Word Salads: Why America Needs a Good Cucumber

At the very least, a word salad is a diversion- a fluster and a cringe season the leaves of language jumble. Rachel loves her salads; she's very healthy. Sometimes I dream that she begins to talk so fast that in order to save her life, I have to talk her down- off the drug of information vomit. She rarely stutters, exudes confidence to her prey, verbally dots every "i." But when one talks as much as Rachel, one reaches her daily vegetable intake earlier than anticipated.

Maybe she initially stumbles over a fluke in the story, a soybean of mismatched facts. To rectify, she moistens the tale with acidity, which I call the tomato tactic. Finally, as reaction to audience gasps of incredulity, she slices the climactic meat to top her salad saga. Most days it's chicken.

Despite her cranium-curling velocity, Rachel has perfected the word salad. It might be marketed, were she of entrepreneurial spirit, packaged into bubbles of poise that burst into a satisfying meal when prodded-- kind of like that chicken that spurts butter upon provocation.

On the other hand, the word salads of the nation suggest a serious nutrient deficiency. It may be biological: one's tongue physically lacks the ability to toss. Often, it's mental: one may only be able to sluice the dressing alone in the dark. In any event, it's a true peach when one can witness a live word salad demo. Most are able to master the basic elements of prep: the rinsing of doubt, the chopping of pretext, the layering of context. It's when the storyteller approaches the cooking of climax when he seems to perspire. The listener edges closer to the sound of boiling eggs or the sting of crackling bacon. A last minute sprig of dill adds bold validity an otherwise average tale. Alas, a moment of distraction, an errant thought, a misangled thrust of plot detail, and --- squirt. Citrus. All over. A poorly-calculated, preemptive verbal assault. It's insulting, it's disappointing, it's why I'm a picky eater.

Fat-Buster Duster No. 3492

Taken from New Statesman ca. 2006:

Put on an old army haversack with eight house bricks in it. Then, with soapy water, clean water, sponge, squeegee and polishing paper, set about doing the upstairs windows. Each pane gets 1,000 rubs with soapy water, 1,800 rubs with clean water, then squeegeed and 1,200 rubs with kitchen tissue. Calculate the total number of square millimetres you'll cover times rubs; convert this to pounds and imagine you're a multimillionaire.

Research shows washing dishes in warm, soapy water releases highly beneficial endorphins and pheromones more efficiently than any other activity. The rhythmic rubbing of dishcloth on plates and especially greasy pans, combined with chemicals in the water, stimulates tiny microscopic membranes on human skin, which in turn release the above chemicals. Intriguingly, in men the effect is radically different: not only is there a total absence of chemical activity, but alarming reductions in sperm count have been noted.