Elisson wrote a terrific post about made up languages, which as is often the case with Elisson’s stuff, is both informative and hilarious. Here is a snippet, which deals with a very specific made up language, namely Klingon (Whe knew?):

And, of course, there’s that perennial favorite of Trekkies: Klingon, created and designed by Mark Okrand, a linguist hired by Paramount Pictures. There have been books published in Klingon, including at least one Shakespeare play; furthermore, there are people who are able to carry on entire conversations in Klingon, generally in the context of trying to get laid at Star Trek conventions. A more futile quest is hard to imagine.

Read it all (but only after you’ve finished reading the rest of this most interesting post).

Elisson also noted that there are made up languages that are spoken by one person or only a few (even fewer than the number who speak Klingon, methinks), and such a languages is known as idioglossia.

The idioglossia stuff triggered a bunch of memories from my days as a yoot, when it was not uncommon to use made up words. Similarly, other words, while not made up by someone I actually knew, often would not have been understood beyond a couple dozen miles from where they were regularly spoken.

Here are s couple that I remember:

1. ”Dewemplin”. One of my favorites is the term “dewemplin,” as in “You’re a dewemplin!! (pronounced “doo-EMP-lin,” or sometimes con brio as “doo-EMMMMMM-plin”).

Defining the made up term “dewemplin” is particularly interesting, because it requires a two-cushion lexico-shot. You see, before you can define the term “dewemplin,” you first have to know what a blivit is. (Definitions within definitions – lawyers love that shit.)

A blivit is, “Ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag.” (I was surprised to see that the term has made it into the Urban Dictionary.

Sooooooo, the definition of a “dewemplin” is, “One who stuffs blivits,” or a “blivit stuffer.” At least that’s the technical definition of the made up word, although it came to be used to describe a feckless douchebag of a person.

2. Kerr. I think the same kid who made up the word “dewemplin” (Let’s call him Frank) also coined the term “kerr.” “Kerr,” was the made up term for “dog shit,” but wait, it gets better.

Frank and his buddies (all of whom were more than a bit twisted) took delight in flinging dog shit at people they thought warranted it Their criteria for who would get “splattayed” (“spla-TAYED” as they would say it) – are lost to history, but I am happy to say that I was never a splatayee.

What made it even more weird was that the shit flinging was very ritualistic, which brings me back to the word “kerr.”

When Frank and his buddies decided that someone was deserving of a “splattay,” they would use bits of paper to pick up the dog shit, and when they flung it they would all shout, “Kerrrrrrrrrrrrr forrrrrrrrrr yeeeeeeeeee!” (pronounced with rolling R’s).

I booshit you not.

Clearly, Frank and his minions were all dewemplins.

Permit me a bit of introspection.

I try to be mindful of the Law of Occum’s Razor when I do the introspective thing, and Occum’s Razor would lead to the following conclusions:

1. My cruller is fogged by some sort of a micro organism that has rendered me a stumbling, unable-to-concentrate snot factory.

2. Whatever energy I may have had at the beginning of the day is now completely sapped, as evidenced by my seemingly Bataan Death March-like stumble between my office and the Big, Fat, Black Capitalistic Car at the end of the work day.

3. The Booger Fairies that have rendered me a pathetic snot-filled dewemplin have prevented me from having any ground pound time, which is the time when I have almost always formulated readworthy posts.

Then again (and much more ominous) is the possibility that I have completely and forever lost whatever I once had resembling a fastball. All I know is that, at the moment, blogging just doesn’t seem like much fun.

All is not lost, for I am healthy enough to recognize that Harry Reid is a contemptible swine (I always knew that), but I have recently been reminded that he is also as dumb as a bag of potting soil.

Surely, you really don’t need to read another dewemplin blogger’s take on Mahmoud Ahmadinejad’s performance today at Columbia University. Not to worry; I’ll be brief, as these are the pop-into-my cruller variety of thoughts as I watched this evil man do his thing.

If one had been sound asleep for the past several years and awakened to listen to Ahmadinejad’s speech:

You might think you were listening to Albert Schweitzer or Ghandi.

You might think that Iran was as friendly and hospitable as Disneyworld.

You might think that all the pictures you’ve seen of the concentration camps and extermination camps in places like Dachau, Auschwitz and Treblinka had been photoshopped and that more “research” into their authenticity is necessary.

You might think that women in Iran have a wonderful life, full of countless opportunities equal to those enjoyed by men.

You might think that the only terrorists in the world are the Joos and, of course, the United States for its support of Israel.

You might think that there is something unique about the Iranian gene pool (or perhaps something in the water) that has resulted in a country where there are no homosexuals.

You might think that 9/11 was an “incident” rather than a brutal, unprovoked attack by Islamic lunatics.

Fortunately, those of us who have not been asleep for the past several years know better.

That is all.

Permit me a post that may be of interest to only a very few Peeps.

It’s official. Yesterday, my friend and bodyguard Ken and I beat our two Usual Suspect Rivals (Jeff – da Chef of da Future and Captain Arthur) at horseshoes, making us the Season Champions yet again. Try as they might, these two dewemplins have never been able to come out on top by the end of the season, which runs from Memorial Day through Labor Day.

This year, the season was marked many fewer matches than before, because da Chef of da Future had somehow injured his shoulder (or so he says). The season also ended a week early, as neither of the Losers will be around next week for yet another beating.

Predictably, they did their usual grousing, replete with claims, such as “Da practice throws shoulda counted!” No surprise there: Jeff had thrown a ringer for one of the two practice throws per player. Boo-hoo. Tooooo bad, sooooo sad.

I suppose they can take some solace in know that there’s always next year, but they’ve been saying that for years now. BWHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

Afterwards, as the merciless gloating and grousing continued over post-game cocktails, including a few chocolate vodkas to cap off the night, (there were also pre-game and during-game cocktails), Ken said, “You ought to blog this.”

Before I could respond that I hadn’t planned on blogging it, because I didn’t think that anyone outside our immediate circle would be interested in reading it, the two Knuckleheads started right in, “Yeah, go ahead, and we’ll write comments about how fulla shit you are and how WE wuz robbed and WE really are the season champs … blah blah blah.”

I explained that, as Master of my Little Blogiverse, I can disable comments.

“Yeah, go ahead, and we’ll comment in other places. We’ll leave comments all over da place telling the troot about youse fulla shit guys!”

What I didn’t tell Da Losers is that, as Master of my Little Blogiverse, I can EDIT their fulla shit comments in such a way that might surprise them.

Consider yourselves warned, sissy boys.