Gayese is the homophonic phenomenon wherein one's sexual preference homogynizes all languages into one syntax and tone.
i.e. "That table over there is speaking gayese but I can't understand exactly what they're talking about because its in Russian."
-- Chris Leo
Germantics leave no space for the bothersome banter of alien bacteria. They attempt infection with flawless, tight, and certain absolutes. When they strike with these irrefutable proofs, despite the apparent truths being dished, the lectured to still feels unease and wants to leave. Something’s not right. But what? The words? The math? The well boxed economy of everything? No those are all perfect. Examine this discourse for the irritation manifestation:
“Hey, how ‘bout we go to the beach today, Brad?”
“Excellent choice? But do you really think you can get ready in time? It’s 9am now. If we’re out of the house by 10 we’ll be on the beach by 10:45 right when it starts to get hot. If we go swimming before everyone else we’ll have the freshest water and be hungry for lunch before the hordes crowd the snack bar, yeah?…But if you can’t get ready soon we’ll be stuck in lunch traffic, not get the optimum spot on the sand, drink piss when we dunk our heads…”
germ + antics = sansoire vivre, poora vida, a German clock ticks like this: drip, drop, drip, drop…
-- Chris Leo
You’ve gone field if your art hits a home run despite your brain being benched in the dugout. Simone DiMaggio is a tour guide who brings British and American tourists from the port of Livorno to the center of Florence. Because he shares his name with the Yankee Clipper, Americans assume he’s not only the only proper Italian to like baseball, but that he’s also up on all our baseball-metaphors-for-every-ailment national theology. Therefore he's got no choice but to try and learn them all since they sock him with them every day.
On a drive together along the Tuscan coast listening to Neil Young’s “On the Beach” one morning Simone asked me, “But what exactly does he mean by ‘a million june bugs coming down the mountain’.”
“Unfortunately Simone, what he actually says is ‘a million dune buggies coming down the mountain’.”
“Oh Jesus, he’d really gone field by that point, no?”
“You mean gonfio (Italian for 'bloated') from his liver backfiring from abuse?”
gone field = gone + (yet something hits from) out of left field. See Steven Stills, but not Lou Reed. See Wire, but not Pink Floyd. See Captain Beefheart, but not the Rolling Stones.
-- Simone DiMaggio, Chris Leo
Gonelining. Antigone was the daughter of Oedipus whose name out of context looks like "anti" + "gone", or “not gone, here” whereas in fact the Greek “gone” signifies movement “from the womb, generation” which puts one in one thing and out of another. The secret to whether Antigone’s name, being the product of a mother and a son, rendered her either ultra on or gone unfortunately died with Euripides. The important point here is that antonyms “gone” and “on” have always been kissing cousins. Gonelining is the soothing pissing of hours/lives away online searching for the same sort of time bending chance encounter you once experienced on the street many shades of faith ago. Bouncing from Facebook to Myspace profiles hoping to bump into any new spark, I discovered myspamous and deflated, for as much as River Plates may want to believe navigating these pages takes us through both the Wild West and Alphabet City, currently only the Wild West is still the Wild West and Alphabet City is Alphabet City. And the worst thing about that myspamous entry is that even though we all know it to be true, when it works in reverse -- when everyone stops visiting your myspace account -- oh man it cuts, it cuts. Regardless of how netsophrenic we know those profile pages to be, wherein their online personality is something entirely different from their real life persona, it bruises when you get no hits.
-- Simon Henderson, César Alvarez, Brian Tunney, Chris Leo
Graping is either groping done under the influence of grapes or grappa, or the wrong way to play with a nipple. Not to be confused with grappling, which is the only way a Jack Sprat can play with his wife.
-- Chris Leo