Monday, April 21, 2014

"Say What?" Part 7: You Are So Doctor-Ish

(Seen when people are trying to point out contradictions in another's argument, opinion, or beliefs.)

"Stop being so Hippocratical."

"You're being a Hippocrate."

Hippocrates, from whose name we get such terms as "The Hippocratic Oath," was the father of modern medicine. And while he is, in fact, famous for his medical achievements, he is not widely considered a contradictory person. In fact, I know of no historical record that points to Hippocrates being the kind of man who says one thing, then says something completely opposite of that thing, without understanding that the two things are mutually exclusive. Nope, he was a pretty consistent guy.

Further, the Hippocratic Oath is the oath doctors take, the one where they pledge they will do no harm, as well as pledge all kinds of other nice things like promising to take care of their patients, be compassionate, and so forth. To be "Hippocratic" means to be like Hippocrates was--a doctor, a healer, a compassionate person who seeks to better the health and well-being of those who are sick or injured.

So, when you tell someone to "stop being Hippocratical," you're actually telling them to stop being so doctor-like. Damn those doctor-like people, anyhow. Godforsaken scum! No one likes those assholes, with all their talk of diet and exercise and eating those disgusting vegetables. Who do they think they are, anyway?

*Hypocritical and hypocrite, respectively, and you're welcome.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

"Say What?" Part 6: The Dogs of War

Note: Feel free to comment on any or all of these. If you personally happen to see one of these egregious, twitch-inducing grammar/spelling/word abuses yourself and would like me to address it, TELL ME! I'm happy to take them all on.

(Seen in honest-to-god novels. This was done by real authors, which makes it just that much worse.)

"He's a war mongrel."

And apparently, mongrels come in pumpernickel and rye varieties.

...but I digress.

Throughout history, there have been many shining examples of exemplary military leadership. These include the feats of General Shaggy Biscuitlover, who, through superior might, managed to get dogs everywhere recognized as "good boys." Or how about Warlord Fluffybutt McSnowball who, through a tricksy, ninja-like campaign, guaranteed endless petting for those dogs with long, soft fur.

If it wasn't for military leaders like Shaggy Biscuitlover and Fluffybutt McSnowball, dogs would not enjoy the cushioned comfort and endless lavishment by humans that they do today. So let us all take a moment to honor those war mongrels, as their noble sacrifices have bettered the lives of dogs everywhere.

*Warmonger (please also note this is ONE word, not two), and you're welcome.

Possible Beginning to a New WIP? You Decide!

Right, so this is just a random inspiration I had. Lemme know what you guys think in the comments--should I make this a bona-fide story, or does it suck balls and need trashed?

"The cat was in the closet."

That's how the story starts, any time someone asks me.

"She'd been restless for about a week before," I'd tell people. I could see that the pain in my eyes radiated out to them--my listeners could feel the heaviness and old hurt that never really healed. The air would grow more somber around us, the listener's face more grave.

"We didn't know why. We thought maybe she was sick, but a trip to the vet ruled that out." And I'd pause there, every time, sucking in a bracing breath before continuing my tale. "She skulked around the house, a black shadow leery of everything and anything. We couldn't comfort her, couldn't make her feel safe. And then, that day, she refused to come out of the closet."

And that's where my throat always chokes with sobs I try to keep suppressed, but they always seem to bubble over despite my efforts. My eyes fill with tears, and if I'm lucky, I'm taking a drag off a cigarette someone's found. Of all the horrible things that had happened, my cat still invoked the most despair. 

Because after that day, I never saw her again. Never had a chance to feel her soft, black fur under my fingers; no chance to hear her gentle, rumbling purr; never again have the chance to feel her sweet kisses on my forehead in the mornings.

When that day came, we had no choice. Consumed with our own survival, we forgot about the one innocent life, the one that depended wholly and completely on us to keep her safe. We each thought the other had gotten her, but neither of us had. A poor excuse, I scold myself. I should have checked.

But no, we fled for our lives like billions of other humans on the planet, running as far and as fast as our cars--and later, our legs--could take us. We were full of thoughts about supplies, weapons, shelter, and safety, and spared no thought for our precious furbaby.

A lapse I will never forgive myself for.

I tried to tell myself she would have been unsuited to this new world we found ourselves in. Her gentle nature couldn't have withstood the running, the fighting, the scraping survival we all now found ourselves in. She would have likely died from the stress...or maybe I underestimated her. Maybe she could have adapted, like we are all doing now, to live this life. But she'll never get the chance, and I'll never get to see her step up to the challenge.

All I have of her now is the knowledge that she's gone, like so many others. Gone, and never coming back.

"She wouldn't come out of the closet," I'd say, turning haunted eyes to my listener. "And then we found out why." 

Monday, April 14, 2014

"Say What?" Part 5: I Defiantly Post Hilarious Stuff

(Seen pretty much everywhere, on all kinds of posts, all over the interwebz.)

"I defiantly know that movie's gonna suck."

Even Google knows you're wrong!

It's nice to know you're so certain about everything in life--so very certain, in fact, that you insist on making your certainty a point of rebellion. You aren't just sure you know something; you are defiantly sure, the kind of defiant sureness that sent men to their deaths in ancient wars for freedom.

All hail you, the King or Queen of Defiance. If it wasn't for you, talking points would never be so solidly fitted within our psyches, screaming their truthfulness into our waking and sleeping minds until, one day, we are compelled to tell the world that This.  Is.  Sparta!!!

*Definitely, and you're welcome.

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

"Say What?" Part 4: Contractions, They Are So Mysterious

(Seen pretty much everywhere, resulting in a lovely, calloused lump on my forehead from so much "headdesking.")

"I should of looked at that earlier."

"I would of bought it, but I had to pay the water bill."

"I could of gone to the game, but I was too tired."

"I may of put the book in the bedroom."