Comments: Advanced Vocabulary Training 5

drugget: a hip women who likes to do illegal drugs

murrain: a warning of an increase in precipitation

gymnosophist: a hand gesture by a person who vehemently does not like to workout

prorogue: in favor of being rogue

cruet: a cute woman who is also very cruel

fadge: a derogatory term for a homosexual who like fudge

epopee: a very distinctive or memorial urination

spilth: something that was spilled by a drunkard

nanger: someone who delights in playful teasing

tomrig: a truck or similar vehicle owned by anyone named Tom

fumid: slang for extreme humidity

froppish: what pet fish do when accidentally spilled from their bowl

diffide: a decision made by people who disagree

peckled: description of a married man with a wife who is prone to nag

Posted by tim at December 17, 2012 12:49 PM

Shrewd: The epitaph of a man who was married to a shrew. But I digress.

Posted by Jewel at December 17, 2012 4:17 PM

I couldn't resist:

Pudding, you say?

A Truish Story Told Using Advanced Vocabulary.

When I was but a wee tomrig of two, I was a consummate gymnosophist, refusing to wear even the drugget my mother fashioned for me as a diaper. She would cry in horror, “You’ll die of the murrain if you don’t keep clothed!”

Of course, this was a situation that could not go on, and my mother prorogued my right to flit about in the altogether, while I, all of two, could only whimper in protest. Her words were more bitter than suckling upon a cruet of vinegar. We fadged, she more forcefully, that I would not only wear the drugget, but also the outer attire she put on me at the beginning of the day.

Being small and unlanguaged, my tantrums against this injustice were an epopee.

Alas, my dear mother had no ear for my unreasonable rhymes and resorted to a most painful curative for my froppishness.

Pudding.

She promised me that if I would behave and wear my clothes, I would get pudding for dessert.

I smiled, and fadged to wear my togs for the whole day, with the understanding that there was a reward of pudding for doing so.

And so I spent the day playing nangerly in my play yard, dreaming of pudding, mypeckled face a beacon of chocolaty hope for the after-dinner.

Alas, after-dinner produced the hard hoped-for pudding, and I, instead of being grateful, as all children should be, diffided that I didn’t WANT the pudding.

Mother sat silently as I crossed my arms and put out my lower lip. “You WILL eat your pudding!” A war of attrition had begun and I was determined to win it.

So was mother, whose peckled face became a rash of seething red, and a fumid heat shimmered above her even redder hair.

Spilth! Went the pudding down my face, which had opened into a screaming maw of rage and chocolate.
She smiled in triumph, having won her battle with me.

But I won the war, for no sooner than I was baptized in pudding, I once again found myself happily disrobed.

Posted by Jewel at December 17, 2012 10:42 PM

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