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Thomas Hobson (1544–1631) owned a livery stable in Cambridge, England. Anyone seeking to rent a horse there had two choices: the horse nearest the stable door or no horse at all.
A Hobson’s choice, therefore, is not really a choice between two unpleasant alternatives. That’s called a Morton’s fork, Skippy.
Jean-Paul Sartre observed that hell is other people. Who can disagree?
Anyone whose dinner conversation was drowned out by louts sitting three tables away?
Anyone stuck in the 15-items-or-fewer supermarket line behind somebody with 24 items in her cart?
Anyone needing to use a port-o-potty at a rock concert?
Anyone?
We darn well love the sound of irregardless. It’s a four-syllable word from the wrong side of the dictionary, we know; but one should never send a three-syllable word to do the work clearly intended for a four-syllable roustabout.
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Flush with anticipation, Vicky opened the door to greet her date, whom a friend had set her up with.
There stood one pitiful, butt-ugly man.
Chiding herself for being disappointed and shallow, Vicky determined to make the most of the evening, only to discover he had a personality to match.
The Romans had an expression for it . . . “it” being a foul, snot-flinging, food-showing, ass-kicking mood that envelops a person for no reason. The expression was In lectulo surgens sinistram: He got up on the wrong side of the bed. (When Roman women were in a foul mood, it was assumed they were in rag, an expression that doesn’t need translating.)
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Rob meets Angela for lunch. Each is secretely planning to confess to recent infidelities. When Rob begins to speak, Angela interrupts him.
“Robbie, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”
“You’re pregnant,” he says nervously.
“No,” she laughs, beginning to lose her nerve. “What did you want to tell me.”
A godlike presence whose eyes stare in judgement on a sinful world.
A near-sighted sumbitch who doesn’t see eye-to-eye with anybody.
A minor character with a non-speaking role in The Great Gatsby.
A faded, weather-beaten occultist’s sign on a desolate road to nowhere.
Maybe some, maybe none, of the above.
“We’re encouraging customers to put their money where their mouths are, “said a Walmart executive in a muffled voice. “We’re betting CBD will succeed where mocha latte, pumpkin spice, and smoked salmon flavors failed to float Gen Z boats, as did a Megan Rapinoe model shaped like a soccer ball.”
AI-powered sex toys can learn what floats your boat.
AI plus virtual reality and augmented reality technologies equals “realistic,” can’t-tell-the-difference sexual experiences.
AI-powered earbuds help individuals to communicate their desires and talk dirty with their partners.
AI provides a safe, judgment-free, sanitary space for individuals to get their freak on.
Barack Obama, former Choom Gang member, told ESPN’s Michael Wilbon that he wishes his daughters had his street cred.
“They don’t hoop any more, they’ve got no roll in their stroll. Hell, they were into the Jonas Freaking Brothers. Some days I worry that they take after my white half.”