I do not take credit for the list above. I found it on the Internet. I decided to write a story using these vernacularisms, and I got carried away and added a few favorite words of my own. What big words do you like?
Note: Obviously, this is fiction.
The Flimflam: An Adventure in Thesaurus Land
Once upon a time a boy bamboozled me. He fed me some codswallop, betting me $100 on a cattywampus gamble that was hogwash wrapped in gobbledygook.
I was momentarily discombobulated by the audacity of the culprit’s shenanigans. The bloke, a flibbertigibbet chap, talked incessantly. What I gathered, what it took him several minutes to explicate, was he bet he could change wine into water. He called this miracle “a reverse Jesus.”
“Poppycock!” said I. What a thick-witted name for a marvel.
I suspected chicanery, but my curiosity mixed with greed was piqued. I succumbed to the lure of effortless money. The skinny imbecile drank a glass of wine, and said that within 12 hours, he would urinate, and the vino would be made into water. Sure enough, a quick Google search showed that urine is 91 to 96 percent water. I was thimblerigged and apoplectic at the same time. I was deceived. I was flabbergasted by his brazenness.
Using logic, I expected the bloke to attempt to substitute the wine for water, and I would discover his deception, thus winning $100. I was hornswoggled.
I am persnickety as it is, and I was flimflammed, which triggered my pugnaciousness, and for his blasphemous skulduggery I refused to pay up in Jesus’ name. The galoot threatened to thrash me, and I went ballistic and engaged the whippersnapper in a physical altercation.
A kerfuffle ensued. The dingleberry was gobsmacked by my sudden attack; and suddenly, he was on tenterhooks fearfully zigzagging to avoid my hellacious strikes.
He was an evasive rapscallion. I took a moratorium from my blitzkrieg to catch my breath, which attempted to escape me, and I called the ninnyhammer on his malarky and deemed him a nincompoop and whatnot. He was flummoxed by my onslaught and refusal to pay, so he called his guttersnipes, who I did not know lollygagged outside, and a brouhaha commenced.
There were three chuckleheads, so I grabbed a whatsit? A thingamajig with a doohickey on the end, from the fireplace, and I crouched and walloped my assailants on the shins as they advanced toward me.
One ultrathin bushwhacker threw a roundhouse that landed on my noggin with the force of fresh-baked pumpernickel. When he realized his attempted haymaker was a dud, he pivoted and beat a retreat. I responded with an emphatic counterstroke across his bony buttocks with my whatchamacallit.
The charlatan and his posse backtracked and hesitated as they pondered my weapon, my apparent invincibility to doughy punches and my ferocity. Their shins were sore, and one had a welt on his derriere. The boy and his coterie skedaddled like the nincompoops they were, no doubt off to canoodle with their mamas.
Note: I do not mean to besmirch materfamilias with a juvenile mama inference, but rather the reference is aimed at the hooligan aggressors and their pusillanimous dispositions.
David Madrid
Contact: David Madrid
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