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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 13, Issue 5 (August 1, 1938)

Words of Wheezedom

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Words of Wheezedom

Language Run Riot.

If all the words in the English language were shot at you simultaneously they would blow you out of your socks or your mind. If you had to use every one of them once every day you'd probably get radio rabies in short raves and go micro-phoney. If three-fifths of our word-mongery were put in a sack and dumped, you'd still have more than enough to function normally—i.e., to order a drink, explain to your creditors the reason why they are still your creditors, make the usual six o'clock excuse to your wife, and comment on world affairs. To comment on world affairs you need only one word, anyway. In America the one-way word is a national institution. There is practically nothing, from grand larceny to ground alimony that can't be answered both in the affirmative and the nigger-tive with “yeah.” The “huh!” is equally deadly when used in word warfare. Australia also can express a mouthful with “betcher”; but New Zealand's national expletive is a double-barrelled weapon firing “too right!” or “I dunno.”

Use of the Grunt.

There is, of course, the grunt which is almost exclusively the defensive weapon of the newspaper-reading husband and the business head pursued for a donation. The grunt is perhaps the most useful of all nature's gifts of self-preservation. It is non-committal yet discouraging; it enables the gruntee to play for time, to gather himself for a pounce if, and when, it becomes desirable. Watch the average husband at the average fireside reading the average paper with the average wife. After she has settled herself into a nest of newspaper with nerve-racking rippings, cracklings, rustlings, and paper-wavings, she clucks once or twice; her husband hunches himself up tortoise-wise, striving to drop his head into his chest in the pathetic hope that she'll forget he's there. Probably he's deep in the ancestral ramifications of a race-horse who has all the traditional qualifications of a winner except the speed; or perhaps he's immersed up to the ears in world affears. His wife gives her paper a stupendous shake, which makes it go off like a salvo of machine guns, and says, “Fancy that.” Then she says “Hm!” and “Tch, tch!” Her better half telescopes into himself until his boot tags tickle his Adam's apple. He says, “Grunt!” It's hardly a “let's get together” kind of remark. In fact it has a distinctly un-Rotary flavour. Not that she holds that against it. After twenty-five years she regards it as almost chatty. She says, “Did you see this dreadful thing in Prague?”

He says, “Wuf!” She proceeds to get all the pages of the paper out of order and to fold it in the usual wifely manner until it looks like a run-over pie. Then she really slips into conversational top gear. She reads aloud all the things he has already read in solemn silence. At intervals he remarks, “Huh,” “Grrr-wuf,” “Gah!” “Brrr,” and so on, while he struggles to keep the blood from turning his brain red. So long as he sticks to the connubial grunt he is reasonably safe. The instinct of self-preservation grows in husbands with the years, and the young benedict who learns early to grunt during the evening newspaper session has a reasonable hope of getting through without having his license endorsed.

Daft Definitions.

But we are all word-starved; we fail to extract from our language the rich juices of meaning—the fruity flavours which hover round the kernels. Taking a few common words at random and putting them through the mangle of definition, what do we find? We find: —

Typiste: A young lady who is filling in time between college and marriage.

Germany: The land of the flee.

Butcher: The only human being who can chop up his legs and still keep his feet. His old school is Porterhouse. However much he chops and changes he never loses his block, for he feels it in his bones that his welfare is at steak.

“The lady who said ‘I will’ and has done so ever since.”

“The lady who said ‘I will’ and has done so ever since.”

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Baker: Not a member of the crust-acean family, although he often has nippers. His children are known as “a baker's dozen.” A baker remains young because he is always in the flour of his youth.

Wife: A lady who said “I will” and has done so ever since.

Dictator: A person who believes that he has a divine message, but has misread the postmark. Dictators make huey while the sun shines. When alive they believe that they bring relief to the masses. When dead they do.

Brain: That part of the body generally used to prevent thought.

Motor Car: A vehicle with five wheels, four of which are practically fool-proof.

Cricket: A radio drama broadcast by the B.B.C. Known as cricket because you get a crick in the neck trying to follow it. In England the most important necessity in cricket is the umbrella. Usually played between England and Australia, but actually played between showers.

For further examples, see the New Oxfraud Distionary compiled and distorted by ignorance.

Radio Rambles.

But the radio is a great stimulant to conversational belligerence. Immediately the radio lifts up its voice someone is bound to say, “Listen to this; this is good.” and then explains why it is good, with variations. One thing leads to another, and sundry items just as good, if not better, are explained in dreadful detail. Competition between the broadcasting board and the domestic reconteur runs high, and the broadcasting boys usually lose by a nose.

Speaking of radio rambles, the question of individual preference is a factor in livening up domiciliary monotony. Father has a weakness for the political pops from 2 O.Gee. Mother is all for the Gardening Notes from 1-I.C. For three years she has been endeavouring to find what will
“Young Waldo is following up that stupendous, colossal, soul-slaughtering drama, ‘The Man with the Green Face’.”

“Young Waldo is following up that stupendous, colossal, soul-slaughtering drama, ‘The Man with the Green Face’.”

annihilate pink woofits on her scrambled-egg plants. Myrtle likes to “swing it” with Rudy Vallee. Young Waldo is following up that stupendous, colossal, soul-slaughtering serial, “The Man with the Green Face.” He has just heard the end of “Blood on the Steering-Wheel” and “Death in Plus-Fours,” and is looking forward to a real good wallow in horror before hitting the kapok.

Father sneaks furtively to the radio and tunes into the political arena while mother's attention is diverted by an altercation with Waldo concerning the disappearance of half a steak pudding. But suddenly she halts hostilities and with a cry of “Gardening Notes!” throws herself on the radio. “Bah,” snarls father as the gardening expert's voice comes through with, “my talk to-night is on barber's rash on harebells …”

“If you took more interest in the grounds the place wouldn't look like the hanging gardens of Babel,” she says, and adds a number of pungent postscripts. Myrtle takes advantage of the diversion to dally with Rudy and his Malady Maniacs. Father suddenly shouts, “Turn off that tripe!!!”

Myrtle unleashes the voice of protest. Mother joins forces to rout the ranter; passions run high. Meanwhile Waldo tunes into “The Man with the Verdigris Map” just in time to hear him laugh maniacally whilst he lowers Mervyn Musclebound into the pit of alligators which snap their jaws with a sound like doors slamming. But before the Musclebound's legs are shorn off at the hips, the whole household suddenly turns on Waldo in a united front and snatches his alligators from him. All agree that, however, much they disagree among themselves, men with green faces are not good for growing boys. Waldo kicks up all the mats and goes to bed vowing that he'll go to the dogs as soon as he is old enough. The radio suddenly bursts into “The Old Folks at Home” and the family sinks into a temporary coma.

Such is the power of the spoken word.

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