Tuesday, August 30, 2005


A new addition to the Big Book of Bunkum:

blendsetting (n.) descriptive of those whose primary mission in life is to mingle in a crowd, melt into the woodwork, or blend comfortably into a cake batter but can’t quite accomplish this feat since they’re not truly transparent or tasty enough to fool anyone

e.g. Mundiggler von Aderkrass, a retired thumbtack and grommet sales rep from Ma-Ma-M-O Beach, Alberta soon realized that he'd made a terrible mistake in signing up for a Thursday afternoon course (at the University of Something or Other), entitled “The Deep Dark Secrets of Ancient Egypt’s Goddess of Turquoise”; and, if truth be told, he really didn’t give a tinker’s damn about the windswept plateaus in the Sinai Desert, a Proto-Sinaitic language that has so far defied translation, or a tawdry lot of twelfth dynasty dudes wandering about in the sand looking for clues as to what to prepare for dinner after a hard day of digging in the Milquetoast mines of Serabit el-Khadim…all of which meant that he should have trusted his gut instinct and enrolled in, Blendsetting for Beginners” – the easy way to pick fluff off Velcro and other synthetic fibres.

Contributed by: Elblag Trismus, (born in Beans Corner Bingo, Maine during the Age of Aquarius), is a celebrated connoisseur of certified 100% organic pedigreed beef, (of course naturally-raised in a breathlessly bucolic if not serene setting, that makes tracing the origins of the Black Angus Bull back to the glimmer of magic in the eyes of its hoofed parents a relatively stress-free endeavor as hobbies go)

Tuesday, August 16, 2005


A new addition to the Big Book of Bunkum:

wordhog (n.) an in-your-face, smirky sort of creature that monopolizes water-cooler conversations by thrusting his nouns, verbs, and adjectives down the throats of unsuspecting victims who haven’t got a ghost of a chance of finding their way out of a boogie bag let alone a barnyard of bad dudes and equally bad smells

e.g. As Gertrude Goosecruives entered the two-toned, shocking blush-rose and vibrant pea-soup colored piano bar, aptly called the “Pink Panther Palace”, she knew she would be tickled pink, but the last thing she expected was to be accosted by someone calling himself a rough-necked “road monkey” (from some god-forsaken place in Canada, known as Attawapiskat), which probably accounted for the reason why he kept asking for directions to the nearest water-cooler, where to buy “boogie bags”, and more to the point, if a wordhog by the name of Lord Leaping-to-Conclusions was in the premises or if anyone had died lately as a result of an unexplained verbivore attack causing bar bunnies to flee the scene at the first opportunity and bartenders to leave any change left over from patrons ordering aperitifs, pre-prandials, and chasers in rather large wet puddles on the bar, (all which did not appear to sit well with the maintenance supervisor responsible for removing wads of yellow-jaundice gum, a canister of malodorous mulch plus other perfectly normal odds and sods found lying about in the place when it finally closed at 3:31 am sharp).

Contributed by: Chuchi Pettibone, a colorful back-stabbing blurbist from Worby, Manitoba employed by “Tuesday Magazine”, (an award-winning lifestyle publication of interest to those who have a keen interest in soap relationship difficulties, renting an apartment to aliens, pressures from depressed pets, and controversial social issues such as when to use dental floss so it won’t disturb your next-door neighbors or the inhabitants of your aquarium)

Thursday, August 04, 2005


A new addition to the Big Book of Bunkum:

dogumentarian (n.) a dazzling dogmatic member of the doggone dogdom clan whose bark is worse than his bite

e.g. As a dedicated dog-trotting dogumentarian, a fast-rising Dog Star in the House of Common Critters, and Prime Minister Responsible for Dogcatching & Dogwatching in the only nation on earth comprised of hot dogs and roasted weenies, Sir Wilfred Whiffin was not interested in letting sleeping dogs lie unattended for too long, so he obligingly left the comfort, security and safety of his red and yellow striped doghouse with a heated dog-paddling pool to review the facts related to the latest doggo disaster and dire set of circumstances surrounding the disappearance of a high-profile dog and pony show from a dogleg vestibule in the Ministry of Dogsleds & Casual Living where a rather dog-eared, dog-faced, doggy-bag sort of fellow known by his colleagues as "Spot-On" accompanied by his associate, a dog-in-the-manger mule named "Frances" were practicing the limbo while waiting for some tootling top dogs to present a white paper on the need to fund a research study on the previously unexplored topic of who makes the best dogs-breakfast; frankly the whole thing didn't stand a dog's chance of success, which is why Sir Whiffin didn't want to woof too loudly as this might inadvertently cause a dogfight among among his dog-owning constitutents, undoubtedly attract far too much negative attention from the mangy media, not to mention ruin his dogged determination to become re-elected for the twenty-third time as "Numero Uno on the Dog-Pile" -- meaning he would face an uncertain future if not a dogsbody destiny as a doomed dognapper (...and "biting the biscuit" certainly was not on his list of 10 fun things to do before he died and descended into a dog-eat-dog place like Pooch Purgatory).

Contributed by: Paganini Jones, a voracious verbalist with a penchant for split infinitives and double entendres and more recently, a vivacious voo-dooing vocalist in the hugely popular hip-humming triangle-playing trio known as, "The Trout-Fearing Tinmen" from a great little whole in the wall place called Goochland (Virginia)


Credit also goes to Julia and Mark Lucich, a wonderful team of talented artists on Saltspring Island whose fertile imagination and hands have created some very fanciful floating sculptures and assorted "Party Animals" to be seen at http://www.landingpartygallery.com

Tuesday, August 02, 2005


A new addition to the Big Book of Bunkum:

oopsotomist (n.) one who is noted for being rarely on the ball, on the beam, or on the button for that matter

e.g. Horace Shufflebottom, hurried quickly out of his environmentally-friendly water closet, actually it was more akin to a convenient composting and comfortable communion spot which he shared with his best friend, (a humble, easy-to-read earthworm named Boris, whom he felt at one with since any earless, eyeless, legless and slimy species that could convert veggie peelings into fertilizer overnight, slither about with grace, and only occasionally grunt if he didn't get a good-sized daily ration of cabbages and horeseradishes - undoubtedly a big boon especially in this day and age of backstabbing, boondoggling and far too much skullduggery); only an oopsotomist by nature would even consider coaxing an earthworm out of his underground home by belting out a bouncy burlesque tune on a medieval horn with tassles attached...which is why he decided it was high time that he and Boris sign up for the World Worm Charming Championship this year in Worms, Nebraska!

Contributed by: Nybster Nubbock, a lusty lorry driver from Lutton Gowts (a place few have ever heard of nor intend to visit in what remains of their precious lifetime)