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October 1st, 2004

Fictionlet

"Boobs," he said. "I have a problem with boobs."

Brigid gave Greg a sideways look. "Most men do," she commented.

"No, I mean I have a problem with the word 'boobs.' I don't like it when women call their breasts 'boobs.' What are you laughing at?"

"Why," she managed to get out, "don't you like the word 'boobs'?"

He scowled at a far corner of the room. "I just don't, okay? It's ... I dunno. It's demeaning."

Brigid blinked. "Seriously?"

"Yeah. They ... er ... 'boobs' is goofy. I mean, 'breasts' isn't exactly a beautiful word, but at least it's not goofy."

Brigid was laughing even harder now. "Yes, we must take very seriously the all-sacred boobies!" She began violently wiggling her torso in a particularly lewd manner.

"Stop that!" said Greg, jumping to his feet and moving away.

"Oh come on," she said. "You're being ridiculous! If you can call yours a wiener, I can call mine boobies!"

Greg frowned. "Well I don't much like the word 'wiener' either!"

Brigid rolled her eyes and sighed. "You're hopeless," she said, and headed for the kitchen.

"At least I'm consistent!" he announced to her retreating back.

-The Gneech

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Today's Forgotten English

icarian
Soaring too high; rash or adventurous in flight. From Icarus, a mythological hero, the son of Dædalus, who when flying on wings from the anger of Minos, mounted too high so taht the heat of the sun melted the wax which cemented his wings, causing him to fall and perish in that part of the Ægean Sea, which was called after him.
--Edward Lloyd's Encyclopædic Dictionary, 1895


First Recorded Aviation Fatality Since Icarus
On the evening of Friday, the first of October, 1736, during the performance of an entertainment called Dr. Faustus at Covent Garden Theater, one James Todd, who represented the miller's man, fell from the upper stage in a flying machine by the breaking of the wires. He fractured his skull, and died miserably; three others were much hurt but recovered. Some of the audience swooned, and the whole were in great confusion upon this sad accident.
--William Hone's Every-day Book, or Everlasting Calendar, 1827


-The Gneech

Weekend, Come to Me Now!

There's too much noise here; get me OUT of this cubicle!

-TG

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