NEW WORDS! FANTABULICOUS!

Deluded, ̶D̶e̶-̶m̶u̶t̶e̶d̶ Words of February’s Writing Custodians

Some words need improvement — I’ve got this!

Being an enterprising, multi-tasking (it’s a skill — not a distraction! What???), super-efficient semi-human mutant lizard, I figured I’d identify every February 2024 contest and meet all the eligibility requirements in one swell foop. But something shiny — Life — caught my attention and the month evaporated with my willpower.

Fortunately, the shine wore off about the same time the network became hackable again.

The Real Life In Desperation (RFID) chip started working again. I was able to stop watching TV with my adult daughter who wanted to offer me up as a human sacrifice to the Internet Gods (IG) and post the evidence on Instagram (IG), along with a giggling (GIG-GIG) baby marmot.

Alex has been a bit off since she leased her head to Michael Jordan to be used as his basketball.

We spent our time watching a boring movie with racial overtones, an entirely predictable whodunnit with less-than-scintillating dialogue. After the first hour of my clever one-liner responses to each question asked, Alex stopped watching the TV and glared death-rays.

Fine. I snacked on my talon/fingernail cuticles until they bled.

Alex shouldn’t have asked what she missed when she glanced away.

“The needy guy with his arm around his wife being questioned is actually an alien mamma’s boy badly in need of therapy. His testosterone levels are off the charts — like, they don’t register. So he’s clinging to the underworld moll in fear she’ll time-travel back to the suffragette period, discover freedom, and send his sorry ass back to Cryptonbroke. There, he’ll join the ranks of the crypto-schemer just busted in a sting of sex-trafficking mules who got caught in Reparations Cotton Field Arena where the Lakers are playing. See how he digs his fingers into her arm every time he wants her to be quiet?”

Alex squinted at me.

“What’s a suffering jet?”

“One that can’t take off when it wants to. It needs an internet connection. Kind of like the time you got stuck in the Mustang.”

“Oh yeah! You left me there for hours and I almost died!”

I reminded her she was in the car in cool weather for about 5 minutes before I came along and found her huffing and puffing out the wing window of the 1965 Mustang. The interior door handle to the driver's side door was removed as we refurbished it. She could have “escaped” by scooting over six feet and using the passenger door.

“Nuh-uh! I remember! I went through all these different emotions really fast. I panicked, prayed, pinky-swore with myself, and resigned myself to dying before you showed up. Then I got mad. I was flummoxerated!”

“Sweetheart, that’s not a word. I’ll steal it, but don’t use it at your next doctor’s appointment.”

“You’re not allowed to write about me!”

“Don’t worry, I call you Janis Joplin and list your address as 666 North 666th Street in Hells Kitchen, CA. You’d know that if you read my work.”

“I can’t. My eyes hurt. I’ll use the cellphone to watch Netflix and read the captions.”

A Lizzie Lizard Brain side-eye made her reconsider. After five minutes, she agreed. “This is kind of predictable. I want to use my favorite actors in the shows. I’ll replace the boring people.”

There’s nothing wrong with Alex’s imagination. After reassigning roles to 30-year-old Jack Nicholson, Cary Grant, Marilyn Monroe, Christopher Walken, and Adrian Brody, a discussion started over the ethics of using AI to write a script, reanimate characters, and clone musical artists Bob Dylan and Taylor Swift to score the program.

“Okay Patricia, I think I want Lizzie Lizard Brain back,” Alex whined.

“Lizzie’s been busy ever since the Mongols hijacked the spacecraft in the beginning. She gnawed off her leg, grew a wing, and is trying to commit suicide by eating her own neck.”

“Her fangs are that sharp?” Alex looked worried. “Toothtisculating?”

I nodded. “She sharpens them on a rock with lime juice. It can make her a little rude and freaky, but gin helps numb the pain when she accidentally bites her own lip. Remember our tough old cat? She toasted Fluffy after a sour hairball and picked her teeth with the bones.”

“She ATE Fluffy??? I remember that orange cat! I thought it ate my goldfish, but Lizzie did? Lizzorcizer!” The 25-year-plus alarm was almost real.

“No, Sweetheart. Your goldfish was a dancer and leaper. Lizzie isn’t real — she’s a creative profile. Your fish jumped out of the bowl. I found it behind the bookcase. We probably shouldn’t have named them Sushi and Sashimi.”

A light went on as Alex remembered.

“Did you take me out to dinner after Sashimi became floorfish?” Dinner out was a common trick used to console, distract, and control tears in public.

I nodded, feeling a bit guilty. “Japanese food probably wasn’t the best choice that night. I probably should have stuck with the teriyaki and not the sushi and sashimi.”

Alex sniffed and went back to the show. She’s sure I’m going to hell.

“I’ll read the wordectomy’s after we get back online and my eyes don’t hurt.”

“Great Janis.” I sucked on my bleeding talons and prayed to the Great Router.

Hey Ann James — consider this a last-minute entry for the February Demented Custodians. Patricia Jeanne had Lizzie incarcerated for being tough on the dog. Obviously, what she did had to be crossed out.

Ever write something so dumb you regret it but have to show off the gifs?

More amusing, but subversive and likely illegal —