I hope you’re wearing your tux or ball gown today, dear reader, for you have found your lucky self at a World Premiere!  Today, I’m thrilled to unveil a brand new word to the world.  Ladies and gentlemen…behold!  I give you juridiculous (adj).  This term, coined by yrs. truly, is an adjective used to describe decisions, rulings, or verdicts so absurd, farcical, or patently nonsensical that they defy logic, reason, and the basic tenets of justice.  These rulings often arise from the political weaponization of the law, grotesque incompetence, or a toxic cocktail of both.  The word captures the Kafkaesque comedy of errors that unfolds when the judicial system becomes a theater of the absurd.
A portmanteau of juridical (from the Latin juridicus, meaning “of or relating to judicial proceedings”) and ridiculous (from the Latin ridiculus, meaning “laughable, absurd”).  Together, they form a linguistic Molotov cocktail hurled at the crumbling edifice of legal sanity.

It started, as these things often do, with a parking ticket.  Not just any parking ticket, but one issued for the crime of “parking with intent to loiter.”  Let that sink in, dear reader.  The car wasn’t double-parked, wasn’t blocking a hydrant, wasn’t even idling.  It was just there, existing in a metered space, minding its own goddamn business.  But apparently, in the eyes of the law – or at least the bloodshot eyes of Officer McCheese of the FCPD (not his real name…I’ve had enough trouble with this badge-carrying ballbag already, so I’m not going to dox him here), who looked like he’d been mainlining Red Bull and rage since 1997 – this was an act of premeditated vehicular loitering.
So there I was, standing in front of Judge Phatphuck (also not his real name), a man whose face resembled a half-melted candle and whose judicial robe looked like it had been tailored by a blind mortician.  He peered down at me over his bifocals, the kind of glasses that scream, I’m about to ruin your day for sport.
“How do you plead to the charge of parking with intent to loiter?” he asked, his voice dripping with the kind of smugness that only comes from a lifetime of never being punched in the face.
“Your Honor,” I sad, “with all due disrespect, this charge is – how do I put this delicately? – batshit crazy.”
Phatphuck’s jowls quivered.  “Watch your language in my courtroom!”
“Watch your courtroom in my language,” I shot back, because sometimes you have to go down swinging.
The prosecutor, a woman who look like she’d been raised by a pack of sentient spreadsheets, stood up and began reciting some obscure municipal code about “intentional misuse of public space.”  She spoke with the kind of monotone that could make a TED Talk on time travel sound like a eulogy for a goldfish.
“Your Honor,” I interrupted sexily, “this is juridiculous.”
The courtroom fell silent.  Even the stenographer stopped typing, her fingers hovering over the keys like she was trying to decide whether to record my outburst or just quit her job and join a commune.
“Excuse me?” Phatphuck said, his voice rising an octave.
“Juridiculous,” I repeated.  “Adjective.  Describing a judicial decision so absurd, so laughably detached from reality, that it makes Kafka look like a realist.  Example: this entire bullshit proceeding.”
Phatphuck’s face turned the color of a boiled lobster.  “One more outburst like that, and I’ll hold you in contempt.
“Hold this in contempt, jackass.  I’ve been swimming in contempt since the moment I walked in here.  You think I’m scared of a little extra?”
Ultimately, I was fined $500, sentenced to 20 hours of community service, and banned from parking within 500 feet of a courthouse for the next year.  But you know what, dear reader?  It was worth it.  Because somewhere out there, in the vast and chaotic universe of human language, juridiculous now exists.
And if that’s not justice, I don’t know what is. 

N.P.: “In Hell I’ll Be In Good Company – Metal Version” – Leo

Happy Saturday, dearest reader.  It’s time to sling some lexical filth into your booze-addled brains.  Today’s word is scrofulous, a term so gloriously grotesque it could make a vulture gag on its own carrion.  Let’s tear into it in our usual style: like a pack of rabid jackals on a three-day bender.

1. Of, relating to, or affected with scrofula, that old-timey tuberculous nightmare where your lymph nodes swell up like rotten fruit.
2. Having a diseased, run-down appearance, like you’ve been living in a dumpster behind a dive bar.
3. Morally contaminated, the kind of soul-rot that makes you want to shower with whiskey and self-loathing.

This gem slinks from the Middle English scrofules, rooted in the Latin scrofulae, meaning “swellings” or “little sows” (because those neck lumps looked like piglets to some medieval quack).  It’s tied to scrofa, Latin for “sow,” which is fitting, given the word’s grubby, wallowing vibe.  It’s like the linguistic gods knew it would one day describe the kind of people who drink boxed wine straight from the spout.  By the 15th century, it was slathered onto anything diseased or morally bankrupt, and it’s been festering in the language ever since.

The bar was a pulsating boil of humanity, smelling like sweat, stale beer, and urinal cakes.  I was  being my usual amazing self, three whiskeys deep, my notebook splayed open like a gutted fish, when this really ratty bastard, I mean we’re talking scrofulous, staggered in – face like a roadmap of shitty decisions, eyes like piss-holes in the snow, his soul so rank you could smell the moral decay over the cigarette haze.  He looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him.  He had a Michael Scott vibe to him, if Michael Scott quit bathing and shaving and did a lot of cocaine.  He lurched toward the bar, barking for a double of something cheap enough to strip paint, and when the bartender – a woman with arms like a longshoreman and a stare that could castrate – told him to fuck off, he tried to charm her with a grin that showed teeth like a row of condemned tenements.  “You know I’m good for it,” this loser pleaded.  “Please…they’re closing in!  My whole family’s about to go to prison…all of our friends!  ‘Seditious treason,’ they’re saying!  Whatever the fuck that is.  Please!  I’m begging you!  Give me a drink!”
“Hunter, I told you to fuck OFF!” hollered the bartender, who then slugged a mouthful of whiskey, spit it all over this nebbish, pulled out her lighter, and lit him on fire.  The whole place erupted in laughter, a raw, hyena howl, as he ran out into the night, trailing a stench of failure and cheap, flaming whiskey.  I scribbled it all down, my pen moving like a switchblade, knowing this was the kind of night that’d leave scars. 

Now go forth, sexy reader, and wield “scrofulous” like a shotgun in your next ballroom rant.  Drop it in a sentence, scare the squares, and raise a glass to the glorious rot of language.

N.P.: “As Alive As You Need Me To Be” – Nine Inch Nails

What it is, dear reader.  I’m four whiskey’s in, scribbling this on a napkin in a bar that smells like regret and motor oil.  So let’s get to it.

Abecedarium is a word both pretentious enough to elevate your cocktail party small talk right past the threshold of the tolerable and yet charming enough to avoid being immediately escorted to the patio to smoke alone.  Using it won’t make you friends, but it will make your friends feel stupid, which, frankly, is its own reward.

An “abecedarium” is an alphabetically ordered list, typically used for teaching purposes.  Think kindergarten flashcards but set in Latin, so they’re basically the literary equivalent of drinking scotch in a leather chair.

Or – less commonly – a person who is just learning; in other words, a novice, the kind  of wide-eyed rookie who trips over their own ambition and thinks its progress.  Yes, you can call someone an abecedarium if they still need the training wheels on their intellectual bicycle.  Try it next time your friend can’t find the “any” key on their keyboard.  If someone accuses you of being an “abecedarium,” they’re either pointing out your obsession with ABCs or trying to start an elaborate bar fight in the guise of a Scrabble challenge.

The word comes to us from Latin, obviously – abecedarium comes from “ABCD,” the sound you make when you lose your train of thought mid-sentence and try to fake confidence.  The Romans, masters of turning fleeting brain farts into academic formality, slapped on the suffix
“-arium,” because everything sounds fancier with a suffix that implies archives, libraries, or conspiracy rooms.

So I’m in this shithole cantina in Tijuana, 2017, my liver screaming for mercy and my notebook a graveyard of half-baked poems.  The bartender, a grizzled idiot named Rico with a scar like a topographic map of hell, is pouring mezcal so cheap it could strip paint.  I’m dealing with this kid – call him Diego, a virgin if there ever was one, fresh off the bus from some nowhere pueblo, clutching a dog-eared copy of On The Road like it’s the goddamn Bible.  Diego’s got that novice glow, all earnestness and bad tattoos, yammering about how he’s gonna write the Great American Novel despite never finishing high school.  I’m half-drunk, half-amused, and I say, “Kid, you’re so green you make limes jealous. You don’t write the Great Anything till life kicks your teeth in…don’t worry…it’ll happen.”  He blinks, all doe-eyed, and orders us another round of this piss, thinking he can outdrink me.  Mistake.  Two hours later, he’s reciting his “poetry” – some godawful drivel about cacti and freedom – while I’m carving limericks into the bar with a switchblade.  Diego pukes on his shoes, passes out, and I’m left with his book, now sticky with mezcal and moronic verse.  I flip it open, write “Learn to live first, you dumbass” on the title page, sign it, and leave it next to his face.  Rico laughs, says I’m cruel.  I say I’m honest.  That abecedarium’s got a long road ahead, and I ain’t his Sherpa. 

Now go read, write, or burn something, you literary reprobates, or I’ll personally spike your coffee with iambic pentameter.

N.P.: “Uptown Funk” – Saints of Sin

A word so deceptively small and flippant it practically trips off the tongue, shedding responsibility like an unrepentant twit fleeing the consequences of a late-night bar tab.  At its core, “piffle” is a glorious noun (or occasionally a verb, if you’re feeling ballsy) that encapsulates nonsense, drivel, inane chatter – the auditory equivalent of someone smacking their gums over a lukewarm soda from a gas station in Reno.  A perfect linguistic tool when “horseshit” feels too crass (imagine that, I know) and “nonsense” lacks punch.

“Piffle” emerged straight out of the Victorian word machine, evidently.  It first slithered onto the scene in the late 19th century, likely as a child of onomatopoeic creativity – a linguistic fart noise, if you will, destined to embody foolish talk.  The Brits, drunk on empire and possibly gin, picked it up and ran with it.  It was once a polite way to call somebody’s bluff or dismiss their absurdity without looking too gauche (or drunk).  That said, there’s no definitive origin story – but isn’t that fitting for a term that basically means “pointless chatter”?  It came from somewhere or nowhere, just like half the things you think about in the shower.

Imagine it’s three in the morning, and you’re nursing what can only be described as the unholy spawn of caffeine overdose and existential dread while loitering in a 24-hour diner that smells vaguely of bleach and broken dreams.  Enter Boochie – your friend, nemesis, and someone who will definitely get you arrested someday.  Boochie slams down a mug of coffee as black as Satan’s eyeliner and starts in on one of his infamous “plans.”

“Listen,” he says, eyes darting like a ferret who’s just found out he’s one lottery ticket away from Easy Street.  “This time, it’s foolproof.  We invest in an alpaca farm in Costa Rica.  It’s sustainable.  It’s organic.  It’s sexy, dammit.”
You blink.  Twice.  Your brain struggles to process the sheer audacity of the nonsense pouring out of his mouth.  Finally, somewhere between pity and rage, you find the words. 

“Boochie, my dude,” you say, tapping a cigarette against an ashtray for dramatic effect, “that has got to be the biggest pile of piffle I’ve heard since your artisanal bong startup went under in ’22.”

And really, what more is there to say?  Boochie sulks.  You order pie.  The waitress gives you both a look that says she’s heard it all before, and the night rolls on, a relentless blur of terrible decisions and half-baked philosophies. 

“Piffle” is your friend when you need to dismiss absurdity with just the right mix of disdain and panache.  Unlike words like “hogwash” or balderdash,” which sound like they belong to some Dickensian dandy, “piffle” walks the line between sarcasm and outright dismissal.  Use it wisely – or don’t.  The world’s a mess anyway.

N.P.: “Night Fever” – Bee Gees

Sciurine (adjective) – Pertaining to, characteristic of, or resembling squirrels.  Think bushy tails, frenetic energy, and the kind of manic focus that only a rodent with a nut-based retirement plan can muster.

From the Latin sciurus, meaning “squirrel,” which itself traces back to the Greek skiuoros (skia = shadow, oura = tail) because apparently ancient Greeks thought squirrels were just little guys who lived in the shade of their own tails.  Cute, right?  Also mildly existential.

I’m bummed out today, dear reader.  Bummed Out!  ::sigh::  Where should I start?
Whenever I kill something, I typically prefer for it to have been on purpose.  You know, with dark intention and malice aforethought.  ”Twas not always thus: in my late teens I used to kill just…er, never mind that for now.  That is probably best left for the book.  Suffice it to say, over the decades, I have developed a better appreciation for life and the right for non-Jayson things to exist than I used to have.  As a result, I am very careful to protect most critters in my world, so long as we are able to coexist.  Mostly meaning that as long as they stay out of my house, we’re good.  Faithful followers here have heard me talk with great affection about Bath Salts the squirrel, who, along with her adorable family, have a nest under the eaves of the Safe House.  There are multiple and surprisingly large lizards living in, on, and about my central AC unit.  I watch them climb up the walls, chasing the direct sunlight throughout the day.  I am down with the critters.  Which is why, dear reader, I’m so bummed today.

Earlier this morning, I was driving skillfully, even expertly through downtown Fecal Creek, obeying the posted speed limit and all relevant traffic laws, when an evidently suicidally depressed yet hyperactive and manic squirrel ran into the street in front of my car, which was going exactly 33mph, down an otherwise untrafficked road.  Had the squirrel simply maintained his speed and direction across the street, everything would have been fine…not even a near miss.  But no.  This sciurine shithead stops exactly in the middle of my lane, front legs rather splayed as if ready for action, and stares at the grill of my car.  I hit the brakes, natch, and, if this thing had a brain any larger than a crouton, would have allowed ample time for it to pick a direction and haul ass, totally unmolested.  Which, it seemed, to do, for a second.  It decided to reverse course, and head back to the side of the street from whence it came.  I instantly turned the wheel slightly, to the opposite side of the road Mr. Squirrel is heading.  But then, a split second later, it does a 180, and runs back in its original direction.  So, again, with the compassion of St. Francis, I turn the wheel slightly in the other direction, planning on missing the squirrel entirely.  But just as it’s about to disappear under the front of my car, it changes directions again, appearing to very intentionally dive under the car.  Despite my braking, what happened next was an apparently unavoidable double-thud as I drive over this goddamn thing.  It was horrible, and I felt like a nazi the rest of the afternoon.  I was guilty of involuntary squirrelocide. 

But then, somehow, things got even worse.  I went to get the mail, and on my second step out the door, I stepped on a baby frog, flattening it damply and instantly.  In and of itself, this accidental act was no big deal…there are literally thousands of these little fuckers jumping around the yard, and usually, despite the frogs having significantly smaller brains than the squirrels, they jump quickly out of your way when you walk down the sidewalk.  So what the hell was wrong with this one?  We’ll never know.  But that was the second unintentional critter kill of the day.  I still had writing to do, so I couldn’t let myself get too depressed about any of it.  In the end, I remembered that I am nothing more than an enforcement agent of Darwinism, taking out the trash. 

Still…I really would prefer my killings be on purpose. 

N.P.: “Captain Love” – The Winery Dogs

Chiropteran (kai-ROP-ter-an):  Any member of the order Chiroptera, the winged mammals more scandalously known as bats.  These critters range from the adorably snack-sized fruit bats to the nightmare-fuel megabats that might make off with your steak if you’re picnicking too close to the equator.

Derived from the Greek works cheir (hand) and pteron (wing), chiropteran describes the bat’s uniquely unsettling wing structure, which, upon closer inspection, can evoke the terrifying realization that you’re essentially staring at a flying skeleton hand.  Congratulations, dear reader, you know have one more trivia fact to ruin cocktail parties with.

The thing about Sheila – the one thing, the starting point, the narrative axis around which all her small-town notoriety would eventually orbit – was that she had, since moving to Fecal Creek, been the sort of upstanding neighbor who inexplicably prompted suspicion.  Not for anything actionable, of course.  Her lawn was mowed (by HOA standards, which is to say: with the frequency and fervor of a contract killer erasing forensic traces), her recycling bin was a Platonic ideal of sustainable virtue, and her invitations to potlucks were legendary in the way only a three-bean salad that doubles as an existential dare could be. 

So when she started walking her neurotic  schnauzer, Milton, at exactly 2:04 a.m. every night – yes, every night, like clockwork, like something out of a pharmaceutical ad for insomnia with a side effect of paranoia – the Fecal Creek gossip-mongers began to stir.  At first, there was mere whispering about the “strange glimmer” of her porch light and how her eyes “caught the moon weirdly, in a way you don’t see much outside Victorian novels.” 

Words like “oddball” and “eccentric” gave way to phrases like “creature of the night.”  Then came the Nextdoor thread.  There were accusations (unsubstantiated, frequently typo-ridden), hashtags (#Batwoman or, bafflingly, #BananaMan), even a poem posted by someone calling themselves “Concerned4Christ.”  It all crescendoed one evening when, as Sheila ambled around the block in sweatpants, rain boots, and a T-shirt that read “I Am Not a Morning Person,” a black blur (local wildlife?  suburban nightmare?) swooped beneath the buttery glow of a streetlamp and right into the whirring blades of suspicion.

That blur – wingspan like patent-leather gloves, little body jerking erratically like a cursed wind-up toy – was, of course, a thoroughly mundane chiropteran, though you’d never know it from what happened next.  Lila Eisenberg, the Creek’s undisputed Czarina of Gossip, shrieked so magnificently that birds in three time zones checked their watches. 

Rumor that Sheila was either harboring – if not actively mothering – nocturnal “familiars” was officially launched, and nothing would ever be the same.  The sheer choreography of horror on the neighbors’ faces whenever she waved good morning (which was never actually morning) from her mailbox was a thing to behold.  When Halloween rolled around, Milton wore a hot-dog costume, Sheila carried a thermos labeled “Definitely Just Coffee,” and not a single kid braved her sidewalk for candy. 

Sheila, knowing exactly what was up and deriving a savage delight from the spectacle, started adding plastic bats to her lawn décor.  All treats, no tricks, yet somehow she became legend – the guardian of Fecal Creek’s midnight, the matron saint of insomnia, and the reason the three-bean salad as, from then on, always left untouched. 

N.P.: “King Volcano” – Bauhaus

Rara avis in terris (noun phrase): Latin for “a rare bird in the land,” used metaphorically to describe an extraordinary or unusual person or thing, the kind of phenomenon that doesn’t just defy expectation but detonates it.  Someone or something so unique that they’re effectively a cosmic statistical error, like seeing a double rainbow while getting hit by lightning and winning the lottery all at once.

As mentioned supra, this phrase comes straight from Latin, baby, because antiquity had a flair for the dramatic.  The phrase hearkens back to Juvenal’s Satires (6.165, for you grad students who actually like footnotes), where it was used to lament the improbability of finding a woman simultaneously beautiful, rich, faithful, and talented.  Essentially, “rara avis in terris” became shorthand for spotting a unicorn in rush-hour-traffic.  Over time, it expanded to mean any anomaly that made you stop, gawk, and question your place in the universe for a hot second.  Yes, it’s pretentious.  Yes, it’s amazing.

On of the more white trash denizens of Fecal Creek was Paulie “Numbers” Karpinski, who was known for punching above his weight in all areas of his life.  Legend had it that he had won $150K in the lottery a dozen years ago, and had, since the moment he won, considered himself a professional gambler, and also “well-to-do,” even though his lottery winnings had been completely burned through years ago.  It was all he could do to scrape a couple bucks together to buy half-a-dozen scratchers every Friday night.  And this Friday night, just like the 50 previous Friday nights, Paulie didn’t win shit. 

Nevertheless, Paulie still considered himself a professional gambler, and professional gamblers have an appreciation for odds.  Which is why, when he stumbled into Le Seraphin, a new French bistro incongruously tethered to the edge of a Wal-Mart parking lot, he figured his luck could only go up. 

Le Seraphim was absurd on principle.  It had chandeliers decked out like Liberace’s fever dream.  Waiters in suits that probably cost more than Paulie’s car flitted from table to table like tuxedoed dragonflies.  The menu was one of those single-sheet masterpieces where the fonts did more heavy lifting than the food descriptions, except for the prices written in what might as well have been micro-aggressive hieroglyphics. 

Paulie, being Paulie, didn’t care.  He dumped his ass into the nearest chair and ordered the first thing he saw, a $175 steak tartare described as having been “massaged” to perfection. 

But the highlight of the evening wasn’t the raw meat appetizer masquerading as culinary enlightenment.  It was the woman three tables over, who Paulie swore – even while drunk and prone to hotboxing his own imagination – was some kind of divine mistake.  Her hair was the color of every bad decision he’d made at sunset, and her body was what Botticelli would’ve dreamed up if he weren’t so distracted by goddamn seashells.  She laughed like she’d invented oxygen.  Her dress looked like something sewn directly onto her skin by a team of sacrilegious angels.  She was, without question, a rara avis in terris, the rarest of rare birds in the landfill of mediocrity that was Paulie’s life. 

Unfortunately, Paulie being Paulie meant his idea of “charming” involved a lot of slurred metaphors and overly familiar hand gestures.  He sauntered toward her table with the grace of a hedgehog juggling chainsaws. 

“Hey there,” he said, leaning in as if conspiratorial proximity would make him seem suave rather than mildly rabid.  “Are you Google? ‘Cause you’ve got everything I’m searching for.”

Her smile froze, the way someone’s smile does when they’re mentally flipping coins between fight or flight.  Without missing a beat, she turned to the towering French waiter by her side and said, in clipped, elegant syllables, “Jean-Luc, I believe this gentleman is lost.  Would you kindly…redirect him?”

Paulie didn’t hear the rest because Jean-Luc had grabbed his elbow with the precision of someone who hadn’t just earned a tip tonight but had earned all the tips, forever.  Paulie found himself rehomed curbside faster than you could say hors d’oeuvres.

He watched her through the window as she tossed back a glass of wine so red it looked like arterial punctuation.  Paulie muttered something half-hearted about “class warfare” and called an Uber, deciding then and there that rare birds weren’t for him. 

“Back to the bar on 7th,” he told the driver.  And as he leaned back into the ripped leather seat, he decided that steak tartare tasted like chalk dipped in regret anyway. 

N.P.: “Head Spin – Signals Mix” – Collide

Triskaidekaphobia (noun): The irrational fear of the number 13.  Though it may sound like something invented to spice up Scrabble night, this phobia is alarmingly real and has been blamed for everything from mysteriously absent 13th floors in hotels to the collective existential dread that surfaces whenever Friday the 13th looms on the calendar.

This Frankenstein’s monster of a word is stitched together from Greek origins.  Tris (three), kai (and), deka (ten), and phobos (fear) were patched together to create a term that is frankly way too long to be yelled in a panic.

N.P.: “J.B. Witchdance” – Masters of Reality

Oomska (noun): An undefined, usually intangible something that’s funky, messy, or generally in a state of chaotic absurdity.  Originating as a sort of nonsense placeholder word, it evokes the linguistic vibe of an odd, gooey clutter that defies categorization.

The word “oomska” seems to exist in the shadowy, anarchistic corner of the language reserved for pure whimsy.  With no traceable root in Indo-European traditions or otherwise, it’s suspected to be a syntactical UFO, possibly birthed in literary or comedic obscurity by minds too caffeinated for their own good.  Whoever coined it likely did so with the philosophical hand-waving of someone avoiding an actual explanation with flair.

If you’ve never tried explaining to a Border Patrol officer why you’re transporting a cooler full of what looks like radioactive gazpacho across state lines, I can tell you right now there is no winning version of this interaction.
“So you’re saying…it’s soup?” the officer asked, each syllable soaked in the kind of skepticism reserved for conspiracy theorists and people who pronounce “bagel” wrong.
“It’s more of a…prototype?” I ventured.  A shaky move at best.  I couldn’t tell him it was food-colored cocaine base, so I decided to take a hippy tack.  His eyes flicked to the cooler and narrowed like he was trying to Mission Impossible his way into its contents using pure suspicion.
“And this ‘prototype’ contains…?”
I figured telling him this toxic brew was homemade kombucha, but whether your describing kombucha or cocaine base straight from Mexico, there’s a point where your explanation tips from reasonable into the grammatical equivalent of jazz improv.  I could feel that moment approaching like a very fast tank.
“It’s part fermented culture, part nutrient blend.  Honestly?  It’s kind of an oomska situation.”
He blinked. “A what-now?”
My brain scrambled for a respectable synonym.  None came.
“Look, it’s organic, non-toxic, possibly probiotic.  You know, like quinoa but…wetter.”  I was praying he didn’t ask me to consume the stuff.
The officer stared, visibly weighing the costs of harassing me further versus enduring whatever hellish scent lived inside the cooler.  After an excruciating beat, he waved me through with the universal expression for, “I don’t get paid enough for this kind of weird.”
I have no idea what ultimately convinced him.  Maybe it was the aura of unhinged sincerity, maybe the word “oomska” had successfully short-circuited his skepticism, or maybe he just didn’t want to get “kombucha” dribbles on his boots.  Whatever the case, I drove away victorious, hauling my cargo of questionable liquids and hubris into the sunrise.
Which is why, to this day, I firmly believe some messes can only be described with freshly invented vocabulary.  Oomska.  It explains everything and nothing at once.

N.P.: “Blues and Cocaine (feat. Michale Graves)” – Me And That Man