Tomorrow’s Grunt, Honey Speak and Word Crime

Tomorrow’s Grunt < gaboo > 06/09 11:39:00
Lincoln Barnett’s The Treasure of Our Tongue conveys a plea that language devolves naturally to grunts. Isolation maintains rigidity, whereas a phrase worn by multitudes can erode to mere mesa of its former application. He contends, with seasoned rationale, that the English language actually strives for efficiency, despite its unbridled absorption of all things linguistic. The syllable structure of words deteriorates with laze and acutely nuanced meaning. Early language had greater volume with less specificity. Consider the simmering stew evaporating to leave a conglomerate of Saxon, French, and Indo nuggets now cooked, softened, and palatable.

So the real question is the tangibility of the commodity—is a word worth it’s carrying charges? A word finds its jiggly position within the core group of 5000 or so terms sequestered for convenient lexicon. Can a word win the lottery and become a tip-o-the-tongue ever-ready for guttural expression, combining meaning and imagery in an all-inclusive, mono-syllabic grunt?

Yes, dictionaries branch larger, but that’s a compendium to date, with rare and celebrated edits, touted by a legion of pleonastic antiquities lurkers, seeking validation, like root farming, with a few grams of chew change. Meanwhile, on the front lines of two-thumbed phone phraseology, and in the street level concourse of habitat hokum, another lost pettifogger is draped in obscurity, weighted, and released overboard. RIP

just sayin’

Summer Ancient Word < gaboo > 06/09 11:44:23

‘Honey’, the word, is an old, symbolic legend denoting adoration, and a rise in prosaic communication. It can conjure imagery abstract from its practical definition, bee sputum. Golden, gooey, yummy, transitions into a scowling crone with bat wings and a forked sublingua curling out of its face. The use was traditionally wrapped in the act of woo. Now it has one meaning: the verbal fiat for submissive territorial approach, and in short form, a preliminary volley to assert dominance.

“Honey, I will be late. Gonna stop at Dave’s. You okay with that?”

“Umm, hon…”

“All right, I’ll be on time.”

However, the dominant member may utter, short or long form, a precursor to obligate the subordinate. Much like clucking to a mule at the start of the work day. This cues the animal that a task is imminent and allows it transition from a position of docile amusement to alert obedience.

“Oh, honey… we were going to talk about cleaning out the garage today.”

Pause of acknowledgement. Then confirmation with the familiar bray of reluctant servitude:

“Yes, dear.”

Honey, the word, had it’s hay day in the Thirties, when any word that rhymed with ‘sunny’ was teamed in ad mockups promising a simpler, humbler bliss instead of the wanton cocaine indulgence and group sex theaters of our great grandparents a decade earlier. Honey counters dour. It’s the lava in baklava; the efficient gag prevention for a slab of bak This was also a pernicious period for currency makers who realized a speculative profit selling debtor bonds on their nation’s citizenry. Where did that come from?


Word Crime < gaboo > 06/09 11:46:51

Perpetrator: Just sayin’.

Act: A veiled verbal offer of voluntary contribution, the term can also infer a textual insinuation that the recipient has flawed logic, or has nutted themselves on an obvious factual impediment. The writer then lounges coyly on the merits of their own compressed rhetorical apathy.

Crime: It’s improperly used in text. The verbal context for ‘just sayin’ is eliminated, deeming the writer a victim of their own inflamed grandeur and annoying other drivers.

Penalty: Diminished authority, self-inflicted.



Thanks for reading (The Future of Language) < gaboo > 06/10 02:24:39

I doubt any frequenters of this board will succumb to dementia. It’s averted through active thought. Ideas are doorways.

Scene change, into the future, where we are the future, and we have transformed into placid, grey beings that express a solitary mood over an entire day. Apathy has rendered language a nasal whine. Our fingers are long with knobby, padded tips for button pushing. Our eyes large, adept at discerning small screens, and almond-shaped. Our mouths now shrunken in pout. Chances are that we will exhibit esp, a species trained over centuries to minimize formal communication and emotional gestures.

Our lives will be experiential, distracted sightseers hopping from stimulation to event in subdued mob maneuvers; our attendance becomes our only voice; our cheer is a hum. And, as a flock lifts together, we throng from epoch to era in a quest for the rarest commodity, like detached observers on a tasting tour of primeval elixirs, patrons of a sacred potion that was long ago stirred into great deeds and poured among thinkers and poets. It’s passion, a once plentiful and evocative sensuality that enabled us to bear our persona exquisitely.

With passion, humans venture beyond the confines of social functionality and claim sovereignty over self. Passion is a connection to all beings that have struggled, grasping the wellspring that curls in a ribbon of existence, life to life, scaling three billion years unbroken. This is gold of the future.

Imagine what you sense, your verve, the drive to affect and to express is actually a different material, in a different realm—a lode stone of heavier mass, and a building block of appreciation. What if the future finds us struggling to care?

Watch yourself when you become passionate, shaking inside and riveted to the moment, upset or brash. You’ll be a fountain. You’ll be spewing out fifty dollar words.



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