Here, dear readers, is where our research has lead us, and not in malafides*, either, we will note: to the southwest coast of India, a little place known as the Malabar coast, sometimes just known as Malabar.
And here is where you can get turned around, if you (this being the Imperial You, not necessarily you, the personal reader, unless, of course, you (the personal reader) are feeling Imperial today (or tomorrow)) are inclined to begin following paths not exactly of your own design:
malacia, from the Greek malakia, is either a softening or loss of consistency of an organ or tissue, while it is also an abnormal craving for spicy food. Curry, anyone?
malacology, from the French malacoligie (from, at its root, the Greek malako), is the science dealing with the study of mollusks.
PBJroom, you ask, how does the study of mollusks fit in with the abnormal craving for spicy foods which in turn might lead to the loss of consistency of tissue paper if you buy the cheap product instead of the good solid squishy stuff, you ask (not repeatedly, but more here in case you had forgotten that you had a question in the first place), which is, according to all the advertising commercials the way to go if you really want to feel all good all down under, which gets us back around to the idea of southwest India, the Malabar coast and why in the world some bright marketing genius at some candy bar factory, say the Baby Ruth plant or the Mars factory, didn’t come up with a Sanjaya Mala-bar candy bar?
We here in the pbjroom think we all know where this is going: that’s right, maladaptative ringtones from none other than Sanjaya himself. Sent, as it were, directly to our innocent unsuspecting cell phones, unprepared, we might add, for the malady about to be inflicted upon them, by someone, for instance, well, let us just go ahead and use us as an example. Not both of us, necessarily, but as we are in this together, yes, then, both of us are guilty of this. We both apparently sent us – not exactly malaliciously, mind you – both ringtones from Sanjaya to enjoy forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and maybe you get the idea…
This all seems a trifle confusing, even to the innocent eyes of the writer here. But we will refrain from the unlawful and alligator use of malapropisms here to try to describe the current situation, current at least within the last four, five, nine weeks, the general malaise that has settled over us since Sanjaya’s departure. As a cure against said general malaise we were offered the metaphorical mayonnaise of a ringtone that would burst forth every time someone called the cell phone – burst forth with the sonorous and maladjusted tones of Sanjaya crooning Bonnie Raitt’s ‘Let’s Give Them Something to Talk About, Shall We, Eh, Let’s, Eh, How Do You Like My Hair, I’m Only Seventeen.”
On the upside, no one calls the cell phone (please, don’t) and even if they do, Sanjaya’s malafarious sonorisms do not burst forth as the phone was deemed by the phone deities not to be cool enough to handle a ringtone on the malamagnitude of Sanjaya swooning to “Do Me Baby One More Time Once Just Isn’t Enough Et Cetera How Do You Like My Hair I’m Only Seventeen.”
And none of this has a thing to do with candy bars, or, for that matter, with garage reorganizations. Anyone else remember when they were simply carports? Ports for your car, not unlike airports providing ports for, well, we suppose for air if the logic is followed through with. Some sort of malapert linguistic twist there, if you ask us. Duly noted that you didn’t. Ask us, that is. But obviously, you should have as we have an answer ready: malapert linguistic twist, is what it is.
Do you have shelves or shelfs**? Do you have hangers or hooks? Can you find a stud? These become the burning questions that one privately entertains when entering the wonderful world of garage reorganization. Yes, it is most likely but not necessarily coincidental that garage and garbage are only a b apart. Not that we are implying that either ourselves or others store garbage in the garage but when you are looking at your various piles and droppings and mounds in an attempt to see them neatly lined against, for instance, a garage wall, one might begin to look longingly at the nearest dumpster with the idea of Garbage Expulsion for a Cleaner Garage in mind. Or, GECG. Which actually doesn’t spell anything, and isn’t going to no matter how many times we change the participle or adjective, nouns being the given there***. As we are slightly tired after some of our recent adventures, many and most of which we have not even yet been able to share with you they are coming at us so fast, we are currently accepting bids for garage removal and garbage reorganization: must travel light emotionally, and be willing to work around our solid sense of confusion when not in direct chaos. Ha ha, we kid. We are actually, as you can probably imagine, slightly anal and ocd-ish about our removal reorganization and garage garbage, which is why we seem slightly when not forthrightly dazed and confused occasionally.
We are also accepting bids for basement digging. But that’s another story for another time; until then, then…
So it goes.
* - (Latin), bad faith; intent to cheat or deceive. Compare, we are told, with bonafide.
** - As a general rule, we here in the pbjroom understand that there are no such things as shelfs (unless we are speaking of a variant strain of elfs, and even so, they’d probably be a variant strain of elves…), but we do understand that there is a difference in an organized set of shelving that is coordinated into shelves and a bunch of pieces of wood or wood-like substances that, applied to a wall via a variety of methods, become shelfs.
*** - We apologize for the hyperjump into the parts of speech but we were just told that we’re wearing shiny pants, and we had a vision of Leo neé Gerard Sayer dancing through the night. As you are probably aware by now, he feels like dancing. We, as a general rule, are not fans of shiny pants.
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