I bestow there every belch!

I bestow there every belch!

“To every several man he gives…400 BELCHES!”

Smear yon seemly woman with your idle poison.

Smear yon seemly woman with your idle poison.

Inactivity and All That

Apologies for the inactivity, everyone. I’ve been considering how this blog functions, and I’ve decided to attempt a slight change of pace from now on. I think that, instead of trying to force some kind of humor out of every entry, I can just let the images speak for themselves. I’m going to encourage people to leave comments and send e-mails, though, so that I know both what the readers think of the slightly different format, and what they think of/how they interpret specific posts.

Short version: Sorry I slacked off; new post tomorrow.

The road, though the strange word, produces friends and luscious poetry.

The road, though the strange word, produces friends and lucious poetry.

Alright, I think that whoever made this intended “though the strange word” to be “through the strange world,” but I like it better this way. Not because I think it makes more sense, oh no, quite the opposite; I think that it’s almost completely senseless. However, there is a certain inescapable whimsy to it that appeals to me.

Explode like a purple liver from the stormy curls

Explode like a purple liver from the stormy curls.

Look no further for proof that Homeric flights of comparative fancy have not yet left our literary imaginations. Unfortunately, it seems that Homer’s knack for sensible metaphors has been lost to the ages. We are instead left with sentences like this one. I get a powerful image of a large liver erupting out of the head of someone who has messy, curly locks of hair. It’s like an anatomically-incorrect reenactment of Kill Bill with wigs!

Escape beneath a man, and swim in his novel love-lust.

Escape beneath a man, and swim in his novel love-lust.

Sometimes, you just need to get away from it all and skitter under the nearest Chippendales dancer. I will admit that such an escape would certainly be novel, but I don’t know if I’d call it love, or even love-lust. There are, of course, more sexual connotations to be had than fleeing to under the nearest man-rock, but I enjoy the idea of hiding underneath some extremely muscular man like a fugitive hyrax, rather than whatever obvious sexual meanings this sentence may have.

Thine gown hath vehemence like a drunk jest!

Thine gown hath vehemence like a drunk jest!

Ah, Shakespeare: what lovingly archaic and obscure insults you created. Unfortunately, this sentence is not a part of his expansive collection of put-downs, which includes such gems as “Your means are very slender, and your waste is great,” and “How now my sweet creature of bombast?”

Exquisite insults all, but for today’s crowd, I would like to emphasize that thine gown hath vehemence like a drunk jest!

Empty travel may urge lusty feet.

Empty travel may urge lusty feet.

This seems to be one of those bizarre warnings one sees every once in a while. It’s less common-sense than “Caution: Contents may be Hot” on a coffee lid, but it evokes a similar reaction. This might be found on the side of an external-frame backpack, say, as a warning against traveling without any supplies. Than again, “lusty feet” would probably be feet that are more inclined to walking than they would be otherwise. If one’s goal is traveling far and wide, then it may be beneficial to travel long distances “empty.”

Sweet fiction boils through honey.

Sweet fiction boils through honey.

This sounds a lot like something you hear at your grandparents house; either that, or something that you read in a Modernist novel. Those are rather disparate scenarios, I know, but depending on how you say it, the phrase can really go either way. Just imagine telling a little white lie to your grandmother (sweet old lady that she inevitably is), and having her fix her knowing smile on you, pinch you cheek and say, “sweet fiction boils through honey.” You’re busted, but in perhaps the cutest way possible.

Alternatively, imagine a woman sitting with a gigolo in a Parisian bar. She’s just spent two hours trying on hats, finding none that she liked, and buying the one that she hated the least. They are both very drunk, and when the gigolo asks her what she does for a living, she answers that she is a wealthy heiress engaged to marry some minor English nobleman, when in reality she is flat broke and unemployed. The gigolo, sensing her desperation, leans forward and says, “sweet fiction boils through honey.” The conversation ends there, but they continue to drink.

These are the only two scenarios in which this sentence makes any sense; any other use of it is incorrect.

Why manner o’er bed? Ask some woman!

Why manner o'er bed? Ask some woman!

Before I begin, I have an exciting factoid: this entry marks our first reader submission. Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah forever!

Our reader poses an interesting question on his fridge: why, indeed, should one manner o’er a bed? Though he insists that it is helpful, what is the ultimate benefit of asking a random woman for her opinion on the subject? More pressingly, is the “manner” a verb of sorts, referring to some action undertaken when suspended over a bed, or is it a noun, which would be far less grammatically sensible, but could add to the sentence’s possibilities? I suppose that I really do have to ask some woman, because my head is beginning to spin…