Today’s Word of the Day is “imprecation.”  It’s a noun meaning “a spoken curse; an invocation of evil or misfortune upon someone; a profane oath or malediction hurled with the specific intent of summoning cosmic retribution upon one’s enemies, rivals, or that idiot who cut you off in traffic while you were already running late for your court-mandated anger management session.

From the Latin imprecatio, meaning “to invoke” or “to call down upon,” which itself derives from im- (upon) + precari (to pray).  Because apparently, even our ancestors understood that sometimes prayer needs a little…creative direction.  The word first slithered into English around the 15th century, presumably when people realized that simply muttering “darn” wasn’t quite cutting it anymore.

Picture this, dear reader: it’s Friday night, and in a move I can only blame on equal parts bourbon and catastrophic optimism, I invited Tasha – hot, terrifying, and probably allergic to commitment – back to my lair for a “home-cooked dinner.”  My definition of “home-cooked” being whatever hellish combination of fire and bad decisions I could wrangle from a Dudes Living Alone recipe blog. 

The kitchen was already a goddamn war zone.  I’d tried to wipe up yesterday’s ramen explosion with a sock.  The smoke detector hung in the corner like a pissed-off ex, daring me to make one wrong move.  On the stove: a pan of bananas foster that looked less like “dessert” and more like “evidence in an arson investigation.” 

So what do I do?  I pour twice as much rum into the pan “for flavor,” which we all know is culinary code for “to see God.”  I light the match, and an eruption of blue flames whooshes to the ceiling.  Within seconds, I have set fire not only to dessert by also to my decrepit linoleum, part of the curtains, and possibly the lower atmosphere. 

Tasha – credit where it’s due – doesn’t scream.  She doesn’t even flinch. She just watches, stone-faced, as my IKEA spatula melts into ’90s plastic goo and my dog (Beelzebub) bolts straight out of the dog-door at Mach 2.  The fire alarm is bellowing like Satan’s kazoo, and I’m slap-dancing at the flames with a wet Rolling Stone back issue, which is not both on fire and somehow stuck to my jeans. 

My neighbors are banging on the front door.  Beelzebub is barking somewhere in the alley, possibly summoning lesser demons.  Smoke fills the house like I’m auditioning for “Worst Hotboxer in America.”  And all I can do is unleash a spectacular torrent of imprecation at the universe, the smoke alarm, the goddamn bananas, and honestly, at myself – creative profanity so loud and sustained I’m pretty sure the Pope just renounced me by proxy. 

Tasha orders an Uber in three silent swipes without losing eye contact – bold power move, honestly – and walks out, stepping over my flaming vinyl copy of “Bat Out of Hell” like it’s another Tuesday.  I’m left shirtless, coughing, and considering whether calling the fire department or moving to Guam is less humiliating. 

Dinner was ultimately pizza.  The dog came home eventually, smelling like brimstone and judgment.  And every time I walk into that kitchen, the burn mark on the ceiling still spells out “Never Try.” 

N.P.: “We All Scream” – Five Alarm Funk