Fuckin’ Tuesdays, dear reader…am I right?  Anyway, today’s lexical artifact, plucked from the dusty, cobwebbed archives of words that ought to be used more, is jentacular.

Jenatacular (adjective): Relating to breakfast.

Yes, really.  There exists a specific, glorious, and for my money tragically underutilized word just for things pertaining to the first meal of the day.  It’ a Latin hand-me-down, derived from ientaculum, which means, you guessed it, breakfast.  The Romans, between bouts of conquering and plumbing innovations, apparently had enough time to coin a dedicated term for their morning nosh.  And we, in our infinite wisdom, have let it wither on the proverbial vine.  A crime against language, I tell you.  Now, for a practical application.
The alarm – a sonic atrocity that sounded  less like a chime and more like a pterodactyl being fed into a woodchipper – had already done its unholy work.  I peeled on eye open to a world rendered in the depressing grayscale of pre-dawn misery.  My head throbbed with the ghosts of shitty decisions past, each pulse a tiny hammer on the back of my eyes.  This, I thought with a profound sense of cosmic injustice, is the price of admission.
The kitchen was a war zone.  The toaster, a malevolent chrome cube with a death wish, had immolated its bread-based hostages, belching a plume of acrid smoke that now clung to the ceiling like a lost soul.  A Jackson Pollock of coffee grounds decorated the counter, the result of a fumbled, pre-caffeinated attempt to operate the grinder.
I stood there, barefoot on the cold floor, observing the tableau of my domestic failure.  The smoke detector chirped a single, mocking note.  My stomach growled, a low, guttural protest against the very concept of continued existence.  I looked at the blackened toast, the coffee-splattered carnage, the existential void staring back at me from the bottom of an empty mug.  It was in the moment, surveying the smoldering ruins of my morning ambitions, that the full, unvarnished horror of the entire jentacular catastrophe truly landed.  I sighed, grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the cabinet, and decided to just start the day over tomorrow. 

N.P.: “No Yes More Less” – PIG