Ten Dollar Word Abusers
I am going to outwardly declare my love for Ten Dollar Words. They are so good. I love them and they love me back.
Why are Ten Dollar Words so good to me? I can think of two reasons, and they both deal with intelligence: Let’s say you are talking to somebody who isn’t as smart as you and you are arguing with them and they are still biting at your ankles with that sort of idiot resolve. You know what I’m talking about, I’m sure. So you’re there, talking to this person and you just want to stop talking to them. BAM! Slap them with a T.D.W. Call on your friends that exist deep in your vocabulary and that’s the end of the argument. The dazed look means you can walk away.
Conversely, let’s say you’re the ankle biter and are deep in a conversation about the history of tort law with a federal judge. (Uh-Oh). Now’s the time to fire back a few T.D.W.’s, chuckle, do that awkward shoulder punch and strut off, dignity (almost) intact. There have been worse conversations with federal judges, trust me.
So you see, Ten Dollar Words are useful in more than one situation; however, they are rarely used that way. There are the abusers. There are those scum bags where everything has to sound as long as possible, where if it isn’t three syllables, it isn’t being said. What a disgrace.
Don’t you guys understand? The T.D.W. is a hidden weapon; it’s the gun in the ankle holster. The one where when you run out of bullets in your hip-holstered sidearm, you can always crouch down and fire a few surprise shots. BAM BAM BAM! Toss out some of those words; you deserve them. Sneak attack style.
I hate having to talk to someone where something as simple as “would you like to get some lunch” turns into “is your stomach creating sonic evidence as to the hunger level that you now sense, and if so, would you be inclined to satiate that hunger with an informal meeting of both of us for a midday luncheon?” God. What the fuck is that? Seriously, some people talk like that. There aren’t really any T.D.W.s in there, either. It’s just diarrhoea. Out of your mouth. Onto my face.
Please. Stop. Now.
I think I know what the deal is. Strap yourselves in for some knowledge here, folks: saying the simple thing does not make you the simple person. Nobody cares that you pretend to be Peter Mark Roget on the daily. Nobody cares if you think you are a fountain of knowledge.
Also, news-flash motherfucker: ‘lunch’ and ‘luncheon’ are synonyms. The only difference between the two is that when you are talking to me, you’d say ‘lunch’ and when you are talking to the Queen, you’d say ‘luncheon.’ And then she’d bitch slap the the living fuck outta you. The Queen hates pretentiousness.
I, and the Queen, motherfucking hate Ten Dollar Word abusers.