2010-06-30 16:46![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
digitaldiscipline
digitaldiscipline... I've been playing itinerant rock-star over at Insolence is Bliss.
The host has a "word of the week" feature, where they challenge guests to use an obscure term. This week's is "obfusc."
It does lend itself to culinary applications, because it sounds just pretentious but condescending enough to spice up a Bobby Flay diatribe.
“What kind of fucking gravy is this? WHITE gravy? I should kill you with my outsize peppermill, you cretin. Subfusc or death!”
It should be noted that I don’t watch cooking shows. To my mind, watching people make delicious food you can’t eat is tantamount to going to a strip club to look at hot women you can’t fuck; it’s just cheaper (depending on your cable package… and, no, that isn’t a double entendre).
I can only imagine our hypothetical emo dorks pining and puling for their lost love, or perhaps a mislaid sweater, unable to find it under a lowering, obfusc sky, the gloom of the air nothing like the gloom in their glottis as they choke on an emotion so poignant, so piquant, that they don’t know it’s actually a fragment of chicken bone until it is, thankfully for the rest of us, entirely too late.
And then there will be PBR and unfortunate, drunken hook-ups at their wake.
The host has a "word of the week" feature, where they challenge guests to use an obscure term. This week's is "obfusc."
It does lend itself to culinary applications, because it sounds just pretentious but condescending enough to spice up a Bobby Flay diatribe.
“What kind of fucking gravy is this? WHITE gravy? I should kill you with my outsize peppermill, you cretin. Subfusc or death!”
It should be noted that I don’t watch cooking shows. To my mind, watching people make delicious food you can’t eat is tantamount to going to a strip club to look at hot women you can’t fuck; it’s just cheaper (depending on your cable package… and, no, that isn’t a double entendre).
I can only imagine our hypothetical emo dorks pining and puling for their lost love, or perhaps a mislaid sweater, unable to find it under a lowering, obfusc sky, the gloom of the air nothing like the gloom in their glottis as they choke on an emotion so poignant, so piquant, that they don’t know it’s actually a fragment of chicken bone until it is, thankfully for the rest of us, entirely too late.
And then there will be PBR and unfortunate, drunken hook-ups at their wake.
