Chewing the Bone

[Zoe note: Whoa! I just ate a whole three-cheese sausage and grits combo plate with a side of curly fries and slaw. I also ate part of the cardboard box it came in. You see, the delivery boy knocked on our door and left it by mistake. Even with the door closed, I could smell that food was involved.

So, after I checked that no one else in the house heard the knock, I, with great effort, figured out how to open the front door. I sneaked into the garage and snatched a strap wrench from Richard's workbench. Then I went to the door and used the wrench to turn the door knob open.

After that I had a banquet on the front porch followed by a mighty dose of heartburn and stomach churning. None the less, I've got a timeline to follow so I finished this chronicle in spite of my discomfort and forwarded it to my editor for publication. I'm now in the backyard trying to eliminate some of my difficulties.]

I enjoy expanding my knowledge of human languages, I've learnt English real good, I have a working vocabulary in Mexican, and I am semi-fluid in Pichuan, the diacritical language of Peru. Pichuan isn't spoken much by the locals anymore; they prefer Spanish, Quechua, and Aymara. That's too bad because Pichuan is an elegant little language.

A Peruvian Inca Orchid (ain't that a beautiful breed name?) named Atua taught me Pichuan while he was here in the Highlands on a service dog exchange program. He had some trouble being accepted at first because he is a hairless dog. Up here, all dogs except those with major skin problems, have lots of hair. But Altua soon fitted in because of his charming personality and his access to coca leaves.

It occurred to me that it would be good for the Vatican to authorize Pichuan instead of Latin for littoral and related rituals like the holy wafering. You see, these priests don't even know how to speak Latin, after all, it's a dead language. They just mouth repetitive, monotonous phrases they have memorized while they move their arms and hands up and down and spritz water all over the place. It's so boring.

Using Pichuan instead would add a lot of pizzazz to the rituals and uplift the parishioners so they could feel closer to the bosom of Christ. I've contacted the Monsignor of Rome, His Holiness Giovanni Clitorio de' Migliorati Angelico Papsolio about my willingness to teach the priests Pichuan. So far, His Holiness hasn't responded to my offer. I'm sure he's busy getting the Pope's robes laundered, ordering communion wafers, and shredding documents about pedophile priests.

Anyway, back to my interest in languages. I sometimes like to explore some of the nuisances of human language. I think idiotisms are especially fascinating. Lots of languages have them, but they don't exist in Dog. When we bark, we mean exactly what we bark.

Idiotisms are expressions that don't really mean what they seem to mean. I discovered a new one today that I like a lot. It's "ham-fisted". It's, well, meaty. At first I thought it referred to someone with a serious birth defect, you know, like a club foot or a pecker head, but it just means having a heavy-handed approach to dealing with people that hurts a lot of feelings.

I would add some related idiotisms to "ham-fisted", such as "pork-chop-fisted". It's not only meaty but greasy. And how about "spare-rib-fisted"; it's also saucy, and "rump-roast-fisted"; it's, well, rumpy.

There are other idiotisms that are quite interesting, such as a "fine kettle of fish". I would love to get a fine kettle of fish. I would prefer cod, but pollock or mackerel would do. Alas! (That's almost Shakespearian, ain't it?) It has nothing to do with fish; it just means being in a difficult or awkward situation.

There are others too numerous to go into detail, like "whatever floats your boat", "chew the fat", and "cold turkey". It seems like a lot of them have to do with things I like to eat. Here's a doozy: "cat got your tongue?". I tell you what, there ain't no cat gonna get my tongue. If one was stupid enough to try, I would chomp its head so hard that its brains would shoot out of its butt.

Now here's one with some bucolic charm: "I didn't fall off of the turnip truck yesterday". I haven't figured out this one yet, but it clearly has something to do with root vegetables.

Another nuisance of human languages is euphoriaisms. They're just as weird as idiotisms. For example, there are a lot of them used instead of just saying someone died: "passed away", "dearly departed", "bite the big one", "bit the dust", "bit the bullet", "kicked the bucket", "went to a better place", "gave up the ghost", "met his Maker", and "was called home". Whew!

Some others of note are "close but no cigar", "barking up the wrong tree" (I've done that a lot), "as cool as a cucumber", "hold your horses", "blue in the face", "straight from the horse’s mouth", “turn a blind eye”, and "up shit creek without a paddle".

But enough of this prattle chatter. I've got bigger fish to fry - maybe a sea bass in a kettle, but more likely a catfish in a skillet.

Actually my bigger fish is a screenplay I'm working on. I'm sure the movie production mongols will love it. I call it In Her Majesty's Secret Cervix. It's in English with a British accent, which is needed for the effectiveness of the cast of characters. So far I've just got the opening scene worked out, and here it is:

It's three a.m. in London and one of the few places still open is the Lamb and Flag Pub on Tooly Street. There are only a few patrons inside, and all of them seem to be comfortably numb. The bartender is polishing glasses as he smokes a Lambert & Butler. In walks a rumpled, rotund man with a bowler on his head.

He sits down next to a man at the bar and says, "And who might you be sir, partaking in this rogue's gallery of a bar at such a late hour?"

The man straightens up and turns to look at the inquisitor. "Fuck off," he says and slumps over again.

Not to be dissuaded, the rotund man rejoinders, "Come on matey, I'm Harry Penbroke, just a regular bloke wanting to make an acquaintance."

Slowly the other man straightens up again and begins to speak. All of the cheap gin he has drunk during the night has loosened his tongue, and before he can restrain himself, he says, "My name is Bone, Jason Bone. I like my women shaken, not stirred."

He continues, "No, that's not right. Let's see ... Got it. I like loose shoes, fast women and black cars. No, no, no. I like fast cars, loose women, and black shoes. Still not right. Loose cars, fast shoes, and black women. Close enough. Oh yes, and I'm a secret agent on a mission at the bequest of the Queen."

Penbroke replies, "Bequest? There is no bequest of the Queen. What are you trying to say you bounder and what might be this secret mission?"

Bone then replies, "My good man, if you continue this insult of our Queen, I will pin you to the wall with my genitals."

Penbroke shouts, "You lout! Are you feeling knackered? Genitals are not pinning instruments, at least not in this context."

Bone replies, "I challenge you to a duet, you shirty skive. You are far cry as an Englishman."

Penbroke: "Bugger off you daft cow! Everything you say is rubbish. But I'm beginning to like you bloke. Let me buy you a drink."

Bone: "Well, indeed, good man. I'll have my woman stirred but not shaken."

Penbroke: "Come on matey, I'm buying you a Guinness, not a slapper."

Bone accepts the drink, but his guard hairs stand up. He knows full well this not a chance encounter and Penbroke is much more than he seems to be.

Sinisterism is afoot!

Not bad, eh? Like I said, the mongols will slobber all over this to get the rights to it.

But wait. How about just one more language thingie before I close. It's an exclamater and a good one. What I've noticed is sometimes when people see something wonderful or something tragic, they blurt out, "Holy Shit!". Now what's that all about and where did it come from? Is holy shit, shit that's been blessed by a priest? Or ... might it be ... the Big Guy's do-do?

So, does the Christian god have a human body? Well, the Bible seems to think so. Read Genesis 1:27: "Then God said, "Let Us make man in Our image, after Our likeness..." For now I'm going to overlook the telltale use of "Us" and "Our" in this passage, although it clearly indicates that God had some company way back when.

So if God made man is His (Our) image, God looks like a human, and ergo, he likely has working bodily functions like eating and pooping. Think about what that implies! I tell you what, it would be a mighty strange thing to see God sitting on a toilet.

Do Christians who go to heaven still have bodies? Do they eat and poop? Can they have sex? If these bodily functions, especially having sex, aren't part of the program, that would give some Christians a strong incentive to find some other place to go to when they die. (I'm sure the guys at the Vatican will try to excommunicate me for writing this, but since I was never communicated in the first place, they can't touch me.)

Us dogs, we don't have a heaven, and we don't need a heaven. When we die, we just die. That's Nature's way.