Optimise your vocabulary for maximal lexicon synergy

It was four o’clock in the afternoon and Derek was facilitating his process environment. He validated his competency, taking care not to leverage his parameters to an un-optimal degree, then took ownership of the resultant paradigm. Gina knocked on his open door.

‘Derek?’ He looked up.

‘Yes?’

‘I was just wondering,’ she said, ‘have you facilitated the strategic execution of mission-crucial validation opportunities today?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘In addition, I intend to empower myself to refocus those efforts going forward.’

‘Good, just checking.’ She utilised her wrist-based resource to take stock of available man-hours. ‘Nearly quitting time,’ she disseminated in a teamwork-focused office-wide verbal memo.

Blunder into double entendres

Richard held his sausage out over the counter.

‘Do you want it or not?’ he ejaculated. The butcher’s shop was filling up now, the crew from the recently docked Navy vessel lining up for a taste of his meat. The young woman cocked her head.

‘I’m not sure...’ she said.

‘I’ve got it out now,’ he sighed. ‘If I don’t give it to you, I’ll just end up throwing it in the back passage.’ He waved a hand at the growing queue behind her. ‘As you can see, my shop’s full of seamen. I’m sure these guys are hungry for what I’ve got to offer.’

Make use of the caps lock key

‘WELL THEN,’ HE SAID, TURNING OFF THE LIGHT, ‘SWEET DREAMS, LITTLE ONE.’

‘NIGHT NIGHT, DADDY,’ AMY MURMURED, ALREADY FALLING ASLEEP. HE PULLED THE DOOR HALF-CLOSED AND THEN STOOD FOR A MOMENT IN THE DIM LIGHT, JUST LISTENING TO HER BREATHE. EVERY DAY IS A GIFT, HE THOUGHT. EVERY DAY AND EVERY SILENT MOMENT OF THE NIGHTTIME. THEN, STEPPING LIGHTLY ACROSS THE HALLWAY, HE WENT TO HIS BED AND SLEPT THE SLEEP OF A HAPPY MAN.

Beat around the bush

(With thanks to Dan DeWitt)

The doctor tapped his pen on his clipboard and coughed.

‘Well, Mr Wolfowitz,’ he said, ‘you suffer from a rare disorder known as Chronic Recurrent Meta-Synodic Genetic Reconfiguration.’

‘Okay,’ said Art, scratching the back of his hand. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Let me put it like this,’ the doctor said. ‘The episodes you have described experiencing and the associated symptoms – chronic restlessness, argyrophobia, sudden, unexplained hair growth, uncontrollable aggression – seem to occur on a regular cycle, do they not?’ Art nodded and flexed his toes, which suddenly felt very restricted inside his shoes.

‘What’s your point?’ he said.

‘That cycle is, broadly speaking, monthly, is it not?’ said the doctor.

‘Yeah. So?’ Now his ears itched. He scratched at them.

‘And the episodes only occur at night, is that correct? When the moon is visible?’

‘Look,’ snarled Art. ‘What are you getting at?’ He was feeling irritable and, all of a sudden, hungry.

‘The truth is, Mr Wolfowitz,’ the doctor sighed, ‘very little is known about Chronic Recurrent Meta-Synodic Genetic Reconfiguration. I’d like to keep you in overnight for tests. You can sleep here, in this flimsily-built cage, just underneath the skylight.’

Refuse to take the hint

Dear all,

Just a quick reminder – if you’re in or around London on Wednesday evening, I’ll be performing a show based on this blog at the Bethnal Green Working Men’s Club, 44-46 Pollard Row E2 6NB at 7:30pm. The script is just about written now and it includes a shocking amount of new material as well as some of the funnier posts from here. If you approach me and tell me that you’re “off of the internet” then I might buy you a drink.*

All the best,

Joel

*Offer only valid in the event of the gig going well, me having the right change in my pocket and you being sufficiently complimentary about my performance. Terms and conditions apply.

Write outside your comfort zone

Dr Henry Billingsworth was a Nobel Prize-winning theoretical physicist and all-round renaissance man. In the course of his long career, he had held sub-atomic particles in the palm of his hand, excavated lava from the centre of the Earth and invented a whole new mathematical function which supplemented the old-fashioned plus, minus, multiply and divide to create a unheard-of fifth way of doing sums. At present, he was absorbed in his new experiment – observing evolution in fruit flies.

‘Look,’ he said to his assistant, pointing to one of the flies. ‘That one’s evolving. Just round the legs, at the back. Can you see that?’ His assistant nodded and made a note. Billingsworth grabbed the notepad from him. ‘You’ve got to make notes more quickly – look, it just evolved again and you nearly missed it.’

Sometimes Billingsworth thought he should just fire all his assistants and take care of everything himself, but there was simply too much work to be done. After all, if he spent all night in the lab, when would he find time to attend to his personal project, translating the novels of Shakespeare?

Use quotation marks for no apparent reason

(With thanks to this “Blog.”)

The sun was just “setting” when I arrived home. The smell of “bread” and the sound of “laughter” drifted across the field. Already, the stresses of the day seemed like a “distant memory.” I ran the last few yards, then rapped my fist against the “door” and stepped into the kitchen.

‘I’m home,’ I said, partly to myself and partly to “Susan.” She turned to look at me, a “smile” lighting up her “face.”

‘You were gone so long,’ she said, giving me a “hug.” ‘I was getting “worried.” Where were you?’

‘“Nowhere,”’ I said. ‘“Nowhere” at all.’ I glanced over her shoulder. ‘Are you “baking?”’

‘Yes.’ She smiled. ‘I’m really “glad” you’re home.’

Underestimate your audience

Michael walked into his office and sat down on the divan, which is a kind of chair. He ran his hands through his hair – something that people tend to do when they are stressed or worried – and cursed under his breath. That presentation had been his one chance to impress the board, which is a name for a group of people who make decisions about important things. He had stayed up all night planning, but somehow it had all fallen apart (which is a metaphor* meaning that the presentation hadn’t gone well).

The worst case scenario was that he would be fired. This meant that he would lose his job and wouldn’t get paid money to go to work any more. And that would mean a change of lifestyle – no Ferrari, no Armani suits and, worst of all, no more blow. “Blow” was the name Michael called the drug cocaine, which is white powdery stuff that he liked to put up his nose.

* A metaphor is when you describe something as if it was something else, like a presentation “falling apart” as if it was a physical thing.