Brontosaurus

j-r-practix-with-border-2

Brontosaurus: (n) a large herbivorous dinosaur

In my silly brain, dinosaurs are like God.

What I mean is, they seem so unlikely that it’s hard to believe they actually existed.Dictionary B

I have gone to an African wildlife reserve and seen elephants and giraffes, which are quite impressive, but still plausible in size. The notion that there was a creature on Earth that covered half a city block is a little bit far-fetched.

But also like God, there is evidence that they were here and did roam about, leaving behind “bones for contention.”

But I’ve always favored the Brontosaurus.

So practical. Big long neck for reaching up in the trees to eat his fill, but never getting to the end of a maple tree luncheon and going, “Not quite full. I’d like to eat me a fat boy.”

They really stuck to that herbivore thing. Not like me–who becomes a vegetarian du jour, only to reject it at the first sniff of Kentucky Fried Chicken.

The Brontosaurus stayed with plants.

So it’s my thought that they hung around longer than the T-Rex and the raptors.

Yes, they were around on Earth by themselves, so they could enjoy their salads … and not smell meat farts.

Donate Button

Thank you for enjoying Words from Dic(tionary) —  J.R. Practix 

 

 

Bow Tie

Bow tie: (n) a necktie in the form of a bow or a knot with two loops.

I realize it is very intolerant to proclaim something ridiculous, assigning no redeeming qualities to it whatsoever.Dictionary B

Yet we all do it.

And in some cases it is applicable.

If you will allow me a brutish example, I think farting is an absolutely amazing experience, but should never be presented as a community blessing. In other words, it is perfectly all right if people object to farting in public, as long as they don’t insist that farts were meant to stay inside.

Likewise, I am certain there is a place for the bow tie. Matter of fact, we have given it a location of honor for formal events, weddings, and occasions where kings or queens may frequent.

But generally speaking, when in public–just as with the fart–it’s a good idea not to don one of these pieces of neckwear. There is a stigma associated on someone who wears one on a Tuesday afternoon in Schenectady.

I am not going to go into what some of the implications might be, or how this individual might be viewed by the general public, but let us say that it isn’t what you might call a classic turn-on.

For a very brief week or two, I thought bow-ties might be an interesting choice for me, as a fashion statement. But every time I looked in the mirror, the short little bloom around my neck made my fat face appear about three times bigger. I looked like a butcher asking if you wanted to pick up a good deal on cold cuts.

Of course, no one told me. The human race is notorious for informing us how nice we look and then whispering and giggling behind our backs.

Finally, a dear friend of mine, in a moment of clarity and sanity, stepped up and said, “Your bow tie makes you look like you’re wearing a tourniquet that’s swollen your face.”

She was right.

So to all of those who love the bow tie, hat’s off to you.  But for the record, maybe you should consider hats.

 

Donate ButtonThank you for enjoying Words from Dic(tionary) —  J.R. Practix 


Jonathan’s Latest Book Release!

PoHymn: A Rustling in the Stagnant

Click here to get your copy now!

PoHymn cover jon

 

 

Beatific

Beatific: (adj) blissfully happy; imparting holy bliss.Dictionary B

He probably smelled like sweat, grain and farts.

I’m talking about Jesus.

Since he was always on the move in an arid climate and there were no ways to prevent body odor, he reeked.

There was also no halo around his head to let you know that he was special, divine or even beatific.

  • What you had was an encounter.
  • What you possessed was your sense of wonder.
  • And what you had to decide for yourself was whether what you heard could contradict what you were seeing and smelling.

I supposed it would be easier if angels came with a glow. But actually, angels just come with truth. And even though the truth makes us free, we are not always in a hurry to discover our freedom, but are literally captivated by our error.

What tells us that the experience in front of us has eternal possibilities?

How can we know that we’re in the presence of greatness?

And how can we allow words and ideas which may seem contradictory to our training to come and soothe us with mercy and tenderness?

I don’t know the answer.

It is the way of mankind to ignore true value in favor of cheap exchange.

But we can take hope in the notion that beauty can often be identified by the presence of genuine humility.

 

Donate Button

Thank you for enjoying Words from Dic(tionary) —  J.R. Practix

 

 

 

Anima

dictionary with letter A

Anima: (adj) Jung’s term for the female part of a man’s personality; the part of a person that is directed inward and is in touch with the subconscious.

I grow bored with a culture that gyrates between religious conviction and the pursuit of science.

Recently when I suggested to a friend that God, Science and Nature were the same living Creator, he became vehement at the assertion that his deity of intellect could be permeated by any sort of religious terminology whatsoever.

But if you just look at it logically, whether from a Biblical perspective or a scientific one, both of them agree that men and women are not really that different.

We focus on subtleties and we tout the cultural conflicts that are created by our own miserable manifestations, but when you get right down to it and you’re looking across the room at a man and a woman, it isn’t exactly the typical vision of the Great Hunter carrying his spear with his woman trailing two steps behind, hauling the papoose.

Actually, we’re so much alike.

I remember the first time I went on the road with two women in a music group and we ate at a Mexican buffet and came back to lounge and watch television. One of the young ladies ripped off one of the longest, most intense farts I had ever heard in my life.

I was startled–and not just by the volume and change of odor in the atmosphere. The fact that it came from a female body was foreign to me, against all the training I had received about the delicacy of the female form.

Likewise, when I was in a locker room with a friend who had broken his toe during football practice, they took off his sock, and when he saw the bent digit pointing eastward instead of north, he started to cry, worrying about what his mom would say and whether he would be able to put on his shoe to go to the dance on Friday night. This was our rough and tumble fullback, who suddenly, right in front of my eyes, turned into Cinderella.

Yes, I feel that the more we try to be male or female instead of embracing our humanity, the more ridiculous we become. I think in future generations they will laugh at our insistence on roll-playing.

Do I have a woman living inside me? God, I sure hope so. There is so much I like about women–so even to have a few ounces of their poundage of personality would be terrific.

Do I believe there is manliness living inside the women I know?

Absolutely.

So I don’t know whether these attributes are really male and female, but rather, just human qualities that are earth-friendly.

Therefore, whatever Jung came up with is okay with me as long as it’s not portrayed as an aberration, but rather, a true discovery of how much we honor one another by possessing portions of one another.

Donate Button

Thank you for enjoying Words from Dic(tionary) —  J.R. Practix

Allergy

Words from Dic(tionary)

dictionary with letter A

Allergy: (n) a damaging immune response by the body to a substance, often pollen, fur, a particular food, or dust, to which it has become hypersensitive

I may be allergic to nature.

Well, not exactly. It’s more that I’m allergic to many products that people insist are ‘organic’ or ‘natural.’

Recently at a motel they offered what they refered to as “green” soap. It had the magical words of this millenium inscribed on its wrapper: “all organic ingredients.”

It made me itch.

Several years ago, a friend thought she was doing me a big favor by purchasing me a three-month supply of Herbalife. She wanted to help me lose weight the “natural way.” All it did for me was create a rash on my bum and turn my pee green.

I became curious about what causes me to react so strongly against these products which are meant to be healthy. So I looked up on the Internet the elements that make up these magical potions. In avoiding the use of preservatives or man-made chemicals, they insert emollients to hold the substance together, and these are not necessarily healthy in themselves.

For instance, I discovered that mangoes are related to poison ivy. Unfortunately, uncovering this trifle of data now makes me itch whenever I get around the fruit, even in a grocery store.

You see, that’s another problem with an allergy. Even if you sprout a symptom, people who think they are perpetually healthy or the same type who believe their farts don’t smell, will ridicule you or tell you that it’s “all in your head.”

It reminds me of the man who kept telling everyone he was sick–until he finally died. Every time he complained they told him it was all in his head. When they did the autopsy they found a tumor in his brain.

They were right.

I think the least we can do is give folks a chance to believe they are actually suffering from some malady instead of merely seeking attention and asking for their itch to be scratched.

I don’t know if I have any permanent allergies. The last time I took penicillin I did break out in hives, so I do mention that. Pure aspirin sometimes does odd things to me.

But every once in a while I get one of those hives or skin rashes, and I know there’s some sort of imbalance or natural product I’ve stumbled upon, which has inserted the “oil of cactus” into its ingredients … to advertise its earth-friendliness.

 

Adenoids

Words from Dic(tionary)

by J. R. Practix

dictionary with letter A

Adenoids: (n.) a mass of enlarged lymphatic tissue between the back of the nose and the throat, often hindering speaking and breathing in young children.

I was only ten years old so the significance completely evaded me.

Our family physician was named Dr. Livingston. To me it was just another name, not a literary setup, so when Dr. Livingston looked over his silver spectacles and told my mother and father that I needed to have my tonsils removed–otherwise I would have tonsillitis any time it was rumored to be in the area–they agreed.

They were further delighted when he told them that while he was in there yanking out the little boogers, that he might as well take my adenoids, too. It was common at the time. Tonsils were apparently so emotionally linked to adenoids that it was a given in the medical field that if you took one you had better remove the other, too, or fussiness would ensue.

Dr. Livingston? Tonsils and adenoids, I presume?

My father, being raised in a miserly German home, was excited because he felt he was getting two operations for the price of one.

So I was sent to a clinic in the big city twenty miles from our little burg, and was prepped for surgery. This was long before anethesia was perfected. It was actually barely beyond the phase of a shot of whiskey and a punch in the jaw.

What they used to put you under was ether. Now, let me explain what ether smells like. It has a distinctive odor. Imagine if a bottle of alcohol let off a big, stinky fart.

There you go.

So after they had removed my co-dependent organs, I awoke to the smell of this nasty “stinky” in the air, to spend the next hour-and-a-half doing nothing but trying to regurgitate all of my insides for public view.

About two hours later my stomach finally calmed down and they told me I could have some nice, cool Jello. (I had heard rumors that ice cream was the normal gift given to a patient, but apparently I ended up at K-Mart Presbyterian Municipal Hospital, where budget cuts were inserted to extract all pleasures.)

Unfortunately, the flavor they chose for my Jello was cherry.

When my mother and father wanted to go out and catch a bite to eat, they left my older brother in charge. The cherry jello by then had landed in my stomach, was introduced to the raging ether, and was immediately evicted. So when I threw up my cherry jello, my brother was convinced that I was bleeding to death. He ran through the halls screaming for nurses to come and save me.

The comical part (as if it isn’t already) was that it took the nurses at least ten minutes to figure out that what was in my bed pan had the unmistakable fragrance of Kool-aid.

Things went back to normal–if you call being ten years old, in a hospital, losing your tonsils and adenoids, vomiting profusely, with a maniac for a brother, only room for Jello and without the benefit of an ice cream confection … anywhere near normalcy.