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Picture Credits:
Pith and moment. I have no actual knowledge of this phrase's meaning, but I enjoy saying it. If the speaker is not lisping when mouthing it, I assume it refers to occasions of great substance or importance. Perhaps I will consult a dictionary or even a thesaurus, if the true meaning ever stands at issue or becomes important. Until such time, however, I shall continue to ignore it except in utterance of its euphonic magnificence. Pith and moment, pith and moment, pith and moment… Great fun, don’t you agree? Especially, if you say it fast, while holding your lower lip firmly between your thumb and forefinger.
Pardon me, I’ve forgotten my manners. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Niles Mgh (the ‘gh’ is silent, so my last name is pronounced “mmmm”, with a little vocal click at the end). My family hails from a remote region in the Carpathian Mountains, a clan that sequesters itself from western society in hopes of someday becoming fabulously wealthy by revelation of its existence to the anthropologists from the Discovery Channel. At present, we have no written language. Perhaps this is why I find English so fascinating. While I find its structure a bit stodgy and confining by comparison to Phlern (our native language), at least it has developed a means of graphic expression. I believe myself to be the only member of the Phmbgdrbzg (the closest translation is “Presbyterian”) people capable of European speech, although, I am constantly besieged by other clan members desirous of mastering the intricacies of English. Plus, to date, I am the only one who has dared to venture outside the confines of our remote and hostile environment. We are not a brave people, I think, making it necessary for me to keep my identity secret. Fortunately, this task is not difficult; Americans are willing to ignore me completely, as long as I don’t try to pass anyone in my automobile or carry too many items through the express checkout line.
Our millennial isolation from other societies has necessarily limited our gene pool to the point that we’ve developed some physical idiosyncrasies unheard of in other populations. First of all, our tongues are split, similar to the forked ‘snake’s tongue’ of legend. This makes pronunciation of some diphthongs rather difficult. However, if anyone questions my speech, I merely tell him I’m French… an explanation that nearly always seems to suffice.
It is physically impossible for us to say ‘coccyx’, so it’s a good thing we don’t have one. Coccyxlessness has both good and bad points (like many physical realities). If we assume a sitting position on a stool, most any push from the front, no matter how slight, would cause us to lose our balance and plummet ungracefully into a heap on the floor. So, we tend to stand a lot, forcing the construction of our tables to be a bit taller than European standards. Now that I think about it, perhaps that would explain my affinity for bars and pubs, even if it does force me to wear a football helmet when seated. My favorite helmet is the Denver Broncos. There’s just something about that horse…
Recently, I read that English contains more than one million words, far and away the greatest number of any language. Plus, since there are so many meanings for each, it becomes increasingly difficult for all but the most stalwart of non-traditional students to learn the language in its various colloquial forms. Even an individual of superior intellect (and, yes, I’m speaking autobiographically… I’ve learned how much you seem to value bluster and braggadocio) can be challenged when confronted by everyday speech anomalies.
Recently, while visiting the inner recesses of one of your large metropolitan cities, I was confronted by a rather stately young woman who seemed quite attracted to me, physically speaking. In fact, she grabbed my arm, smiled sweetly and told me that she considered me quite hot, and asked if I’d like a date.
Although I have no idea how she knew my relative body temperature, I immediately recognized that she was trying to get to know me and wanted to play a game, so I replied that I certainly would like a date, and I chose February 4th, the day my people celebrate Clarpth, The Hanging of The Bacon. It’s difficult to describe the look she gave me.
“No, honey, you don’t understand… I’m asking if you’d like to have some… company… you dig?”
Well, I’m certainly not a professional at the game, and I didn’t understand what that had to do with the date, but I wanted to be polite, so I told her that if it were all the same to her, I’d choose Microsoft as my company, but I had no shovel.
Same look.
“Uh, yea… listen, pal, I’m getting a little tired of all this. You want some pussy or not? Fifty bucks takes you ‘round the world for thirty minutes of the finest ‘tang you ever had!”
At this point, I must admit, I was lost. I tried to say something and my tongue (which is quite abundant by American standards) fell out of my mouth. I was so embarrassed; I turned around and tried to walk away. Her eyes were now the size of silver dollars; she tried to pull me back to her ‘crib’, assuring me that it’d be a ‘freebie’. I managed to disentangle myself and run across the street, just as a large, rather garish-looking gentleman wearing a neon-colored shirt, lime-green trousers and many, many gold chains stepped out of his Cadillac and attempted to soothe and comfort her a bit.
Meanwhile, I tried to sort out how I could circumnavigate the earth while riding fifty male deer and drinking orange-flavored nutritional supplement; and what that has to do with felis sylvestris I can only speculate. However, the images conjured up in my mind are not a pretty picture, I assure you.
With all the excitement, I'm feeling a little harried. I think I'll go see if I can find a park bench to lie down. Hopefully, the police and the pigeons will stay away long enough for me to fall asleep. With all the excitement,I'm exhausted... I think tomorrow I'll go to the headquarters of National Geographic and spill the beans (to coin a phrase).
Colloquially yours,
Niles Mgh
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