Long ago, my dad used to tickle me mercilessly to try to make me laugh. I gritted my teeth and resisted.
Later, he resorted to verbal tickles to elicit a response. He employed all manner of wordplay – puns, malaprops and parodies, in particular. I screwed up my crimson face and waited for the next “groaner,” determined to stifle the laughter.
Behold, some of his worst:
Mom exits bathroom.
Dad: What’s the bladder?
Mom: Oh, really, Donald! That’s disgusting!
Dad: I resemble that!
Mom: Will you stop?!
Dad: OK. Time to go to the orifice.
Naturally, I carried on his noble tradition. On my old street, there were a few neighbors who indulged in such tomfoolery. We started our own sub-rosa language and dubbed it “Glenmontese,” after our street.
During a certain presidential term, I came up with a new low. When asked if it was time to leave, I replied, “There’s no slime like the president.”
This was so bad that it took on a life of its own and is still used, depending on who’s dreckorating the White House!
