Do me a favor.  Scroll to the bottom of this post and read the last line aloud.  Chalk it up to a singalong.  Once you’ve done this, you’re ready to continue reading.  Go on, I’ll wait. 

I’ve been working like an animal lately.  I don’t know what kind of animal, but it just works when I say it with authority.  I feel like Smithers, all hunchback from the toiling over my keyboard, a pallor from the glow of my monitors.  Bags, you say?  Luggage, my friend.  Unshowered (this should be a word), with I just licked a bunny mouth, working until 10pm almost every night this week.  In a word: crapass.  In a real word: wretched. 

I’ve been inventing words long before I hit OnceWife or InfatuHated. It began when I was two. I called milk, "blulka," which is awesome because milk sounds like blul-ka. My battle cry of "shmee," meant "give me my juice."  I’d like to say it was my way of butchering, “give it to shmee,” but actually shmee just meant juice.  I never said I was brilliant.

Here, let me prove it.  Not all that long ago, I genuinely believed the idiom was "French benefits."  “Not that long ago” meaning a fistful of years, but still, a Barnard Graduate ought to know you can’t sew oats or fall by the waist side.  I mean, for all intensive purposes, I should really still be in high school.  High school was hard, harder than college certainly.  And now, of course I don’t remember most of it, so I’ve put myself on an e-learning diet.  1 serving of U.S. Map screensaver.  A homepage portion of periodic table.  And, Don’t Know Much About History via myPod for dessert, a second helping to disc two if I’m feeling gluttonous.  I feel like I should still know how to do a mathematical proof.  I tutored people in calculus in college, yet I still count on my fingers.   I kind of like that I do, makes me quirky in that good way. It’s amazing how dumb can pass as quirky.  Just look at the geniuses who can even make the manish Julia Stiles seem cute because she won’t eat the skins of tomatoes in some chick flick trailer where she’s jumping on a bed.  Ah ignorance, it’s not bliss; it’s quirky.  At least my locust of control orientation is in check; I mean, I am doing something about it.

Today, for example, Avril Lavigne’s, Complicated peaked my interest.  I had no idea what she was saying when she whined, “promise me I’m never gonna find you fakin’”  As in what?  Faking an orgasm ‘round somebody else, worse, everyone else?  So I looked it up.  It can’t be fakin.’  Close enough.  “I’m never gonna find you fake it.” 

I fake idioms with authority.  Case and point, this post is riddled with all of my idiot idioms, but I can top that in the retard category.  I am a lover and champion at faking song lyrics.  Misheard lyrics is just a good time.  For me, karaoke is a learning experience each and every time.   

Smelly Clarkson’s Since You’ve Been Gone
“Since you’ve been gone, I can’t breathe for the first time.” 

David Bowie’s Ground Control To Major Tom
“This is ground control to major tower.” 

Prince’s Little Red Corvette
“Miracle Corvette.”

Disney’s The Little Mermaid’s, Part of Your World
"Pregnant women, sick of swimming, ready to stand."  What?  "Bright young women" get pregnant all the time.

I love etymology almost as much as karaoke.  Most of my mangled mistakes are anchored in a history of fat.  I thought, "Two faced" meant, "You have a double chin."  And when someone first said to me, "Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth," I actually cried.  Mommy, Hillary called me a horse.

And incase you missed it, I know it’s fringe, sow, wayside, intents, locus, piqued, and case IN point. Touché.