Sometimes I like to pronounce “enigmatic” so that it rhymes with “arithmetic”.
     Twist your metre and enjoy the results, people.
     I’ve tried to make that my motto three times in a row, and each time I was accused of trying to impose a logical French measuring system upon a god-fearing populace happy with their arbitrary system of weights and measures.

     Screw them with a two meter pole, that’s what I say. Their response is blank stares, because they have no idea what a meter is; I suppose they reckon that it might be a pleasurable experience. Especially if “meter” means “electric; vibrating”.

     Well, it doesn’t.

     I saw a very attractive bumper sticker on a car the other day. It was gold, metallic, with what looked like red porcelain or enamel highlights. It read, in a tight little circle you can only read from dangerously close quarters, “Proud Parent of an American Marine.” Very nice sentiments, even if you invite a collision each time you seek to share them with others.
     For some reason, I immediately wished it instead read,

     I passed that test the other day. The first of 5 (or is it six) required. I scored 850 out of a possible 900. Congratulations are in order, and those congratulations should take the form of an encephalitic hampster. (I want to nurse it back to health over and over again so that I never lose that sense of satisfaction I get from helping the less fortunate)

Well?