![ragbag:
summer is over, finally
thank goodness, i sure was getting tired of playing beach blanket bingo with breast models and curling fifty pound dumbbells while sprinting up sand dunes. if you are like me and missed out on much of the internet this summer, the robot guestblogger that wrote all my posts for me these past few weeks has kindly recapitulated all of the words of the word summer series.
today’s creative writing assignment: write a short story employing the following 19 words from the preceding 19 weeks of summer:
acyrological · incorrect in use of words
lobcock · a blundering fool
crwth · an ancient celtic violin
pfuiteufel · an exclamation of contempt or disgust
tenebrio · one who lurks in the dark
agathokakological · composed of good and evil
ville lumière · an exciting modern city
sythe · one’s pilgrimage on earth; the course of one’s life
pruno · in prison, an improvised alcoholic drink
transclout · to alter appearance by wearing ill-fitting clothes
kill-cow-fray · something made up to terrify
quia timet · an action brought to prevent possible future injury
catoptromancy · divination by means of a mirror
gyte · mad, out of one’s senses
sanguivorous · feeding on blood
whiskerandoed · heavily whiskered
triacontaëterid · a period of thirty years; a festival occurring every 30 years.
eirmonger · a dealer in eggs
schlimazl · a consistently unlucky person
while the word summer series has terminated, autumn brings with it the exciting season premiere of f-words and—as i’m sure the suspense has been gripping you through may, june, july, and august—the cliffhanger involving a bike ride, a salami, and a fanny pack will finally be resolved.
He was a lobcock if there ever were one. A private busybody, a worrywart tenebrio, a shy schlimazl who spent life in the ville lumière of Escondido mostly sweating gently in the shadows of his trash-strewn foyer. Yes, Oswald left the sythe or sojourn of the soul to others.
Sure. He had hobbies. He had a job. He was an eirmonger, whose daily deliveries of jumbo, large or pee-wee (greater that 1.25 oz.) eggs left him little time for his passion, the crwth. “Passion” might be a bit acyrological, a bit of a stretch. In truth, the whiskerandoed Oswald only felt his soul stir when gently twisting the ends of his rough-hewn mustache. The dulcet tones of his crwth whimpered out of his apartment with the regularity and robust energy of a reticent lemur.
In truth, it was the kill-cow-fray calamities of daily existence that stunted his zeal for Irish airs or even the casually twined frays of mutton chops. His every action was a reaction against the chimeras of perceived misfortune, a quia timet in perpetual motion. But he wasn’t gyte, not by a long shot. Oswald, like the rest of our agathokakological race, feared the sanguivorous, desiring hordes with good, if not perfect reason.
Each morning, in his idle moments before the mirror, Oswald would indulge the dark art of catoptromancy, hazy as this practice might be in the gray murk following his marathon showers. But on this particular morning, the triacontaërid of his birth, Oswald saw a dark portent arise from his foggy forecast.
Something wicked was worming its way toward Oswald. None of his usual methods of evasion would work now. Not his usual exclamatory pfuiteufel. Not his morning pruno mixed with prune juice. Nor even his efforts to transclout his bella figura with the dysmorphic powers of unequal suspenders.
No. It was on its way. There was nothing to be done.
[To be continued.]
Yours in Earnest,
Tragos](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_l8w9o4BKWd1qzrip0o1_500.png)
summer is over, finally
thank goodness, i sure was getting tired of playing beach blanket bingo with breast models and curling fifty pound dumbbells while sprinting up sand dunes. if you are like me and missed out on much of the internet this summer, the robot guestblogger that wrote all my posts for me these past few weeks has kindly recapitulated all of the words of the word summer series.
today’s creative writing assignment: write a short story employing the following 19 words from the preceding 19 weeks of summer:
- acyrological · incorrect in use of words
- lobcock · a blundering fool
- crwth · an ancient celtic violin
- pfuiteufel · an exclamation of contempt or disgust
- tenebrio · one who lurks in the dark
- agathokakological · composed of good and evil
- ville lumière · an exciting modern city
- sythe · one’s pilgrimage on earth; the course of one’s life
- pruno · in prison, an improvised alcoholic drink
- transclout · to alter appearance by wearing ill-fitting clothes
- kill-cow-fray · something made up to terrify
- quia timet · an action brought to prevent possible future injury
- catoptromancy · divination by means of a mirror
- gyte · mad, out of one’s senses
- sanguivorous · feeding on blood
- whiskerandoed · heavily whiskered
- triacontaëterid · a period of thirty years; a festival occurring every 30 years.
- eirmonger · a dealer in eggs
- schlimazl · a consistently unlucky person
while the word summer series has terminated, autumn brings with it the exciting season premiere of f-words and—as i’m sure the suspense has been gripping you through may, june, july, and august—the cliffhanger involving a bike ride, a salami, and a fanny pack will finally be resolved.
He was a lobcock if there ever were one. A private busybody, a worrywart tenebrio, a shy schlimazl who spent life in the ville lumière of Escondido mostly sweating gently in the shadows of his trash-strewn foyer. Yes, Oswald left the sythe or sojourn of the soul to others.
Sure. He had hobbies. He had a job. He was an eirmonger, whose daily deliveries of jumbo, large or pee-wee (greater that 1.25 oz.) eggs left him little time for his passion, the crwth. “Passion” might be a bit acyrological, a bit of a stretch. In truth, the whiskerandoed Oswald only felt his soul stir when gently twisting the ends of his rough-hewn mustache. The dulcet tones of his crwth whimpered out of his apartment with the regularity and robust energy of a reticent lemur.
In truth, it was the kill-cow-fray calamities of daily existence that stunted his zeal for Irish airs or even the casually twined frays of mutton chops. His every action was a reaction against the chimeras of perceived misfortune, a quia timet in perpetual motion. But he wasn’t gyte, not by a long shot. Oswald, like the rest of our agathokakological race, feared the sanguivorous, desiring hordes with good, if not perfect reason.
Each morning, in his idle moments before the mirror, Oswald would indulge the dark art of catoptromancy, hazy as this practice might be in the gray murk following his marathon showers. But on this particular morning, the triacontaërid of his birth, Oswald saw a dark portent arise from his foggy forecast.
Something wicked was worming its way toward Oswald. None of his usual methods of evasion would work now. Not his usual exclamatory pfuiteufel. Not his morning pruno mixed with prune juice. Nor even his efforts to transclout his bella figura with the dysmorphic powers of unequal suspenders.
No. It was on its way. There was nothing to be done.
[To be continued.]
Yours in Earnest,
Tragos
