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.
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