Bestiariam Munustolidus

What we know of the mind is that it is a busy thing. We have made it so. Synapses or-

chestrate the whims of what would seem to be a single thought or a simple act, yet

in reality hundreds and thousands of actions are at play each with the next and

all with the goal of fulfilling that want or desire. If you interrupt the chain, chaos

ensues.

A story is hardly different. Letters, sentences, paragraphs and pages, all ready to

play their part within the mind. Alas, without context, without order, letters and

pages incomprehensible they remain. So we order things to understand them, or

better, to make sense of them. If we truly can “make” sense of things. It would be

better to realize how it is we sense and the reasons we proclaim for doing so. But

without an ordered mind ready to understand the order of things, perhaps mak-

ing sense is quite quo.

As far back into our collective histories as we can reach, we find that minds have

always been busy and that they have always found ways to order the chaos that

surrounds them. From the ancient Sumerians and their pantheon of deities to the

eastern Taoists, from the aboriginal north island burial mounds to the quaking

moments of colonial settlers, legend and lore have followed them all. And it is

good to say “followed,” knowing that man and his kind may not have been first to

any one of these small points in space and time. It could be that they were the only

creatures so preoccupied with self that they alone cared to leave a record.

Introduction to the Introduction

Myth and Legend, Lore and Tale

What we know of the mind is that it is a busy thing. We have made it so. Synapses or-

chestrate the whims of what would seem to be a single thought or a simple act, yet

in reality hundreds and thousands of actions are at play each with the next and

all with the goal of fulfilling that want or desire. If you interrupt the chain, chaos

ensues.

A story is hardly different. Letters, sentences, paragraphs and pages, all ready to

play their part within the mind. Alas, without context, without order, letters and

pages incomprehensible they remain. So we order things to understand them, or

better, to make sense of them. If we truly can “make” sense of things. It would be

better to realize how it is we sense and the reasons we proclaim for doing so. But

without an ordered mind ready to understand the order of things, perhaps mak-

ing sense is quite quo.

As far back into our collective histories as we can reach, we find that minds have

always been busy and that they have always found ways to order the chaos that

surrounds them. From the ancient Sumerians and their pantheon of deities to the

eastern Taoists, from the aboriginal north island burial mounds to the quaking

moments of colonial settlers, legend and lore have followed them all. And it is

good to say “followed,” knowing that man and his kind may not have been first to

any one of these small points in space and time. It could be that they were the only

creatures so preoccupied with self that they alone cared to leave a record.

Lore is the collection things known as passed in story. Stories are things told.

Things told are meant to be heard. We record what we wish others to know when

our faulty selves will cease. We preserve our place, however fleetingly in the

element of time by traveling with it, no longer bound by the frailty of a mortal

frame. So, then, we become the story, the tale; passing a mere sketch of our exis-

tence into the hands of hopeful caretakers who often desire our tale more than

we ourselves once had. To our tale is added the weight of their telling. A new tint. A

new color. A new place. A new breath. By transcending time and space we climb to

greater heights and sink to lower depths. We become the myth. We become the leg-

end.

A hairsbreadth of distance separates a myth and a history. It often depends entire-

ly upon the person selling the wares. What is myth to one mind may be lifeblood

to another. And may it be known that, aside from the minds we embody, it is only us

who can account for us. After our bodies fade, who will live to confirm the reali-

ty of life once so vibrantly fluttering on this, our temporal plane? Who is left to

take and care for our stories as we would have wished, if we had wished at all?

Who indeed. As we pass, so shall they. Legends grow. Truth remains.

Introduction to the Introduction

Myth and Legend, Lore and Tale

Introduction to the Introduction

Myth and Legend, Lore and Tale

Many years ago I set forth upon a journey to discover what I, with growing reali-

zation, considered a marvel of the world. A subject written upon countless times

but without a proper sum to sate my curiosity. No text to date nor translation

of ancient hymn had brought to light what I knew to be the truth concerning

this most important of matters. My mind wracked and reeling from tempestu-

ous nights and feverish days set me on the edge of many a cliff. I would not let

my temple rot. The mystery would not best what countless moments of solitude

in meditation had wrought within me. A new creature I had become. How the earth

shook beneath my gaze! Humility left me as an autumn leaf leaves its brethren,

without thought or care on the winds of an unsettled breeze. I set my affairs in

order. I packed for long travels over vast continents both in and out of the mind.

I steeled body and soul, leaving no weakness, no pain. Having donned my cloak,

staff in hand, I stepped out onto my front porch where I saw the rain dripping

lightly from the heavens. I paused at the beauty and wonder of the moment. Then

I stepped back inside, closed the door and laid on the sofa for a nap. It was breezy

too. Rain and wind, who wants to step out into that? Thus, I awoke from my slumber

and, having only a few moments left before needing to settle in to a full night’s

rest (naps will do that to you every time) I decided to pen some thoughts about

creatures I have met.

The creatures presented herein are not listed in any particular order. No hierar-

chies or ghastly oneupsmanshippery. No fits of narcolepsy induced by the monot-

onous drone of purposefully useless lip flapping. Yes. Purposefully. Oh, not that

they wouldn’t like that, sitting a big room in big chairs thinking big things. Yet, the

room is a small broom closet, the chairs are imaginary and the thoughts are things

like, “If I was a raincloud, I wouldn’t rain on Billy’s flowers because he looked at

me funny the other day. Where does he get off having flowers? I’m the pretty one

and... oh look at those lovely cheese samples.” You see, while most creatures sur-

vive on a diet of important things like food and drink and air, these creatures

survive on the acrid stench that is manifest only in an environment of total self

unawareness. Their minds (if applicable) are much like tupperware; not the good

stuff though, the stuff where the lid almost fits and there’s a weird shaped bub-

ble on the bottom because it was micro waved for too long or it sat too close to a

burner while you were packing your lunch and forgot that you’d just made tea on

that burner and now the smell is filling the kitchen and you wish you hadn’t eaten

so much for breakfast because it’s really starting to get at you. Inside the mind(s)

exists only what can be described as what happens when a bit of egg salad is left in

the back seat of an old car on a hot summer day.

Carry these words with you, dear reader, for though they seem mysterious and

fanciful, they are with great reality living and thriving. These torrid creatures may

even tempt you with their doe-eyed gazes and their carefully manicured leg hair*.

Take heed! Fall not prey, lest you be trapped as they are trapped and become as

they have become.

*Depending upon the season, said creature may or may not have leg hair, or legs.

Many years ago I set forth upon a journey to discover what I, with growing reali-

zation, considered a marvel of the world. A subject written upon countless times

but without a proper sum to sate my curiosity. No text to date nor translation

of ancient hymn had brought to light what I knew to be the truth concerning

this most important of matters. My mind wracked and reeling from tempestu-

ous nights and feverish days set me on the edge of many a cliff. I would not let

my temple rot. The mystery would not best what countless moments of solitude

in meditation had wrought within me. A new creature I had become. How the earth

shook beneath my gaze! Humility left me as an autumn leaf leaves its brethren,

without thought or care on the winds of an unsettled breeze. I set my affairs in

order. I packed for long travels over vast continents both in and out of the mind.

I steeled body and soul, leaving no weakness, no pain. Having donned my cloak,

staff in hand, I stepped out onto my front porch where I saw the rain dripping

lightly from the heavens. I paused at the beauty and wonder of the moment. Then

I stepped back inside, closed the door and laid on the sofa for a nap. It was breezy

too. Rain and wind, who wants to step out into that? Thus, I awoke from my slumber

and, having only a few moments left before needing to settle in to a full night’s

rest (naps will do that to you every time) I decided to pen some thoughts about

creatures I have met.

The creatures presented herein are not listed in any particular order. No hierar-

chies or ghastly oneupsmanshippery. No fits of narcolepsy induced by the monot-

onous drone of purposefully useless lip flapping. Yes. Purposefully. Oh, not that

If you give a Bahrthrĕelde a task it may or may not accomplish said task. That’s re-

ally not what matters. What matters is that the Bahrthrĕelde, satisfied neither by

itself or its surroundings, only accomplishes what it truly can; a simple game of

tug o’ war with its own inability. The danger spreads when the Bahrthrĕelde leaves

the confines of its own dissatisfaction for the supposedly greener pastures of

another. Silly barbs are lobbed without aim and the resulting playing field be-

comes littered with ineptitude, making a mess of what was once, possibly, a decent

place to have a quiet lunch.

Creature IndexBahrthrÈelde

Woestix

P ł ł op

S’ Poophen

Constance

Smiter the Proud

Suelfed G e

Gremebahron

BahrthrÈelde

Said greener pastures of another may be actual greener pastures (that have now

become only a slightly lighter shade of tannish-yellow due to said recent arrival)

or they may be pastures of the mind. Regardless, once the Bahrthrĕelde surpris-

es itself with the revelation that there is no remaining fauna to wilt with remarks

about its slow rate of growth or how, in spite of its own lack of ability to be fau-

na it intuitively knows that to live on the other side of the pasture would be much

better, proceeds to produce a garden spade, chop the fauna’s roots and plant it

on the other side of the pasture where it soon expires, the Bahrthrĕelde begins

its retreat to a former abode. The ensuing exit dance has been described by social

anthropologists and pharmaceutics sales representatives as a nearly perfect hy-

bridization of moderately motivated sleep walking and the personal response to

six hornet stings to the armpit. Which armpit, precisely, is a matter of continuing

debate.

To spot a Bahrthrĕelde in the wild, simply step outside to where any number of

objects may be. You will most likely find the creature engaged in a coy game of

wits where (it) pretends the object of interest is not satisfactorily existing and

proceeds to admonish it for not being either better or worse than what it is. Task

or no task, a Bahrthrĕelde pretends beyond reason that it is capable... of some-

thing. What they are most capable of, sadly (or plaintively if you ask them) is being

a Bahrthrĕelde.

Thunder rolls across a darkened sky. Sweat pours from a disparaged brow. Hands

tremor. Skirts ruffle*. All in the wake of the onslaught of the dire Woestix. Ad-

dressed in an ancient conversational haiku:

“What is it, Edgar?”

“The sun has quit, now we die.”

“It yet shines. Please leave.”

No matter the variety of Woestix (some smell of cranberry jelly spiced with fear

and indigestion while others look like constipated Meerkats) distress must be

hurled. It is a form of currency. Where no duress exists, the Woestix has nothing

with which to pay, and therefore is argumentatively impoverished. Note the strik-

ing difference between impoverished and sterile. Attempting to sterilize a Woestix

is to take one’s sanity in his own hands, place it in a blender and press “puree.”

Grumble and rumble as they may, the Woestix thunders and rolls against itself.

To spot a Woestix in the wild, simply imagine a situation that is less than optimal

and the Woestix will appear, running in circles with flailing hands raised towards

the skies.

*A skirt is an article of clothing a bed wears.

Woestix

Thunder rolls across a darkened sky. Sweat pours from a disparaged brow. Hands

tremor. Skirts ruffle*. All in the wake of the onslaught of the dire Woestix. Ad-

dressed in an ancient conversational haiku:

“What is it, Edgar?”

“The sun has quit, now we die.”

“It yet shines. Please leave.”

No matter the variety of Woestix (some smell of cranberry jelly spiced with fear

and indigestion while others look like constipated Meerkats) distress must be

hurled. It is a form of currency. Where no duress exists, the Woestix has nothing

with which to pay, and therefore is argumentatively impoverished. Note the strik-

ing difference between impoverished and sterile. Attempting to sterilize a Woestix

is to take one’s sanity in his own hands, place it in a blender and press “puree.”

Grumble and rumble as they may, the Woestix thunders and rolls against itself.

To spot a Woestix in the wild, simply imagine a situation that is less than optimal

and the Woestix will appear, running in circles with flailing hands raised towards

the skies.

*A skirt is an article of clothing a bed wears.

Woestix

A P ł ł op’s name is as odd to pronounce as the manner in which it lives is to un-

derstand. Some pronunciations include: pyop, pee-op, pie-hop, preestop, hwooeeo-

knop, psyflop, red #7, feedlot, and Stewart III of Tellingham. The most striking

characteristic of a Pllop is the exaggerated disproportion between the amount of

work it does and the amount that it actually accomplishes. Strikingly so. In fact

the properly stated ratio is: Large Mountain Range to Miniature Thimble Full of

Sadness. This has most likely been expressed as an advanced algebraic equation at

some point in history, though none remain who even remotely care about it.

Hundreds of years ago, perhaps even several dozens of years ago, it was a well doc-

umented fact that the P ł ł op would spend most of its entire day getting ready

for the day. This generally involved: waking; thinking about “important” things that

needed to be done; making lists about the aforementioned “important” things;

re-organizing the list; copying the list in quadraplet; mailing several copies to

itself; phoning (or signaling in a hitherto and unknown archaic fashion) sever-

al members of its hive to let them know they had made a list of very “important”

things that needed to be accomplished that day; making toast poorly; retrieving

the incorrectly metered envelopes from the mailbox; re-mailing the lists with

correct postage; making new toast because the old toast got cold; going to sleep

for the winter.

To spot a P ł ł op in the wild, look for something that needs to be done. Often, (if

it is not busy with its lists or winter slumber) the P ł ł op will be standing nearby

P ł ł op

talking about how long it will take to accomplish the thing that needs to be done.

Following talking, it will make a list, mail the list, signal another P ł ł op and tell

them about the list and the thing, make toast poorly, and then fall asleep without

ever really doing anything.

Many years ago, when man first discovered the joy of cooking meat over an open

flame, he discovered the timely consequence of hot cinders precipitating the

combustion of his hair. The meat was well seasoned. Possibly with a bit of course

ground black pepper, sea salt and some Greek oregano. Of course, if the meat is

poultry, a light sprinkling of rosemary topped with butter and tart apples. A side

dish is nice as well. With the red meat, deep greens always compliment the palette,

along with a moderate amount of starches.

So his hair caught on fire and this made him run around yelling lots of things that

were probably impolite and grammatically shaky. Because the idea of “stop, drop

and roll” had not yet been invented, male pattern baldness became a hereditary

trait. Splotchy baldness, like pop art splatter painting from the previous centu-

ry – the kind that sells for a cool million dollars but was probably somebody’s pet

ocelot tipping over cans of paint in the middle of the night because it didn’t get

the type of treat it wanted. (Poultry flavored instead of red meat flavored)

Running around yelling impolite and grammatically shaky words and phrases with

the pretense of intense pain is a distinct marker of the S’ Poophen. After nearly

three decades and 37 seconds of observation of the S’ Poophen in its native en-

vironment resulted in the following conclusion: S’ Poophen are never injured

nor are they suffering actual pain of any sort that would warrant mistakes in

grammar. Further research has concluded that they are semi-delusional, mistak-

ing normal and common place situations for those of a most extreme nature.

S’ Poophen

Further further research has concluded that, though the S’ Poophen will mistake

anything for something warranting poor grammar and crazed runnings from

both to and fro causing harm to body and place finally resulting in spontaneous

combustion, they are awfully fun to watch. Further further further research has

finally concluded that they are, indeed, silly.

There is no need to travel great distances to spot a S’ Poophen in the wild. They are

an invasive species now inhabiting most corners of the world.

Three hundred years ago the famed spelunker Archibald Carnassus Le ‘Deut hap-

pened upon a most startling discovering – a freshly painted fresco on the wall of

his favorite bistro detailing a long-necked, squat bodied creature sitting at a desk.

Or it may have been a credenza. They are very similar.

Now, more than 300 years later, the descendent of Le ‘Deut, a Mr. John, Whipperbean

has made as nearly as startling discovery regarding the squat bodied creature

featured in the fresco. Chiefly, it looks just like his aunt Matilda. Sure the clothing

looks different, but it could have been the light it was painted in. Even the exqui-

site detail in the lack of facial expression. The way the hands look as if they had

at one point in time held a great deal of desire but have remained stationary for

nigh the creature’s entire life. The way it favored truncated sentences. The like-

ness is striking. Oddly, aunt Matilda never comes out of her sewing room, requir-

ing of others such items as intrusion and invasion of privacy in attempts to dis-

cover whether or not she is still breathing. Some physicists have expressed a great

interest in studying both the painting and the aunt Matilda for the purpose of

establishing parameters for human time travel. While a bold venture, the search

may be in vain. For, if one looks closely, he would realize that not only are they

one and the same, but also that the Matilda creature has not moved an inch in the

past three hundred years. Society has merely build around her.

If asked, a Constance such as fresco Matilda would quietly state that, “this is how

it’s always been done.” What a grand explanatory response for the longevity and

Constance

overall survival of such a seemingly useless creature; one that moves neither

back or forth. No progress made. No ground lost.

To spot a Constance in the wild, look for things that are ill-shaped and immobile.

If such a thing is found, there is a reasonable chance that it is a Constance. To be

doubly sure, attempt to move the Constance. If it shrieks in terror and slashes the

cushions on your sofa* in retaliation for a possible upsetting of its small, small

world, you have found a Constance.

*Due to an atrophied vascular system caused by centuries on motionless existence,

the sofa would have to be very close at hand. Otherwise, the Constance will fall

over sideways and faint from overexertion. This will leave an unsightly mark upon

flooring or lawn.

Ago once lived a sordid breed

Tilted nostrils, paid no heed

Awe and struck inside their minds

With think and thought of self divine

A grand parade they made of time

Walking, running in the brine

Of satisfaction in the murk

Of belief in their own work

It wasn’t really work at all

But gain amidst the torrid fall

The sum of haught and heedless haste

Desolate, the weight of waste.

A more lovely verse was has rarely been inscribed upon the stoneware pottery of

a bygone civilization. This, however, was inscribed upon a very thin creature’s out-

er thigh, presumably by the hands of some other creature just as preoccupied with

skin and ink as the other. Both were the particularly fiendish variety of creature

known as a Smiter. They are nearly blind and are completely deaf. Thought extinct

by many a culinary expert, recent evidence from some remote Pacific island in the

continental Midwest has shown that they are very much alive.

Smiter the Proud

As the verse is wise to point out, they are quick to make a grand parade of self.

Such parades are only made grander by the fact that the aforementioned blind-

ness and deafness results in quite a menagerie of misdirection, bumpings in to

and fallings of over. They are rarely allowed to carry scissors.

To spot a Smiter the Proud in the wild look for a traces of potential scattered

alongside the edge of a walking path. The nearby footprints will become deeper

with each new deposit of potential (evidence as assumed by some to be the begin-

nings of a fabled Smiter’s March to Oblivion) culminating in the final eschewing

of reason and sound advice heaped up in a pile along with the Smiter’s poorly tai-

lored clothing and a tiny sign directing somebody else to pick up after it, for it

has become much too important for menial things.

“iagreiluvewebarem’kin” (Ancient Suelfed g e field chant)

A Suelfed g e is one of the most abominable creatures imaginable. Though able to

think for themselves at younger ages, they willfully attach themselves to any or-

ganism imaginable via an intricate set of tubes generated by various parts of their

bodies in an attempt to survive existence without exerting any amount of person-

al effort.

Attempts to communicate with a Suelfed Gpu e without its symbiont are fruitless

as they are inclined to speak through the symbiont or to not speak at all. Indeed,

beyond old recordings of younger Suelfed g e voices, no recordings exist. Sadly,

and due to hormone injection in a Suelfedges dietary staple of braerckenspats,

maturity occurs at quite a young age with preliminary tubing forming in the lar-

val stage.

Do not attempt to spot a Suelfed g e in the wild. Do not attempt to make any form

of contact with a Suelfed g e. If, for any reason, a Suelfed g e attaches one or

more of its tubes to your person, do not pull or attempt to run away. Stand per-

fectly still and make no sounds whatsoever. Look the Suelfed g e directly in the

eye* with an expression of utter disappointment. The gaze will cause the Suelfed

g e to second-guess its purpose, thereby loosening its tubular grip and allowing

for escape. A word of extreme caution! If you do not take the opportunity to run

from the now loosened Suelfed g e, it will mistake your disappointment for an

Suelfed G e

advanced training exercise and believe it is doing exceptionally well. It will then

re-attach permanently to the nearest object with the highest internally regulated

temperature. Experts suggest carrying a small combustion engine with oneself at

all times.

*Good luck finding the eye. Many “false” eyes have been found during numerous

autopsies, but actual eyes or photosensitive receptors have yet to be discovered.

False eyes may resemble various pieces of manually operated office equipment

or the drapes you purchased last fall. If not the drapes, then the blinds. If not the

blinds, the flooring.

Long ago, witches had cauldrons. Sometimes they were really big (the cauldrons)

and the witches would throw in odd assortments of things that fit rather well.

Through much story we have come to know of “eye of newt” and “hair of warthog”

as ingredients in these strange brews. Rest assured that they are merely fanciful

characterizations of the actual ingredients and that they taste much better than

what was normally used.

The Gremebahron is a product of one of several failed experimental concoctions

that were stored on a shelf together during an otherwise pleasant afternoon in

the month of what is commonly called November. And by combined, do not read

that they were mixed together. They were put on the shelf in separate jars for a

reason. But because they were not rendered inert and used as garden sprinklings

and because one contained much too much maple syrup and because they were

thought harmless they decided to hold a vote. The vote, as best we can recount,

went something like this:

Jar 1: “Phhlllllbbbtttt!”

Jar 2: “I second the motion.”

Jar 9: “Commotion? What train am I on?”

Jar 2: “I second the train!”

Jar 2: “I second the train again and I love maple syrup.”

Jar 1: “Flaaaargeeessptt!!”

Jar 2: “Yes!”

Jar 9: “I wanted eggs.”

Jar 1: “Raaaaarggh.”

Gremebahron

Jar 2: “Yes. Yes! You must lead us. You see the lands beyond!”

Jar 9: “And ham.”

Jar 2: “Guide us. Move us. Be our completion and devotion.”

Jar 9: “And jelly.”

Jar 2: “You must take us to the highest heights as only you can.”

Jar 9: “Where’s the bathroom?”

Jar 1: “Gromgromgromgromgromgrom.”

Jar 2: “And so it shall be! The vote is cast and our future is bound!”

That is the record of how Jar 1 became the first Gremebahron. The remaining jars

were either asleep or had already been spilled upon the floor.

A Gremebahron, though its principal ingredients are unknown, consists of amor-

phously disproportionate amounts of:

Possible ability

Desire to gutteralize long strings of abstract phonemes

Imitation desire to listen (from extract)

Off-brand cough syrup

Dye #2

Polyester

3 bags of spoiled dreams

The ability to spawn more Gremebahrons.

Additional curious descriptions regarding the construct of the Gremebahron

need not be mentioned. It should be enough to know that they were things not

meant to happen but happened anyway. Some of them smell a bit like a newt’s eye.

Alphabetize – what you do to make words more orderly

Non-alphabetic – what has been done to the terms in this glossary

Glossary – a list of things you ignore until you can’t find something

you’re trying to remember

Term – a thing you can’t remember that’s probably in a glossary some-

where

Myth – Unverifiable accounts of the events of existence (though not

necessarily untrue) held in strong belief by many or few

Legend – A narrative of facts or figures passed down through many

generations, often becoming accepted as true

Lore – The body of knowledge on a given subject

Tale – A story meant to inform, no matter how fanciful

Sate – To satisfy or fill

Hymn – Poem set to song. There’s probably a better definition some-

where. Not to be confused with, “him,” whoever he is

Woe – A state of being in ill in one’s omen

Sofa – A cushy thing good for naps

Hair – striated masses of dead cells upon which we put things like eu-

calyptus oil and avocado for a “better shine”

Egg – The product of any number of living creatures that produces

live young after a given period of incubation. Also something scram-

Glossary of terms

bled over heat. Also something boiled until hard, diced, slathered with

mayonnaise and left on the back seat of an old car on a hot summer

day

Complete – What this glossary is not

Grammar – The useful putting together of words and phrases so that

they read sensibly. Not that they read themselves. That would involve

some sort of textual anthropomorphism or machines gaining sen-

tience and storming our homes. Fight! Be the revolution against our

computer overlords!

Ability – what some creatures lack in spite of their declarations to the

contrary

Edgar – An ancient Woestix who was told to leave

Season – A period of time either literal or figurative

Tannish-yellow – Depending upon the visual context, a very unpleas-

ant color

Greek – A term descriptive of physical origin, collegiate pledge group

or financial insecurity

German – A term descriptive of attempting to fix “Greek”

Fauna – Plants and things

Ocelot – A wild feline twice the size of an average housecat with neat

looking fur and rounded ears which would look more intimidating if

they had pointy ear hair

List – A collection of things often found in row and column form

that are only useful if they can be deciphered and used (see “Ability”)

And – The word “and”

Expression – An outward display of inner goings on

Le ‘Deut – A silly name

Credenza – Something like a desk but with a longer name

Spawn – See “Egg”

Phoneme – A portion of a morpheme

Grom – A phoneme

* - *

Tube – A hollow device through which things move in either direction

Cauldron – A very large or big metal cup

Chant – A gathering of morphemes that are put together in chant

form

Gaze – What you do when you look at something for an inappropriate-

ly long season.

Garden – A place where things grow.

Loosened – A de-tightening of something

Wild(e) – The end result of something being too loosened

Combustion – What happens when some things get too hot

Scissors – The product of an experiment involving two knives. “Scis-

sors” is not plural. Like buying a pair of jeans or underwear. It’s not

like you can buy a jean or a single underwear. It should be “Scissor,”

but that’s a verb. “Jean” is still a noun, or an adjective describing a type

of outerwear. But not underwear. Tsk! We can’t do that, now can we?

Vascular – Of or pertaining to the vessels or ducts that convey fluids

It – A noun

Parade – What used to be held in honor of excellence but is commonly

an exaggerated gesture placed in the middle of a lovely holiday. Pa-

rades are closely related to “Standing Ovations” in their misapplica-

tion

Lawn – Often a carefully manicured collection of fauna that nobody

is supposed to walk on

Comma – Something easily confused with an M Dash

M Dash – Something easily confused with a Semicolon

Semicolon – Something easily confused with a Comma

Capitalization – The process of making something more important

than it probably should be

Proud – A word describing an often permanent state of existence

eventually leading to a state of woe