Category Archives: B words

Buy

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Buy: (v) to obtain in exchange for payment.

Commerce: “I want to buy something and you want to sell it.”

Capitalism: “I want to buy something and you want to sell it for as much as you can get, whether it’s worth that or not.”

You see the problem?

Although buying and selling is an intricate part of life on this planet, it has become one of the more dangerous activities, because pride in work, authenticity and integrity have vanished like a bunch of relatives during clean-up time after Thanksgiving dinner.

We keep moving the bar on idealism.

We used to think idealism was expecting people to act god-like. Now we think it’s idealistic to think people are going to act like humans. Instead, we anticipate the grunt of the pig, the huffing of the bull and the growling of the dog.

We have attributed animal tendencies to the human race to such an extent that we no longer feel the need to use the full extent of the brain, since the end result will be barnyard anyway.

I want to buy something–but I want you to sell me a product, an idea or a piece of land that is worth the money that I am forfeiting.

I don’t want you to gloat because you feel that you got rid of swamp land in Florida when you are fully aware that I am not an alligator. Matter of fact, I am so certain that this is a cornerstone to the recovery of true humanity that I am going to implement it in my everyday life.

If I invest ten dollars to make something, I am going to make sure that if I charge you fifteen, you are getting a full fifteen-dollar blessing out of the experience.

I have nothing against profit–but it will profit us nothing if we cheat one another.

 

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Buxom

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Buxom: (adj) a woman with large breasts.

Prude or rude?

These appear to be the two choices offered to me every day.

I can take a path of believing that anything that sounds sexual or stimulates my temptations should be ignored or relegated to a private corner.

Or I can just pop off and use all the vernacular of present day society, acting like the free spirit, uninhibited to speak my mind.

We just don’t seem to have the ability to find better ways to share our thoughts.

So we end up looking on buxom women as if they are motherly, or else we proclaim them to have “big tits.”

Somewhere along the line we have completely lost the evolutionary meaning of women’s breasts. So some folks refuse to talk about them and other people giggle and ogle them.

What is the correct procedure?

It’s simple: it’s up to the person who has them.

If a woman is proud of her breasts, wants to talk about them and feels uplifted, so to speak, by others appreciating them, I think that’s just jim dandy.

If she’s embarrassed, tentative and uncertain about her bosom, I have absolutely no problem remaining silent and diverting my eyes.

Being a prude or being rude is a decision to make a decision for someone else. You are either communicating that they should be embarrassed by their buxom condition, or that they should be prepared to be leered at by every fellow who passes by.

We have no right to make decisions for other people.

It is our job to bounce off the desires that each person we meet may express, and honor his or her wishes.

In doing so, we actually begin to approach maturity.

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Buttress

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Buttress: (n) a source of defense or support.

I construct a buttress–a physical barrier to communicate that I am prepared to withstand an attack.

I suppose if it stopped there it might be fine. Certain safeguards are necessary in a violent world.

But once I physically construct a buttress, I begin to believe it’s necessary to build a mental buttress for my brain.

What is that?

Only certain information is allowed. This data must be in harmony with my present philosophy and level of understanding.

Once I’m fully protected from the possibility of errant or alien ideas attacking my mind, it becomes necessary to build a buttress for my spirit–the soul.

And how shall I construct such a protection? By developing an unwavering conviction on who God is and who the Creator is not, never allowing foreign doctrines to permeate my walls.

Even if I am granted a vision sent from the heavens, I must defend the traditions–or risk losing the certainty I have over established belief.

So now I’m protected from physical assault, mental aggression and spiritual infiltration.

I certainly must complete the isolation by erecting a buttress to guard my feelings.

The emotions need to shrink, only including certain members of my family, color, styles and predilections. I find myself getting cold but adjust to the chill by warming myself with a cloak of self-righteousness.

Now I am fully encased, each buttress in place to secure body, mind, soul and heart.

But why am I awakening in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, screaming?

What has come in?

What is troubling me?

What has breached my fortification and now disrupts my rest?

I am undefended from me.

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Button

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Button: (n) a small disk sewn onto a garment for closure

When I was younger, I asked my wife to sew me a pair of pants.

I did so because the slacks that were able to cover my blubbery frame were ugly and made me look like I was always on my way to a construction site.

So she bought the cloth and laid out the pattern so I could have a pair of bell-bottom trousers. She was ready to put a zipper in when I stopped her.

I said, “No. I want buttons on the front.”

She gave me a little frown, but then she smiled, apparently catching a vision for my cavalier choice.

I put on the pants. They were kind of tight. But I was able to button them up and I headed off to a local coffeehouse where I planned on doing some singing.

Before I went over to the piano, I decided to perch on a stool to chat with the audience. When I did so, two of the buttons on my pants popped off with such ferocity that they flew into the audience, striking a couple of unsuspecting maidens, causing them to shriek.

I’ve always been proud of the fact that I possess a good comeback for almost every situation.

But on this occasion, I did not know what to communicate about my flying buttons.

 

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Buttock

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Buttock: (n) the back of a hip that forms one of the fleshy parts on which a person sits

I do not favor foul or coarse language, yet I have to admit, I am seriously exhausted trying to keep up with people who make it their mission to be the “word police.”

If you have ever written a paragraph, you have run the risk of being arrested by these cop-outs. They stand by ready to criticize every single syllable that comes before them as being either inappropriate, misplaced or evil.

So how shall I describe the back side of a human?

I can call it a rear end.

Perhaps a caboose.

They might even allow me to call it a butt–if the material is not viewed by too many children.

There are some folks who would even allow me to use the word “ass.” (The Bible had no trouble using the word “ass.” It’s a little difficult to believe that the translators in the court of King James were more progressive with their street lingo than a librarian in Peoria, Illinois.)

Sometimes words just fit. Sometimes they’re needed to give power and passion to an idea.

For instance, if you have a teenage son who’s sitting around during summer vacation doing nothing, would you really ask him to get off his “buttock” and get a job? Rear end? Caboose?

A wise man once said that “by your words you are justified and by your words you are condemned.”

I agree with that. So pick the word that communicates the thought, while making sure that the thought is exactly what you’re trying to communicate.

 

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Butterscotch

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Butterscotch: (n) a flavor created by combining melted butter with brown sugar.

I was greatly disappointed to discover that there were no butterscotch trees–not even a bush. A vine would have been nice. I enjoy the flavor, and would certainly have been willing to go to some farm and pick my own.

What a treat–stopping every few minutes from placing my butterscotch sprouts into my pail to eat a few. Did I mention that I like butterscotch?

And now I know why. It’s a combination of butter and brown sugar–similar to taking the winner of the male decathlon and the female winner of the broad jump in the Olympics and mating them to have a child. Pretty good chance it’s going to turn out okay.

But then I am swept away by the realization brought about by pure candor. Since butter is not good for me and brown sugar is not good for me, their baby will probably be a brat, too.

Nevertheless, every once in a while a piece of butterscotch in your mouth is an excellent way to get rid of the bad taste of bitterness.

 

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Butterfly

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Butterfly: (n) an insect with two pairs of large wings

Moths hate butterflies.

I’m sure they do.

I’ve never actually had a conversation with a moth about the subject but having watched them fly around lights and flames, I realize they feel trapped.

Not only are they attracted to shiny objects, often leaving them vulnerable, but they are also stuck with gray or brown wings.

Then here comes the butterfly.

Butterflies don’t fly. They don’t gather around glowing places.

Butterflies flit. They dart.

And most obviously, they have color in their wings. It sets them apart. It makes them look like they give a damn instead of grabbing the first t-shirt out of the drawer. They spend a little time shopping. They are conscious of their appearance.

They seem to be aware that the world needs some beauty.

Yes, I guess if I were a moth I would constantly be criticizing the butterfly.

“Stop flitting! And who’s to say your golden, orange and black-with-hints-of-purple hues are any better than my grayscale?”

 

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Butterfingers

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Butterfingers: (n) a clumsy person, especially one who fails to hold a catch

It was a perfect early summer day.

I was of an age when virility still oozed from my being and I was the father of children who were old enough that playing with them was fun.

We had joined with a couple of other families to go to the park. We did races, played some basketball and even tried some silly little mind twister games.

Allowing for a bit of humility, I dominated in every category. My kids were convinced that their dad had skipped the entire step of posing as Clark Kent, and had merely exposed himself as Superman.

Then someone suggested baseball.

I hate baseball. I don’t like to watch it; I don’t like to play it. I could probably go into vivid detail about how the game moves at such a snail’s pace that your muscles have time to relax, only to be alarmed once again with the arrival of activity.

So I placed myself in the position of pitching the softball. Within eight or nine throws, I was pretty proficient. I batted pretty well, too–even though I had a tendency to over-swing at the ball, grounding out. But I picked up a couple of singles and one double. It looked like I was going to survive the horror of the great American sport with my “Man of Steel” profile intact.

Then here comes kryptonite. Yes–the stuff that turns Superman into a jellyfish.

It was the last pitch of the game. One batter left. And it was made even easier, because the young lady hit the ball straight up in the air in front of the plate.

All I had to do was step forward four paces and catch it.

I heard my family cheering in the background as the ball–now in slow motion–came tumbling toward my grasp.

In that flash, self-doubt entered my mind.

Should I catch it with my hands, or should I let it come into the bread basket of my chest and cupped arms?

I chose poorly.

As the ball descended, I cupped my hands against my chest to cradle it. It hit me just below the neck and bounced to the ground as the runner from third base scored and the other team won the game.

I received no pity from my children.

They did not say, “Nice try, Dad” or “It could have happened to anyone.”

Matter of fact, on the drive home I could have sworn I heard my youngest mutter, “Butterfingers.”

 

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Butter

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Butter: (n) a pale yellow edible fatty substance made by churning cream

Nothing tastes better than butter. It’s good on everything.

It makes pancakes edible.

It makes a delicious steak heavenly.

And it turns toast into something worthwhile to consume instead of dried-out bread for making dressing.

But it will also kill you.

High in cholesterol, high in calories, high in death toll.

Sometimes people make me laugh when I mention that butter is something I need to avoid. They say, “Why don’t you just eat a little?”

I always find it amusing when humans think they can pursue moderation. Because of the nature of our appetites, we really have two options: excess or abstinence.

Sometimes we can pull off abstinence if we get convicted or determined enough to become bratty about our decision to abstain. And of course, excess is merely allowing the human animal to rule the cage.

I’ve tried artificial butter. Surprisingly, very artificial.

I’ve tried butter substitutes. They were no substitute, by the way.

I’ve tried margarine, which is like convincing yourself that using three baby wipes to clean up is the same thing as taking a bath.

Butter is a blessing–but for me, it is one that God will have to supply in eternity, or otherwise, I will get there too soon.blished its seat of power.

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Butt

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Butt: (n) the posterior

It is time once again for this well-seasoned traveler to admit his limitations and the true extent of his ignorance.

I do it willingly, because if I don’t, someone will do it anyway, against my will. So here we go:

What is all the damn interest in the butt?

I just don’t get it. Does anybody remember when a butt was an ass? Now it seems to be a symbol of sexual presence, if not prowess.

The other day, I heard somebody comment about the attractiveness of a particular woman, saying, “You could bounce a quarter off her ass.”

Not only does that sound like a rude game, but I don’t understand the significance. Maybe that’s because I was taught that a hardass was negative.

What is all the interest in the back door?

I use mine to stink. Matter of fact, that’s what it seems to do the best. I’ve heard people describe different applications, but I normally found myself wanting to run, terrified, from the room.

Do other people besides me also wonder why the posterior has suddenly become acceptable to discuss with the interior?

Does anybody else think that a woman’s face or a man’s countenance is more attractive than their caboose?

Or might the thought be that if you have a nice trunk space, then there’s a good chance the engine works?

I’m really confused. I don’t often want to go back to former times, nor do I feel especially nostalgic.

But I think it might do us well to return to a season when the butt had clearly established its seat of power.

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