Every Language Snob in the English-speaking world is now cordially invited to kiss my ass.




Remember all those stuck-up horsebutts who've told you, over the years, that there is no English rhyme for "orange"?

The next time some dumbass pulls that, look hiim straight in the eye and say --

"Door-hinge."

Then tell him you stole it from me.


And send me a dollar.




If they want to pretend it's actually pronounced "or-raynj," say:

"Short-range."


And send me a dollar.



And if they insist on pronouncing in the French mode -- "or-rahnj" -- say:

"Melange."

And tell them to shut the fuck up.



And, of course, send me a dollar.

Don't forget to inform them that every time THEY use this to embarrass some know-it-less-than-all, they have to send me a dollar, too. And so forth.


No rhyme for orange, my ginger-haired butthole.







Or whatever.

Back on moral clarity . . .

I just read over the final line of my previous post, and I was powerfully struck by the possibility that my insistence on nuance and uncertainty has a great deal to do with boredom.

It is an unavoidable fact that moral clarity in an unambiguous world just isn't very interesting. Or interesting at all.

Oy. Double oy.

As one of the villains in Crowley's MOONCHILD once memorably put it (with an exhausted sigh): "Consciousness is a burden . . ."

On the other hand, i just read an account of a testimonial lunch given in honor of the (now departed) Arthur Schlesinger Jr, the great historian. On that occasion, last December, Schlesinger remarked -- with his customary to-the-bone quotability -- "The future outwits all our certitudes."

Which I'm likely to insert under the title of the next Caine book.