Random Thursday: Words, werds (,) and wurds

Random Thursday (ˈrandəm ˈTHərzdā): the day on which Sarah plunks down all the odd bits and pieces she’s been sent by friends or has otherwise stumbled upon this week in an effort to avoid writing a real post, the assembly of which usually ends up taking twice as much time as sitting down and creating actual content.

‘Cause we all wanna write right ‘n tight.

A’ight?

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Typoison Pen

“The Tall-Tailed Hart” went through three editors before languishing in the pipeline at Playboy.

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Homophonephobia

Is vocabulary comprehension and communication of meaning
more important that correct spelling?

Discuss amongst yourselves.

Because that prominent vein in my forehead just burst.

(Thanks a lot, Vonnie . . . )

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Guilty.

I know you’ve probably seen this already.

So what?  It’s Weird Al.

(Thanks, Cristina—you were right!)

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Acceptable Misokkubg

If somebody misses every single comma and apostrophe
in an otherwise thought-provoking comment about spelling mishaps
in a keyboard-driven society,
we snerk.

Big time.

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Walken on Commas

Ouch.

 Commas and apostrophes: the stalagmites and stalactites of the grammar cave ecosystem.

(Thanks, Cornelia!)

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Use your words hook

And your bassoon.

(Thanks, Lisa!  This is awesome!)

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Random Thursday: Llama Llama Llama!

Llama Font. You know you want it.

Click to go to the generator and write secret llama messages—though once you get the hang of it, it’s easy to read.

The T and the Y are particularly adorable, I think. And the I. Okay, yeah, all of it.

Go forth and Llamafy!

(thanks to Janet Reid for this new toy, even though I didn’t decode her message fast enough)

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Janie has discovered Weird Al Yankovic. The world may never be the same–after ten straight repeats of “The Weird Al Show Theme Song,” in the car this morning, I’m pretty sure I won’t be.*

She has it memorized and goes around singing, “But that’s really not important to the story!” at odd intervals. I’m beginning to miss, “Whatever.”

It’s amazing to her that a professional musician messes up songs on purpose.  Music is supposed to be sacrosanct, like books.   “I mean, I know you do it, Mommy, but he’s good.”

Thanks, kid.

My husband’s reaction? “Excellent!” He’s so proud to have helped produced the next generation of Dr. Demento** fans.

‘Course, he doesn’t drive her to school and back.

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Quotes from the Notes

People who talk by the yard and think by the inch should be removed by the foot.

—Croft M. Pentz, The Complete Book of Zingers

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Sheer (shear?) unadulterated cuteness:

To get this kind of effect, I’d need a handful of styling product, a round brush, and a windtunnel—and some Rogaine.

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One off the bucket list:

I finally found a copy of Adam Clayton and Larry Mullen’s version of the Mission Impossible theme song from the first movie. I’ve been looking for this for years, but didn’t want to illegally download it.

In the end, I had to buy a CD with a Bjork song on it.  Bjork.   But it was so worth it.

Yes, Janie comes by her musical obsessions honestly. Why do you ask?

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And to end this odd, little llama-fest, Wally Llama, reluctant guru, and three insistent pilgrims:

The moral of this clip?  Use your smartybrains: don’t meditate without a net.

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*Yes, I was closest to the stereo control and yes, I’m the parent.  But it was either listening to ten reps of this song or twenty minutes of begging, whining, pouting, and aspersions cast upon the quality and quantity of my maternal love.  I’ll take the earworm, thanks.

**Does anyone else miss this guy? Does anyone else remember this guy? I used to stay up past my bedtime and listen to him under my pillow with my huge airport runway style radio headphones.

The Double Dog Dare

Few people know this outside of my immediate family, who rarely speak of it, but I love messing with the lyrics to perfectly good songs.

This usually manifests with spontaneous alternate words to nursery rhymes and kid’s songs, like the Pumpkin Carols I’ve mentioned and a couple of personalized things,* plus basic variations on  Go to sleep, go to sleep, let your cries sto-op, go to sleep, please go to sleep, ‘cause your Mom’s about to drop set to Brahm’s Lullaby.

I also do one holiday song a year for my department at the library,** but they don’t know it’s a habit.

The rest I write and tuck away, hoping that one day in the middle of a concert Weird Al Yankovic will  sprain a vocal chord and develop temporary aphasia and the worried theater manager will come on stage and ask, “Is there a demented lyricist in the house?”  And I will stand and say, “Why, yes!  I’m a demented lyricist!  And I brought my bassoon!”

Oh, yes.  I have dreams.

So a week or so ago, one of the few people*** who know my shameful secret asked me why I always “mess about with old, stodgy stuff nobody knows anymore”^ and dared me to write new lyrics to a something released in the last five years.  On the topic of her choice.

Being an incredibly huge nerd, as well as one of my dearest friends^^ she chose Star Wars.

And then she double-dog dared me to post it on my blog.  Or she’d teach her firstborn child—due in six months—to call me Auntie Weenie.

Auntie.  Weenie.  This from a woman who was once scared of matzoh.

Honey, it is so on.

(With my deepest apologies to Katy Perry and George Lucas)

This was never the way I planned
To celebrate the Alliance
I got so brave, drink in hand
Wanted to show my defiance
It’s not what I’m used to
Just wanna try you on
I’m curious—but I’ll swear you to silence.

I kissed a Wookie–I liked it, the tickle of his furry mustache.
I kissed a Wookie to try it–I hope that Han don’t mind it.
It felt so wrong, it felt so right, won’t be flying a Solo tonight
I kissed a walking carpet.
I liked it.

I love how you howl my name
Your volume flatters
You’re my experimental game
Just rebel nature.
Not what a princess does
Not how Senators behave (Ha!)
My senses get confused
Don’t ever shave . . .

I kissed a Wookie–I liked it, the tickle of his furry mustache.
I kissed a Wookie to try it–I hope that Han don’t mind it.
It felt so wrong, it felt so right, won’t be flying a Solo tonight
I kissed a walking carpet.
I liked it.

Wookies are so debonair, that howl, that hair, so kissable
Hard to resist, so pet-able, too good to deny it
Ain’t no big deal, he’s a co-pilot.

I kissed a Wookie–I liked it, the tickle of his furry mustache.
I kissed a Wookie to try it–I hope that Han don’t mind it.
It felt so wrong, it felt so right, won’t be flying a Solo tonight
I kissed a walking carpet.

I liked it.

Okay, Siobhan, now get your rear to the States—you owe me dinner.   And all of these nice people an apology.

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*Do you see that baby in the window?
The one with the curly, curly hair?
That’s my Sunny-baby in the window—
I’d miss her if she wasn’t there.
(to How Much is That Doggie, etc.)

**“Patrons We have Heard on High” and “I want a Genealogy for Christmas.”  This year, I’m thinking, “I had a Little Patron, who turned my hair all gray.”

***Before I confessed online. Gotta stop doing that.

^It’s called covering my rear, honey.  And if the ‘eighties are old, stodgy stuff, then what precisely does that make us?

^^If you suspect this isn’t an oxymoron, you’d be right.  If you suspect that most of my friends glory in shoving me of out my Comfort Zone, you’d also be right. I’m very lucky.