As full of bacterial-mouth-spray as it is harsh-pragmatism, "Glagh" (sometimes pronounced in the prolonged, dramatic form "Glaaaaaaaagh!") is a throat-rending exclamation of all worldly frustration, a tongue-shaking vociferation of all cosmic calamity; when uttered in the quiet computer-room of my swank apartment, well, it drives my dogs nuts.
(Did you ever hear about the pirate with the steering-wheel sticking out from the crotch of his pants? When asked about it, the buccaneer expressed surprise and stated, in a raspy swashbuckler‘s voice, "I don’t know, but it drives me nuts".)
(You’re welcome.)
"Glagh" could very well turn out to be the greatest word creation since "antidisestablishmentarianism", but you wouldn’t know it by the baleful looks I receive from my cute, little puppies as I spew the word into their furry bellies; you would think that I was torturing them with heated-up chimney-pokers, but, of course, you’d be wrong.
For all of their obvious good traits, one of the faults my dogs share is an adverse reaction to progress, to the New; if they had their druthers, they would just sit back, eat, and get fat off the backs of others, swelling up on all the food earned from back-breaking labour and sacrifice.
I’m trying to change the world, one word at a time, and all they care about is if I’m going to share my pizza with them.
Bastards.
Glagh!
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