Can we stipulate that the most superlative of ciders is the cidest? … No, it’s really not working.
(Well, this is what I promised to try last week, when I noted The Family Circus should have had a strip referring to a past Thanksgiving as “Thanksgiven”, although I had held out that I might not succeed. Please stop in next week when I will insist that the river is technically what the body of moving water does, and the water itself should be known as the riverer.)
You know, if The Family Circus never did a strip where one of the kids was telling another that last year’s Thanksgiving is properly referred to as “Thanksgiven” then the Keanes missed a major opportunity.
(Thanks for seeing me live up to the promise made last week, when I shared the theoretical reasons for the existence of a word “remise”. Please stop in next week when — no promises — I’m going to see if I can put together a coherent thought about superlative cider being the cidest.)
Theoretical linguistics tells us there should be a word “remise”, which would refer to supplying something with mise all over again, possibly after its demise.
(I thank everyone who stopped in last week, when I asked if something’s demise was its running out of mise. Please stop in next time when I’ll point out how, if The Family Circus never did a strip where one of the adorable little moppets talks about last year’s Thanksgiving by naming it “Thanksgiven” then they missed a major opportunity.)
The demise of something is just when it runs out of mise, right?
(I had hoped last week that I would speculate about this. Next week, I hope to declare that there should logically be a word ‘remise’ that refers to supplying something with mise all over again. Stick around and see if I manage it!)
Would it do anything useful to shortening my average post length if we could turn the word “awkward” into “awayward” for some reason? If not, why did I typo “awkward” as “awayward” repeatedly, then? Huh?
(I said last week I was going to do this, and I’m glad to say I haven’t overlought that promise. Please check in next week when I will speculate that the demise of something is when it runs out of mise.)
You know, if we all wanted to, we could decide that the past tense of “overlook” is “overlought”, and cut “overlooked” entirely out of the deal. This would solve nothing.
(This follows up on what I planned last week, thinking about how “quanch” could be the past tense of “quench” if we worked at it. Please visit next week when I’ll see if I can extend this to somehow turning “awkward” into “awayward” for whatever reason.)
You know, if we just got together we could make “quench” into a strong verb, so that its tenses changed the sound, and then any of us would be able to say that by getting that satisfactory drink, “I quanch my thirst”.
(This is just what I promised last week when I complained my spell checker refuses to warn me about “trange” being nonsense and yet will not give me “quanch”. Well, let’s see what happens next week, as maybe I’ll try to apply the same principles to turn “overlooked” into “overlought”, which would solve nothing.)
I paid, I assume, good money to have a spell checker somewhere on my computer so why is it letting me get away with listing “trange” as a word? It won’t give me any guidance in how to spell “Cincinnati”, which I’ve done with as many as two n’s, three c’s, and fourteen n’s; what do I even have it for? Complaining that I write “Olive Oyl” in 2019?
(Well, that’s the exploration I promised I’d do last week when I shared how professional historians describe the ancient city of Paris as “Parwas”. Please visit next week when I intend to point out how if we just made “quench” into a strong verb then we could talk about having quenched something by the phrase, “I quanch my thirst”. Oh, and the spell checker will give me “trange” but not “quanch”? Seriously.)
But were you aware that professional historians writing about ancient Paris by convention dub the long-ago state of the urban area as “Parwas”? It’s totally true.
(I appreciate your seeing me do as promised last week, when I hypothesized the existence of a verb tense making the word “swang”. Theory bears out: Dictionary.com attests this as a chiefly Scottish and North England past tense of “swing”. So I may just have to close up shop now that I’ve done so well. Or maybe not. Because I do need to explore why my spell checker is letting me get away with “trange”. Why does it allow “trange” as a word? This spell checker is already useless in helping me spell “Cincinnati”; why is it giving obviously wrong passes to stuff like this? We’ll explore that next week.)
The change of vowel from swing to swung implies the existence of a tense in which the verb becomes “swang”.
(Thanks for seeing me do what I promised last week, when we explored the meaning of “grueling”. Please stop in next week as I reveal that historians writing about ancient Paris name the long-ago urban area as “Parwas”.)
You know that to describe something as “grueling” means to say it is a small monstrous creature actually made of gruel, don’t you?
(Thanks for riding with me as I do what I said I’d do last week, when I explained how “delicate” meant the negation of “licate”, meaning to handle a precious object by licking. Please stop in next week as I argue that the verb “swing” with its past tense “swung” implies we should also have a form of the word that comes out “swang”.)
It’s amazing how many people use the word “delicate” wrong when casual examination shows it’s the negation of the word “licate”, which means “to handle a precious or fragile object using the medium of licking”.
(I hope this puts to rest worries that I was fibbing last week, when I wondered if Daniel Beyers’s Long Story Short was making fun of me. Please visit next week when I will explain that “grueling” refers to a small monstrous creature made of gruel.)
So, ah, you think it’s possible Daniel Beyers’s Long Story Short here is making fun of me?
(And you see me live up to the promise made last week when I said what a goodra was. Please visit next week as I hope to explain the word “delicate” as the negation of the word “licate”, meaning “to handle a precious or fragile object using the medium of licking”.)
You know what a goodra is? Definitions vary but most statisticians accept that it’s any ra which is more than one standard deviation above the mean.
(Thanks for seeing me live up to the promise I made last week, when I said a non-calendar list of days could be a bit calend-ish. Please visit next week when I’ll ask whether this panel of Daniel Beyers’s comic Long Story Short is mocking me.)
Granted. But wouldn’t you agree that even if a list of days is not a calendar, that it is still a bit calend-ish? Of course you would.
(And now you are a witness to me living up to the promise of last week, when I argued “consumer electronics” mean “computers you eat”. Please visit next week when I’ll answer the question of what’s a “goodra” by explaining it’s “any ra that’s more than one standard deviation above the mean”.)
You know it’s crazy we think “consumer electronics” could mean anything besides “computers you eat”. Why would you want them to mean anything else?
(Thanks for seeing me do what I promised last week when I asked what a “centaur” should mean. Please visit next week when I will put forward that a list of days that’s not a calendar is at least a little calend-ish.)
Is it proper to understand a centaur as a being who’s half-human and half-penny? Or would it be better to see them as someone who’s half-penny and half-horse?
(Thank you for watching me fulfill the promise made last week when I pondered the roostest. I shall be honored if you visit me next week when I intend to argue that “consumer electronics” must mean “computers you eat”.)
You know, based on how English forms comparatives, we have to conclude there should be something we describe as the “roostest” and we just have to discover what that is.
(Thank you for being here as I meet the promise made when I thought about the month of Decembest. Pease visit next week when I plan to ask whether a centaur should properly be understood as someone who’s half-human, half-penny or someone who’s half-penny, half-horse.)
You know how — at my latitudes anyway — December is typically a cold and Christmas-y month? Boy, just think how extremely cold and ultra-Christmas-y the month of Decembest must be.
(And so I fulfill the promise the promise made last week when I wondered about taking all the Cember out of the month. Please visit me next week when I ponder how the structure of English comparatives implies there should be such a concept as the roostest.)
So, December is the time of year we take all the Cember out of the room, right?
(Thanks for seeing me do what I said I’d do last week. Please stop in next week as I wonder if December is, for my latitude anyway, typically a cold, Christmas-y month, then just how extreme the month of Decembest must be.)
I’m sorry, I’ve been trying to work out a joke where I propose that if you “conceal” something it means you’re doing something “with seal”, but it turns out that is exactly what it means. And between that and the threat that the heat wave is going to return? I’m feeling all pouty.
(I appreciate your seeing whether last week’s forecast would come true. Please stop in next week when I’ll ponder the cooler months of the year and ask whether December is the time when we take all the Cember out of the room.)
So the thing that detergent removes. That has to be tergent, correct? And from this we can conclude that the thing that gets clothes dirty again is retergent. It’s simple logic.
(And so I fulfill last week’s promise. Thank you and please check back next week when I start to make a joke about how etymologically ‘conceal’ must mean that you’re doing something ‘with seal’ except then I realize that’s probably exactly what it does mean and I get all pouty.)
So is the state of not having yet put on your underwear being a state of derwear? Is changing your underwear then achieving rederwear?
(Thank you for being with me as I do what I said last week I’d do when I overcame words. Please check back for more of Laundry Month, apparently, as next week I wonder whether the thing removed by detergent is therefore tergent, and whether the act of getting clothes dirty is retergent.)
All right but why does my spellchecker give a pass to “housecfront”? What is that, some freak specialist word defined in terms of the usufruct of something? Or is my spellchecker just a load of rubbish? It’s done a very bad job regarding Cincinatti lately, let me tell you that. Cincinnati. See? At least one of those should not be put up with. Which one? There is no way to know.
(Ta-da! I have fulfilled the promise made last week after I could not find lockboards. Please be with me next week as I wonder whether the state of having not yet put underwear on is being in a state of derwear, and whether changing your underwear is achieving rederwear. Oh, and spellchecker isn’t going to give me “derwear”? Really?)
I apologize for not writing more but I have been trying to match all my various keyboards with their appropriate lockboards. It’s not going well, in terms of matches completed. It’s going very well in terms of not getting things done on time.
(Thanks for watching me do what I promised to do last week. Please visit next week as I try to figure out why autocorrect changed an attempted word into “housecfront”.)
You say it’s World Simile Day? What is that like?
(Thank you for watching me fulfill last week’s stupid word promise. Please visit next week when I try to match all of my various keyboards with their appropriate lockboards.)
You know, the word “thing” is a gerund. Its root verb is “the”.
(I’m glad you were good enough to see whether I lived up to last week’s promise. Please check back in next week as I think about how World Simile Day is upon us and I wonder what it’s like.)
Would the past tense of ‘mango’ be ‘mangone’ or ‘mangwent’, and how much should it be so? Thank you for your thoughts.
(Thanks for being here to see me fulfill the promise I made last week to ponder this. I’d be glad if you stopped in next time when I try to start another fight with grammarians by insisting that “thing” is the gerund of the root verb “the”.)
So has making the type- face in my text editor larger helped me any in my quest to maybe write not quite so excess- ively long? It’s early to say, but I think it’s not any notice- ably shorter. It’s just got my words hyphenated weirdly and in ways that won’t make the slight- est sense when copied over to a WordPress post. Too bad!
(But thanks for watching me carry out last week’s promise to try. Be with me next week when I ponder whether the past tense of the noun ‘mango’ should be ‘mangone’ or ‘mangwent’.)