Wordsmithery
When our kids were young, we spent a lot of time at Disneyland, which means that we’ve ridden Dumbo forty-seven thousand times, cruised through the jaws of Monstro just as many, and given so many hugs to Winnie the Pooh that that fat-assed bear has my kids' handprints permanently impressed upon his inner and outer upper thighs. This may not sound like an exciting day to some people, but the truth was this: we were playing the long game, and nothing guaranteed early bedtime for the offspring like a two- or three-hour romp through the postmodern sensory overload that is the Magic Kingdom.
While I loved spending time with my kids and admittedly enjoyed the Disney experience, the saccharine flavor of The Happiest Place on Earth was sometimes just too damn sweet, and there were times that I couldn’t resist cutting it with a little darkness. Please understand that this was—and remains—an involuntary reflex, and resistance was—and remains—futile. I don’t act out with intent or premeditation. In fact, if I were to be put on trial for the murder of the Disney spirit, I earnestly believe I could only have been accused of manslaughter, maybe second-degree murder if I had to go cheap and put my life in the hands of the public defender.
My darker inclinations crept up one fall afternoon in the Disneyland petting zoo at the Big Thunder Ranch, which was situated on the Frontierland side of the Fantasyland-Frontierland border (It’s now a bar that caters to Wookies, droids, and Jedis). I point out the border-specific locale as something of a scapegoat. Don’t we all get a little more moral latitude around a border town? (I refer you to Orson Welles’ 1958 film noir classic Touch of Evil, the Breaking Bad universe, and any number of Mexican felonies perpetrated by my father-in-law and his fraternity brothers).
If you never enjoyed the opportunity of moseying into the Big Thunder Ranch, you missed out on an incredible opportunity. By comparison, other petting zoos are third world, overrun by rambunctious livestock all too accustomed to being hand-fed by Ritalin-deficient kindergarteners. For instance, a goat at Petting Zoo X will not hesitate to snatch a handful of broccoli right out of your hand, often ingesting a good chunk of your epidermis in the process.
Added to this, discerning between feed pellets and rabbit turds requires a PhD in zoology, and keeping your toddler from eating either the pellets or the turds requires a third and fourth hand and a second pair of eyes that most parents don’t have.
At Disneyland, however, the goats seemingly walked right off the set of Bambi or Snow White. They were endowed with the seven heavenly virtues, particularly patience, as evidenced by the fact that they seemed not to mind when my daughter—on several occasions— utilized her twisty straw to play veterinarian proctologist or to administer an impromptu zoological Pap smear. The goats merely looked over their shoulders and offered a gentle, albeit stern, expression that seemed to ask, “Would you kindly not probe our goat rear-ends with your twisty straw?”
Even more impressive than the livestock was the cleanliness. Most college dorms weren’t as clean as the goat corral. When the goats did their business, it was handled in a New York minute, which is pretty damn fast for friggin’ Anaheim. And because the goats had never been hand-fed, they were clueless to the fact that being hand-fed was even a possibility, so there were no goats bleating for your attention or ramming your bad knee to get a nibble of your churro or a mouthful of your heavily salted turkey leg.
Truly, the petting zoo at The Big Thunder Ranch was where the lions laid down with the lambs—a little piece of the Garden of Eden. But if original sin crept up in the Garden of Eden, it could certainly creep up at Disneyland. And that’s where I came in...
My toddler daughter was precocious and inquisitive. She liked to know things. Why was grass green? Why did honey birds (her pronunciation of ‘hummingbirds’) like to drink fruit punch? Why did Sam have a peanuts (her word for ‘penis’) while she had a buh-gina? The subject mattered little, she just wanted to know. So it was only a matter of time before she asked about those funny little dangly things that hang from goats' necks.
The Disney Ranch Hands were ever present to field these questions in their politically correct Mickey Mouse tone, and usually I allowed them the space to do their jobs. The Ranch Hand punching the clock on this particular day, however, was Disneyfied beyond human recognition. She oozed corporate and bled pixie dust. I imagined that she had two possible career options: a full-time Sunday School teacher (which is temporally impossible, but somehow she seemed like the kind of bloodless person who could squeeze forty hours out of a Sunday) or a lifetime Disneyland devotee and cast member. Evidently, in this world of mass popular consumption, the mouse ears trumped the cross.
Anyhow, my daughter posed the question to the ranch hand: “What are those funny little dangly things?” I noticed the Ranch Hand raise her brow, poised to recite from her script and explain to my daughter that the correct anatomical term for those funny little dangly things is "wattle." That's when I interjected, bellowing loudly as if making a presidential proclamation:
"NECKSTICLES! THEY'RE CALLED NECKSTICLES! SAY IT WITH ME! NECKSTICLES!"
The Ranch Hand's face emptied of color as if I had somehow overloaded her circuit. I half expected steam to shoot from her ears before she collapsed into a pile of springs and gears, her true automaton nature now revealed. For a moment, she stuttered and sputtered incomprehensibly, all failed attempts at returning to the G-rated atmosphere to which she was accustomed.
Apparently, there were other parents a bit sick of that Disney sweetness who welcomed the PG-13 bomb that I enthusiastically detonated, and this was evidenced by the small wave of giggles and guffaws that swept through Big Thunder Ranch. And for just a brief moment, there was this odd look in all the eyes of the goats, as if they suddenly felt naked and ashamed.
On the other hand, I felt invigorated. The inappropriate genital reference served as an amuse-bouche of sorts, something to cleanse the palate before returning to the flawless, celestial atmosphere that is Disneyland. We like to think the serpent in the Garden of Eden was malicious and evil, but I’m guessing he was just bored. One can only take so much niceness and beauty before he says, “I wonder where this will take us…”
I must admit that this post is relevant to my lifelong dreams and aspirations. I’ve spent years in college classrooms teaching English Composition, Scriptwriting, American Literature, and Fiction, and I’ve managed to put food on the table with my own writing—I’ve penned screenplays, documentaries, commercials, eulogies, and speeches for any number of c-suite executives, including Jack of Jack in the Box. I’ve certainly daydreamed that I may someday have to scratch "Polish the Oscar" or "Dust the Pulitzer" off my to-do list. That said, I have a bigger dream.
You know how "D’oh" and "bromance" have been inserted into our dictionaries? And you know how "Bennifer" (a form of portmanteau where two words are combined to make a new word, e.g., spork, Linsanity, etc.) and "FOMO" have become part of the American — if not world — zeitgeist? Well, I, too, would like to coin a term that steamrolls its way into the English lexicon. I think that word could be "necksticles." But I need your help. I challenge you to squeeze this word into your daily conversations. Look for opportunities to bring up goats, their culture, their history, their politics. If you need help, consider giving this adventure podcast I wrote and produced a listen—goats feature prominently into its plot.
Or, if this is too cumbersome, then just refer people to this little piece of writing. I know some of you may be thinking that I’m putting you on. I am not. An Academy Award would be nice, but I would much rather my tombstone read as follows: Here lies Norman T. Leonard — Husband, Father, Friend, and Linguistic Savant Who Coined the Term "Necksticles."
CLICK THE HOUND TO FUND THE FUNNY!
If you enjoyed this week’s installment of All Kinds of Funny, light up that heart button for me and show that algorithm who’s boss. And if you’re willing to go one step further…
Last week, several readers shared private messages with me that they indeed submitted “wobbly scrotum” to the OED as a collective noun for teenage boys, and it absolutely gave me the feels. Whatever would be the opposite feeling of being kicked in the wobbly scrotum, that was my emotional state. So let’s keep the positive vibes flowing and submit “necksticles” to the OED.
Let’s chop it up. A few questions for the real ones:
What’s your favorite thing someone has said at a time or place that it maybe shouldn’t have been said?
What’s a word you made up that you think the world needs to adopt?
What’s something—either tangible or intangible—that doesn’t have a name but needs one?
How would you sneak necksticles into an ordinary conversation at, say, a dinner party or a funeral or Back-to-School Night?
I'm with you on this Disney thing. My name for the "happiest place on earth" is The Evil Empire... which is a term I coined when I was optioning film rights for Harcourt and Disney would come calling. Their contract basically had the writer paying THEM for the privilege of providing their content for mass distortion, and the small print included leveraging their first born on the back end. Disney also had the right of first refusal on any property the writer produced after that had any affiliation to the first property or simply contained words.
As an aside -- why do small children have to endure a cartoon wherein the the parent (usually the mother -- and I'm not implying the implied misognyny here) is killed in a horrific way... asking for a friend.
As for your question: I've said 1000 things that should not have been said in the time, place or context that I said it... however, I've become so good at shoving that stuff down so deep, I can no longer recall, but will be sure to update you when I do it again-- see you very soon.
Necksticles in a conversation with one of my girlfriends: "Why the hell do I have to deal with crepey necksticles AND a fupa?! Life isn't fair!" [stamps foot, takes another swig of beer. Light beer, less fupa.]
"Discerning between feed pellets and rabbit turds requires a PhD in zoology, and keeping your toddler from eating either the pellets or the turds requires a third and fourth hand and a second pair of eyes that most parents don’t have.' Exceptionally funny.