Can we please bring back “heavens to murgatroyd!”?
BECAUSE THIS IS THE BEST TURN OF PHRASE IN THE HISTORY OF TURNS OF PHRASES.
Please also see: “really cleaned his clock!” and “you’ll end up in the drink!” and “egads!”
(Also “gadzooks!”, “rats!”, and “what a way to run a railroad!”)
Because, for serious, my life is infinitely better anytime I either manage to fit them into a regular conversation, or overhear someone use them while out and about on regular business.
Please picture me wearing a really fab hat while out on said business.
I’m pretty partial to old timey language as is, and I would really appreciate that instead of just recycling HORRIBLE FASHION FROM THE 80s and 90s, we could start using some of the awesome slang that came about during roaring twenties, or better yet, the dirty thirties.
What do you say?
I’d like to see this trend take hold like a duck to water.
(Is this too much? I’ll stop if it’s too much.)
EXCEPT FOR THE FACT THAT I CANNOT STOP.
I mean, I’m just too big a fan.
Take for instance, the “we got on like [insert verb/noun combo here]” descriptors.
Ie.) Gangbusters, house on fire, a barrel of monkeys, etc.
I mean, how can you not love these? Although I’m not even sure that any of them even remotely make sense.
Also, is a barrel of monkeys a good thing? That just sounds violent and deafening to me.
And do I even want to know the etymology behind these sayings?
Kind of yes, but mostly no.
I’ll just end up finding out that everything I’ve written about has some bloody awful origin and is completely offensive to ninety-nine per cent of the earth’s inhabitants.
On second thought, I should probably bite the bullet and make sure I am in fact riding the PC train straight to onsideville every time I break out my oldisms.
Okay, so you might have guessed it already, but I’m a little tired. The past couple of weeks have been so incredibly jam packed that I’m feeling a tad run down (aka completely exhaustified.)
I’m sitting here on our couch, wrapped in many blankets and the ends of my eyelids are starting to feel as though they’ve been weighted down by miniscule sacks filled with what I’m apt to believe is magic sleep dust.
(I was going to write flour at first, but then what the heck would flour sacks be doing balancing precariously at the ends of my eyelashes?)
I think I might just call it an early night and head upstairs to hit the hay.
Bedtime before ten o’clock on a school night?
But to bed I must, so zoiks and away!