Last winter, the alleged representatives of the people of the United States in the House Conference Committee on Telecommunications Reform approved a proposal to make the Internet the most-censored medium in the country, voting to impose massive fines and prison terms on anyone posting such material as James Joyce's Ulysses or using what George Carlin once called "the seven dirty words."
This month's column, which contains neither redeeming social value nor appeal to prurient interest, no dirty words and no politics except for that first paragraph, is nevertheless dedicated to James Joyce and George Carlin, those two masters of social value and prurient interest. And, more to the point, wordplay.
I recently found myself reflecting on the relationship between the words "speleology" and "spelunking." One is serious, the other fun. One is science, the other recreation. One ends in "-eology," the other in "-unking." Working out the implied analogies, I came up with some interesting facts. For example, did you realize that the recreational use of language--the sort of thing we're up to here--is properly known as philunking? Philology, philunking. See?
When my cousin Corbett drops by to see me here at Stately Swaine Manor, he usually has some invention or innovation to share with me, and we engage in some casual technunking. With Corbett, you couldn't call it technology. It's technunking.
Up here at the Manor this winter, we're clearing some land to put in a garden in the South 0.40, and there's a lot of digging involved. While leaning on my shovel, I pointed out to my Significant Other that we were not just digging, but archunking. Or possibly just gunking. I spelled that for her, so she wouldn't think I meant junking. Archunking, gunking, whichever, I said, we're sure redefining the topunking of the South 0.40. She responded that, while I was unquestionably redefining things, I wasn't going to have much effect on the topunking until I quit leaning on the shovel and started using it for its intended purpose. Rather than get bogged down in a futile discussion of methodunking, I went back to thinking about words.
You might try the -eology/-unking game yourself. For example, you could observe that sparks always fly when a cosmunker and a thunker get together, as each argues the eschatunking of his or her idunking. Just watching them go at it is quite a little exercise in socunkical psychunking. But be careful. It's easy for words to get you into trouble. If I were to suggest that you occasionally engaged in the recreational use of controlled substances, I would be accusing you of pharmacunking, and you might demand an apology, or at least an apunking. So I don't suggest that, nor do I suggest that you might ever employ liquid refreshments in a recreational manner, which is called--but you're way ahead of me. That's right, hydrunking.
I could go on like this indefinitely. I imagine I could put together a little anthunking of this sort of terminunking. I suspect, though, that readers of this neunkical anthunking would soon tire of working out the etymunking of each word. A little too much like cryptunking, I'm afraid. Just then, my S.O. interrupted with a suggestion that I was reluctant to ignore, and I tabled this line of thought.
So the moral I wish you to take away from this month's column is the following: If your friends advise you to get a life, do not assume that they consider you deficient biologically. No, they've probably just concluded that you could use a little bunking.
Michael Swaine
editor-at-large
mswaine@cruzio.com