Coinage
The phrase "forced death boogie" has now officially entered my vocabulary.
I am known, among my friends and associates, as one who is capable of coining words and phrases, and I do so on a regular basis. (As does the Wifey, although not to the same extent.) While in New York, "walk" was "little white guy, while "don't walk" was "angry red hand." This is my fault, and by the time we left, not only the Wifey, but also Chris and Lauren were heard to say, for example, "Uh-- Little White Guy! Cross!" or "If we cross now, we won't get an angry red hand." They have yet to pick up "Forced Death Boogie," so far as I know.
This comes from an entry I made in the old blog (identified alterallyas the Non-Blog), in which I recounted my late-found love for the disco tune "Boogie-oogie-oogie" (Which might actually have a different, proper name, but who knows and who cares). My contention is that I love it for the diabolical guitar lines and the damned near dismissive lyric, but as a youngster the lyric bothered me. It didn't sound like fun to have to boogie-oogie-oogie until you just can't boogie no more, eg., you die of exhastion. It sounded, I wrote, "like some kind of forced death boogie."
I didn't intend this particular phrase to enter parlance, but it's just too damned fun to say. And to be fair, it almost always gets used to describe an activity I am undertaking myself, mainly because I walk fast. So, for instance, Rachelle has urged me to slacken the pace while hiking by saying "My love, can we make this a little less of a Forced Death Boogie?" At least once, when I was going to head to the car (again on a hiking trip) to get something, and my niece Cayla wanted to join me, I quizzed her thusly: "Are you sure? It's likely to be something of a Forced Death Boogie." And Cayla, bless her little heart, didn't bat an eye. She simply aknowledged that her Uncle Jim was indicating that the course would be taken at abrisk and uniterreupted pace, and assented.
My favorite, though, was a while back, when discussing the possibility of hiking Manhattan from 125th Street all the way down to the Battery (by way of Riverside Drive, Central Park, 5th Avneue and Broadway) on the first day, before Chris and Lauren joined us in the city, I concluded that it would be too strenuous an activity for the first day of the journey. I said, and I quote: "It wouldn't necessarily have to be . . . Nah, it would. It'd be a Forced Death Boogie."
I have no one else to blame. It's all entirely my own fault.
I am known, among my friends and associates, as one who is capable of coining words and phrases, and I do so on a regular basis. (As does the Wifey, although not to the same extent.) While in New York, "walk" was "little white guy, while "don't walk" was "angry red hand." This is my fault, and by the time we left, not only the Wifey, but also Chris and Lauren were heard to say, for example, "Uh-- Little White Guy! Cross!" or "If we cross now, we won't get an angry red hand." They have yet to pick up "Forced Death Boogie," so far as I know.
This comes from an entry I made in the old blog (identified alterallyas the Non-Blog), in which I recounted my late-found love for the disco tune "Boogie-oogie-oogie" (Which might actually have a different, proper name, but who knows and who cares). My contention is that I love it for the diabolical guitar lines and the damned near dismissive lyric, but as a youngster the lyric bothered me. It didn't sound like fun to have to boogie-oogie-oogie until you just can't boogie no more, eg., you die of exhastion. It sounded, I wrote, "like some kind of forced death boogie."
I didn't intend this particular phrase to enter parlance, but it's just too damned fun to say. And to be fair, it almost always gets used to describe an activity I am undertaking myself, mainly because I walk fast. So, for instance, Rachelle has urged me to slacken the pace while hiking by saying "My love, can we make this a little less of a Forced Death Boogie?" At least once, when I was going to head to the car (again on a hiking trip) to get something, and my niece Cayla wanted to join me, I quizzed her thusly: "Are you sure? It's likely to be something of a Forced Death Boogie." And Cayla, bless her little heart, didn't bat an eye. She simply aknowledged that her Uncle Jim was indicating that the course would be taken at abrisk and uniterreupted pace, and assented.
My favorite, though, was a while back, when discussing the possibility of hiking Manhattan from 125th Street all the way down to the Battery (by way of Riverside Drive, Central Park, 5th Avneue and Broadway) on the first day, before Chris and Lauren joined us in the city, I concluded that it would be too strenuous an activity for the first day of the journey. I said, and I quote: "It wouldn't necessarily have to be . . . Nah, it would. It'd be a Forced Death Boogie."
I have no one else to blame. It's all entirely my own fault.
posted by Bobo the Wandering Pallbearer at 1:55 PM
1 Comments:
Neologism is the coinage of the realm.
I said that first years and years ago. But I never convinced anyone it was all that good until I showed Lauren the multiple levels of this savage pun.
Anyway.
I never said "angry red hand" in New York, and don't believe I said "little white guy" either. This is of no consequence whatsoever. I just thought I'd point it out.
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