Happy Friday, dear reader.  Let’s get to it!  Grab a pint of your favorite libation, because it’s time for our Word of the Day!  I’ve been reading a lot of Dickens recently (’tis the season, ’tisn’t it?), so today’s linguistic gem that we’re about to mercilessly dissect is  “guttersnipe.”
So, what in the name of God’s Balls is a guttersnipe? It sounds like something you’d find lurking in the bowels of your antiquated plumbing system, right? Well, not quite, but close.  A guttersnipe, dear readers, is a term used to describe a street urchin or a child of the streets.
Originally, this delightful word comes from the good ol’ 19th century England, where words were as colorful as Queen Victoria’s royal panties (pure conjecture, dear reader, don’t quote me on that). The term combines “gutter” (a street’s drainage system) and “snipe” (a slender-billed bird known for its elusive nature), painting a vivid picture of scrappy kids dodging in and out of London’s grimy alleyways.
Now, let’s imagine a scenario, shall we? Picture this: You’re strolling through a modern city, and suddenly, a blur of motion catches your eye. It’s a kid, no older than ten, darting between the bustling crowd, his nimble fingers swiping wallets with the grace of a seasoned ballet dancer. He’s not just any pickpocket; he’s the Guttersnipe.
The Guttersnipe, with his artfully smudged face and twinkling eyes, rules the proverbial concrete jungle. He’s got the agility of a cat, the cunning of a fox, and the audacity of a peacock on bath salts. He’s a regular Robin Hood, if Robin Hood traded his forest for skyscrapers and his merry men for a gang of equally nimble-fingered miscreants.
One day, the Guttersnipe spots a new target: a man so engrossed in his jumbo hot dog that he doesn’t notice the wallet slipping out from his pocket. The Guttersnipe swoops in, snatches the wallet, and vanishes into the crowd faster than you can say “extra mustard.”
But when he opens the wallet, what does he find? Not cash, not credit cards, but a mountain of coupons for free hot dogs. The Guttersnipe can’t help but laugh. He may be a street urchin, but even he knows there’s such a thing as too many hot dogs.
And so, our little guttersnipe learns a valuable lesson: not all wallets are created equal. And some, it seems, are full of nothing but processed meat dreams.
So there you have it, folks. From the grimy streets of 19th century England to the hot dog stands of modern cities, the guttersnipe endures, a testament to the enduring power of language and the universal appeal of free food.

N.P.: “My Way” – Sid Vicious

Damn right the word of the day is bumfuzzle.  Because why the hell not.

Despite my dirtiest hopes, bumfuzzle is not something you’ll find on the menu of one of those horrible quasi-brothels in downtown London with the dead-eyed Slavic chicks (though the next time I’m in one of those wretched places, I might order a bumfuzzle and just see what happens.
Anyway, bumfuzzle is indeed a real word and not some gibberish I scrawled in my journal when I woke from this afternoon’s Ny-Quil-influenced fever dream.  It’s an olden goldie from the deep South, dating back to the mid-19th century. And no,  it doesn’t mean your bum’s gotten into a fight with a puzzle.  It’s a verb that means to confuse, perplex, or fluster.

Enrique found himself unexpectantly bumfuzzled before the day had even really started when, upon picking up his usual venti mocha with whip, the heavily bearded yet totally bald, six-foot-four baristo suddenly began bellowing angrily about being misgendered. 

“…the fuck you talking about?” Enrique asked, annoyed to have to turn around in the midst of his hurried exit.

“You called me ‘sir.'”

Enrique had uttered an unusually polite “thank you, sir,” when he was handed his coffee.  That was maybe two seconds ago, and already Enrique regretted trying to be polite today. 

“Yes, I called you ‘sir.’  What’s the problem?”

“It’s ‘ma’am…I identify as female,” the baristo yelled deeply. 

Enrique took a few steps closer to read the nametag: Stanya.  Enrique noticed for the first time Stanya’s clothing, which, rather than a dress or assless chaps or anything at all that would have indicated that this idiot was pretending to be a woman, consisted of men’s jeans and a Motorhead t-shirt. 

“…The fuck outta here.  You’ve got more beard than ZZ Top.  You wanna pretend to be a women, first thing you need to do is fuckin’ shave.”

This caused Stanya to plunge into instant and deep conniption and apoplexy.  He lunged at Enrique, who deftly dodged the charging Stanya in exactly the same way a matador would dodge a freight train.  Stanya’s own massive motion sent him through the front window of the coffee shop, where he came to rest as a cut-up mess several feet outside of the coffee shop.  Enrique passed gracefully through the remnants of the front door to find himself standing over Stanya’s prone adiposity. 

“You are whatever I say you are, cupcake,” said Enrique.  “I rescind my ‘thank you,’ and replace it with an enthusiastic ‘go fuck yourself.’ 
Back in his car, Enrique, who had been in the United States illegally for several months now and deeply regretted spending so much money to get to this absurd and unserious country, decided he’d had enough and began to make plans to get back to Mexico as soon as possible. 

N.P.: “I’m a Man” – Black Strobe

Petrichor refers to the pleasant smell that accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather; the pleasant, earthy scent produced when rain falls on dry ground.

It’s a combination of two Greek words: “petra” meaning stone, and “ichor” meaning the blood of the gods. This word was coined by two Australian scientists in 1964, who described the smell as “an oily essence”.

Once upon an recent afternoon, in the bustling city of San Francisco, there lived a man named Harold. Harold was your typical SF denizen, a tech-obsessed investment wizard whose life revolved around stocks, shares, and the ever-fluctuating market. He rarely had time to appreciate the simpler things in life, like the aroma of freshly brewed coffee or the delicate rustle of autumn leaves.

One day, after a particularly stressful day at work, Harold decided to take a walk in Golden Gate Park. As he was strolling, the skies opened up, and a sudden downpour began. Harold, unprepared as he was, took shelter under a large oak tree. As the raindrops kissed the parched earth, a distinctive scent filled the air.

“Is that… Is that piss I’m smelling?  Is it literally pissing out here?” Harold wondered aloud, scrunching up his nose. A passerby overheard him and laughed.

“No, sir,” the stranger corrected with a smile, “That’s petrichor.”

“Bong wash!” Harold exclaimed, annoyed.  “It’s piss.”

The stranger breathed deeply, then admitted, “Okay, yes, that’s mostly piss.  The first rain of the season really wakes up all the piss and shit and fentanyl that covers this entire city, but if the rain keeps up like this for another ten minutes or so, it’ll be the wonderful smell of petrichor.” The stranger then explained the meaning of the word. Harold listened, fascinated. He took a deep breath, hoping to let the earthy scent fill his senses. Instead, he still got only the acrid stench of piss.  Rather than feeling the strange serenity that washes over people experiencing actual petrichor, he grew increasingly resentful and angry at the city with already caused him resentment and anger as the smell of piss continued to waft and billow into his nostrils.  

Then the rain suddenly stopped.  Both Harold and the stranger inhaled deeply and hopefully, but were crushed by the reality that is San Francisco.  “Nope…nothing but piss,” said Harold.  “There is simply more piss than rain water.”  

The stranger shrugged.  “Well, fuck it,” he said, resigned.  “I can give you some fentanyl and a hummer for $10.”  

“Sounds good,” replied Harold.  Harold followed the stranger into a nearby public restroom, where Harold was grotesquely violated and beaten by several drug-addicted, homeless friends of the stranger, and subsequently sold to human traffickers from Mexico.  

Feel free to share your own stories using ‘petrichor’ in the comments below.

N.P.: “Lion” – Saint Mesa

Defenestrate (verb): To throw someone or something the fuck out the window.

Defenestrate originates from the Latin words “de-” (down or away) and “fenestra” (window). This unique term is often used both in a literal and metaphorical context, though it’s not a word you’ll likely use in everyday conversation.  Unless you’re talking to me, in which case you’ll find it deployed frequently.

Just as the sun was beginning to set, casting a warm glow over the city, an extraordinary event took place at the bustling office of Smith & Co. After a day of repeated and absurd failures, the CEO, a man known for his dramatic flair, had reached the end of his patience with his dim-witted amanuensis. With a huff of frustration, he decided to defenestrate the pesky collection of tight shirts, neuroses, and incompetence. Employees watched in shock, then amused relief, as Amber flew out the window, tumbling down into the busy street below. From that day forward, the term “getting Ambered” became a synonym for defenestration at Smith & Co.

N.P.: “Knockers” – The Darkness

Dearest reader, today’s Word of the Day is “inveigh,” a verb that means to bitch vociferously; to protest or complain bitterly or vehemently.  It’s a word that packs a subtle punch, and is typically used in formal contexts.

Let’s see this word in action:

Once upon a time (meaning now) in the quiet town of Witch’s Tit, CA, there was a man named Brad.  Brad was known for both his affinity for bootleg tipple and his ability to inveigh against anything and everything.  His nickname was Brad the Inveigher (like Vlad the Impaler except not nearly as cool).  Though some of the locals found Brad’s stupidity amusing, Brad was almost universally disliked.  His favorite pastime was getting drunk and attending town hall meetings, where he would rail against the most mundane issues.  One memorable evening recently, Brad stood up whilst drunk and began spewing invective at the local bakery’s decision to reduce the size of their doughnuts by a microscopic amount.  He ranted and raved, waving around a doughnut as evidence, his face turning a shade of red that almost matched the raspberry filling.  “Who the hell are these idiots to try to change the size of doughnuts from the standard Judeo-Christian size that they’ve been for millennia?  This is an affront to doughnut lovers everywhere!” he exclaimed, before accidentally squishing the doughnut in his hand, causing a spray of raspberry filling to hit the mayor sitting in the front row.  The room fell silent, then erupted into laughter (except for, most notably, the mayor, who was not laughing at all, and actually, judging from appearances) sank suddenly into extraordinarily dark states of pissed off).  From that day forward, Brad was not only known as the town’s chief complainer, but also as the Doughnut Deflator.  Despite the incident, Brad continued to inveigh with gusto, providing the townsfolk with endless entertainment, right up until the day the Mayor had Brad shot in the balls by the Anhedonia County Sheriff for his egregious breach of etiquette with that raspberry doughnut bullshit at the last town hall meeting.  Brad’s been on the quiet side ever since.

N.P.: “TK421” – Lenny Kravitz

Art by Tasty Piece,©️ The Safehouse Collection 2023

1. causing or produced by putrefaction or decay.

The stripper before him smelt of the sourness of the second shift of a very rough double. The sour breath of alcohol and penis and the odor of sweat and smoke. Her dead tooth was a dark glare in the light of the bar, and the way the blacklight made all of her teeth glow nuclearly except for the dead one wasn’t helping anything. Her eyes were wild with desire and methamphetamine as she moved her hips in circles. He felt the warmth of her body as she leaned in and her hands grasped his neck tightly. He tried to ignore the stench of her dead tooth and focus on the feeling of her body against his. Although he could not deny the saprogenic smell of her mouth as she mumbled whorish nonsense mere  inches away from his face, he remained transfixed upon the song blaring in the background…it was one of his favorites.  It didn’t have a dead tooth.  “Focus on the song,” he told himself.  “Once it’s over, this dance will be over, and I can finally escape this ho and her fetid breath.”

N.P.: “You’re Insane” – Rod Stewart

Art by Tasty Piece,©️ The Safehouse Collection 2023

un·pre·pos·ses·sing
/ˌənprēpəˈzesiNG/

adjective

1. not particularly attractive or appealing to the eye.
   Myriad words have been employed throughout the years to describe unfortunate looks of the neighbor lady: repugnant, ghastly, bleak, filthy, paltry, revolting and unsightly. Comparisons to war wounds and auto accidents had been made more than once. The more charitable…the ones who genuinely tried to be kinder often described her as unprepossessing.  But on this particular night, with the eldritch moonlight illuminating her hunchback just so as she snacked on a midnight goat in the backyard, the only term that came to mind was “bestial.”  God, she is vile.  

N.P.: “Living On The Ceiling” – Blancmange

kakistocracy

mondegreen
noun
noun: mondegreen; plural noun: mondegreens

1. a misunderstood or misinterpreted word or phrase resulting from a mishearing of the lyrics of a song

So my three most memorable mondegreens are these:
1) In The Beatles’ Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, I thought the lyric was “The girl with colitis goes by.”
2) In Creedence Clearwater Revival’s Bad Moon Rising, I thought the lyric was “There’s a bathroom on the right.”
3) In Head East’s Never Been Any Reason, I thought the lyric was “Shave my wife, I’m going down for the last time.”  Which made more sense to me than the actual lyric.

N.P.: “Gott Maschine Vaterland” – Cephalgy

Another overly peopley day.  Peoply?  People-ly?  Whatever.  There were too many fucking people.  I got through it fine.  Exhausting, though.  In lieu of wisdom, here is a word I’m rather fond of:

Your Word of the Day is pluviophile – noun – a lover of rain;someone who finds joy and peace of mind during rainy days.

N.P.: “Majesty” – Ghost