with a tinkly thing on it! Damn, it’s beautiful! Like nothing I’ve ever seen. I want it!

(prances over to the smiling woman, sits, pants and looks longingly at the new toy while she makes it jingle)

Oh, yeah. I need that! Whoa, whoa!! Why’s she giving it to him? I said I wanted it!

(jumps onto the sofa and nudges the guy who feeds him)

Gimme that, you stinking thief! Jesus. Why doesn’t he hand it over? Doesn’t he know what I can do to his vintage Persian carpet? I swear, by Christ’s canine apostle Duke, I’ll turn that thing into the most expensive dog run he’s ever seen unless he …  Now what? Why does he keep trying to call it “Squishy?” That thing’s an over-stuffed cotton bratwurst if I ever saw one! What the hell is he talking about?

(watches in head-twisting puzzlement as the guy who feeds him gets up from the couch, clutching the toy, and walks into an adjacent room)

Where’s he going with my toy? (turns to the woman on the couch and whines slightly) You were just about to give it to me, right? Yeah. Sure, you were! And he just walks away with it? You gotta do something, lady. That thing is rightfully mine. Wait. There he is. He’s coming back now. OK, OK. Now I get it. He probably just wanted to make sure it was nice and clean before I tore it apart and spread it all over the house. See? I told you. He’s basically a nice guy. Except … WHERE’S THE TOY?

(jumps off the couch and paws at his pant leg)

Where were you, dude? And why do you keep shouting “Go find Squishy! Go find Squishy?” Once and for all, who the hell is Squishy? And where’s my bratwurst?

(pauses, then trots in the direction of the adjacent room, but stops suddenly, turns and woofs softly at the humans on the sofa)

All right. I’m a player. If that’s how you want things to go down, fine. I’ll do it. I’ll get you what you want. Could take a while, though. (turns, and disappears into the adjacent room)

(reappears several minutes later carrying a dress shoe that’s been gnawed to shreds and drops it in front of the guy who feeds him)

Check inside. I left something for you. It’s squishy.

McCOMB, MISS. (AP) – The Dinner Bell Restaurant consists of just four tables. Large and circular, they seat (up to) 15 people. In the center of each is a giant lazy Susan dotted with heaping platters of food, spinning back and forth as customers pile up their plates. The rotating tables provide a unique opportunity to meet new people, hear different perspectives and bond over a shared enjoyment of classic Southern food.

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Imagine my astonishment: a gigantic tabletop on roller balls, jam-packed with Southern-fried chicken, mac ‘n cheese, two kinds of soup, fried baloney, coleslaw and onions, fresh-baked rolls, pork ‘n beans, pigs-in-a-blanket, pickled eggs, corned beef and cabbage, carafes of tea and coffee, and a colossal heap of green salad, all of it bejeweled with scattered cut-glass containers of mustard, ketchup and tomato jelly. Yes, of course I thought it was all mine. Who wouldn’t? I was the only one sitting there.

Speechless (mostly because of an incessant flood of drool blocking the formation of understandable words), it took me a full 10 minutes to visually prioritize the pile of protein and carbs positioned just off my pectorals, and then formulate an expeditious plan of attack. But I managed. Then, settling on a life-long favorite, I reached for a casserole dish overflowing with baked, three-cheese macaroni … only to have it slowly, mysteriously, float away from me.

“What the hell?” I mumble-whispered. “Is this buffet haunted?” Reflexively checking my fingers to rule out the paranormal possibility that the pasta itself had been magnetically repulsed by my dirty hands, I looked up to discover that eight strangers – apparently all acquainted with each other – had suddenly, magically, materialized around the table.

“Try the pickled radishes, Helen,” one of them shouted.

“Oh, I know,” her friend replied enthusiastically. “They’re absolutely delicious. Here. Have some of these hash browns. I’ll push ‘em around to you.”

And my mac ‘n cheese got even farther away.

“Goodness!” insisted another frenetic foodie. “Try the corn salad. Wait!” she cried, briefly putting a brake on the turning table. “I need some of that sauerkraut!” Meats and vegetables and unnamed victuals by the pint were lifted by hand from the spinning shelf, the speed of rotation increased by the dwindling food mass as the target of my own comestible delight continued on its way to the other side of what was now a not-so-lazy Susan.

I pulled out my slide rule in a desperate attempt to calculate the amount of time it might take a rapidly diminishing quantity of food experiencing three G’s of centrifugal force to travel the approximate five feet of curved space remaining before the mac ‘n cheese was in front of me again, but the guy two chairs to my right was mowing through his meatloaf so fast that a piece of gristle flew into my eye and I missed my stop.

Faster and faster the mandala of munchables spun, accelerated by hungry locals armed with years of experience against my amateurish attempts to snag a bite or two as the food flew by. Damn! There goes the chicken. Wait. Here comes the spaghetti. Nope. Maybe next time. I realized I was out of my league when one professional managed to execute the entire plate-filling procedure with his eyes closed.

Now … now I was perturbed. I paid for that delicious mac ‘n cheese, and would no longer be denied. Pushing back my chair, I stood in resolute opposition to the flow of food, bracing myself for the inevitable impact. Here came the casserole, its delightful aroma wafting ahead, fueling my courage. Closer it came, chugging its way toward me like a carb-filled railcar. Three feet! Two feet! One foot! NOW!

Down came my hands like flesh-and-blood brake shoes, bringing the entire mealtime merry-go-round to a screeching halt. The world, it seemed, had come to a stop. No sound. No movement. No breathing. “I WILL,” I said calmly, pausing to look squarely at each food-filled face now riveted solely on me, “be having an unusually large helping of the baked macaroni and cheese.”

After taking a full minute to fill my plate, I quietly placed it on a nearby table, returned to the lazy Susan, announced that I would be more than pleased to help everyone with the rest of their serving chores, and then spun the table as fast as I could, causing the remaining delicacies to become airborne.

“Bon appetit,” I muttered.

NEW YORK POST – A staffer at Dusseldorf’s Kunstpalast art museum (Germany) puts on a twice-monthly “Grumpy Guide” tour in which the surly instructor deliberately insults and belittles his guests – to their utter amusement. (He) wags his finger in guests’ faces, admonishes them for being on their phones or taking a seat, and mocks their ignorance while going through the museum. (The) tours cost around $8 USD and they’ve reportedly sold out every session since they launched in May, with bookings well into 2026.

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(At an expensive restaurant)

RAMON:   Yeah? Something I can do for you? Who, me? Oh, my God, no. I’m not your waiter. You should be so lucky. No, you don’t understand, sweetheart. I haven’t had my second cigarette yet. Say what? You want me to check with the maître d’? What for? Well, all right … I suppose I could. Might be a couple of hours, though.

(Ramon returns)

OK, well, it seems that I AM your waiter after all. Man, I can’t catch a break around here. “Ramon, you’ve got table six! Ramon, you’ve got table seven … and eight, too!” Jesus, am I the only guy here with a pad and pencil? OK, anybody in the group a teetotaler? Good, ‘cuz the drinks around here are outrageously expensive, which translates into me bagging a tidier tip at the end of this yawn party. OK, who wants to go first?

A martini for the lady. (extended pause as Ramon slowly looks her over) Um, I don’t know. Are you sure? I mean, you look like you’ve had two already. You gonna be able to get your lips on that thing without sloshing it all over yourself? Yeah, right. You’ll take it slow. I’m guessing you take pretty much everything slow nowadays.

OK, how about the rest of you? Just a second, let me get this down – a Manhattan for the guy with that thing he thinks is a sexy moustache. You sure you don’t want to mull it over? Heh, heh. Get it. It’s a joke! Manhattan! Mull it! Jesus, you people are slow. All right, how about you two? Huh? You want a wine list? Come on, sport. You gotta be kidding. Look at you. Necktie from JCPenney. Sport coat from Target. No way you can afford anything from our wine cellar. Besides, I never learned how to use one of those stupid French corkscrews. Face it. You and your date are getting a couple of Budweisers. I’ll be right back … in a couple of hours.

(Ramon returns again)

Everyone ready to order? Good. Otherwise, you were gonna go hungry. All right, you first, madam. Prime rib! Whoa, whoa. I’m guessing your body mass index is like … a thousand! When was the last time your doctor ordered a blood panel? Listen, if I bring you a plate with that on it there’s a good chance I’ll be charged as an accessory to homicide. You’re getting a garden salad with mineral water.

And you, sir. How can I save your life? Oh. Well … normally I’d tell you the octopus was a good choice, but I had a preview of the prep work when I walked through the kitchen to the men’s room and I’d recommend against it. They’ve been tossing them around for fun out there and a bunch landed on the floor. Plus, a couple of them have nine tentacles, so I think something might be wrong. How about the sea scallops instead? They just came in three or four days ago, so they might still be fresh.

All right, now we’re cooking. At this rate we’ll be able to rebrand your dinners as late night snacks. Let’s move on to the lady with too much mascara. What are you looking at as your main course? Jesus, can you even see the menu? Hold on. Hold on. Where’s everyone going? Is there a fire in the kitchen or something?

Wait! Come back! It happens all the time! (chuckling and lighting up a cigarette) It’s how we keep your food warm …