Lombard Street in San Francisco is known as the “curviest in America,” but city residents know that’s a big lie. Local San Franciscans know that’s a big lie. Vermont Street in Potrero Hill is the curviest street in San Francisco, and therefore in the world. Good thing too, because if it were in some other city they probably wouldn’t spend every Easter dressing up in costumes and racing down dangerous curves on the tiny Big Wheels tricycles designed for Kindergarteners.
As part of the ongoing crusade to remove trite words from my speech, lately I've taken to using the word "puppycock." This is not to be confused with poppycock. Or rather, it is too be confused so that I may delight in making the correction. I use this word in situations of surprising dismay, such as stubbing my toe or discovering a parking ticket. "Puppycock" is a perfect curse word. It captures something real that civilized people would rather not think about in the space of nine letters. It conveys a clear image of this thing. It is disturbing enough to furrow the brows of my fellow citizens, so that they may join for a moment in my unhappiness. But it is not so disturbing that polite ladies will not sit next to me in the dining hall.
Christopher is a dog lover (considering the context of the curse, I beg you not to read into that) and he does not approve of my use of the word "puppycock." In retaliation, he has taken to using the word "kitty poon." Alas, his blade has reached a tender spot as my psyche wishes I had never heard him utter that terrible phrase. I am not even convinced the phrase existed before he coined it. I suggested he google it to be sure, he declined—a first for the man who, at the whim of an offhand query, spent an hour on Wikipedia last night learning about the Statue of Liberty. I believe he has outdone me. Because no one wants to think about the vag on a kitten. He pointed out that a cat in heat is all too happy to spread the notion but I responded that kittens do not go into heat—only fully mature, womanly cats. Serendipitously we made the discovery that just as "puppycock" sounds like the word "poppycock" "kitty poon" has the benefit of being easily mistaken for "kiddie porn." We look forward to having a conversation that goes something like this:
Christopher: No, no, of course not! What kind of gentleman do you take me for! I would not utter such blasphemy as a simple declaration of displeasure!
Civilized Fellow: Thank goodness! There are women and children present! What did you say then?"
Christopher: I said "kitty poon." KIT-TEE POOHN.
Civilized Fellow: [blank stare]
Christopher: You know! as in the immature snatch of a wee baby kitten!
Civilized Fellow: Come along Margaret. We're going back to the first train car with no air conditioning and the writhing hobo.
Phew. I am wiping the sweat from my brow, as I have just completed the challenge of writing a novel in thirty days. It was (way fucking) harder than I thought, but I’m still finished a day early.
After over-indulgently, redundantly, and discursively rambling on at length in a verbose way, it is time to turn my attention to that art form that is the heighth of *conciseness: the bumper sticker.
I can’t have my East coast friends missing out on all of the stickers that haven’t ciruclated there way just yet. So here are some of my favorite Berkeley bumper stickers that may be new to you:
PBS MIND IN A FOX NEWS WORLD
VOLDEMORT VOTES REPUBLICAN
I MISS BILL
MORE TREES, LESS BUSH
WAR IS TERRORISM / WITH A BIGGER BUDGET
and my favorite,
DRAFT SUV DRIVERS FIRST.
I have some catching up to do, reading everyone’s blogs and commenting. Let this blog be an exercise in *pitthiness.
*Surely there is a better noun for succintity?