The Weakly Post Floccinaucinihilipilification

The Weakly Post

Floccinaucinihilipilification

Webster: “The action or habit of estimating something as worthless, or regarding something as unimportant, of having no value.” With 29 characters, it’s hardly a household word, unless your intent is to impress folks. Don’t overshoot your goal. There are easier ways.

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     My wife and I share words. It’s not the same as ‘having words,’ but sometimes it gets close. No, today at breakfast we’re discussing the word ‘floccinaucinihilipilification.’ It’s a perfect word to pop a Pepto pill.

     She discovers it in a newspaper article. Yes, the New York Times. Would you expect less from that paper? I think the context was a toothless bark by Obama to Putin, “Get off the next exit ramp with Crimea.” It was a rhetorical reach, an attempt to describe something of no interest.  Consider the source.

     “Do you know what this word means?” she asks.

     “No. Why?” I ask, knowing that not knowing the ‘why’ of everything drives her mad.  It’s exhilarating to stoke the fires of passion of a spouse at early morning coffee. It sets the day’s tone.

     “Why would anybody use such an inscrutable word?” she asks. Her ‘why’ becomes a yoyo, spinning wildly at the end of a long string of inconsistencies. Once in motion, you can’t get rid of it.

     “Gibberish,” I say. “Who cares?” Short answers are safe.  Less noose to get hung by. 

     “There’re 1,025,908 words in the English language. Why choose this word?” she asks.

 Why indeed? But she has a point. It’s haunting, like the Mary Poppins song, supercalifragilisticeexpialidocious, that stupid alien jingle that homesteads in your brain. It’s worse than David Frizzell’s hit, “I’m Gonna Hire a Wino to Decorate Our Home.” These were Abu Ghraib torture tunes that succeeded in exposing Cheney’s sadistic infatuation with Judge Judy.

     I grab Webster, read her the meaning. “Sounds like a word your father would have used to describe your youth,” she comments.

     “Absolutely not!” I say. “My daddy was short on verbiage. ‘Fishing’ was the longest word he knew.” The comment brings back a memory of the man who regularly kept a can of fishing bait—worms—in the refrigerator for freshness. I remind her of that.

     “The fruitcake, uh, fruit, never falls far from the tree,” she replies.

     She has another point. I remember a confusing comment from my father. I was about ten. “Daddy, what does ‘worthless’ mean?”

     “Son, look it up. When you find it, you’ll see your picture.” I didn’t get it. I’m still looking. 

     Well, returning to ‘more about nothing.’ Floccinaucinihilipilification consists of four Latin words. Bottom line?  It’s irrelevant. Like high school Latin. Have you ever tried to recite Latin with a Southern dialect? Besides, where is Gaul today, anyway? Still, her question of ‘Why’ stalks me.

     But not for long. All men have opinions. The wise have learned to express them to themselves in silence. I avoid that advice today.

     “Honey, only showoffs and blow-hards use such arcana. Think politicians and you’ll get closer to the meaning. One might say they’re hippopotomonstrosesquipedalian.”  Pride swells within me at the mention of folks who use big words.

     I want to evoke the word used by Duke Ellington, antidisestablishmentarianism, just to make a point.  But I could see it would fall on deaf ears. Who cares about the Church of England anyway?

     I continue unabated.  She sits motionless, stunned by my erudition. “Sweetie, users of such nonsense are just trying to impress people.  You know, like women trying to out-do one another with clothes.”  I should have left that last part off.

      I shift the subject, dredge up a maxim by La Rochefoucauld: “In every walk of life each man puts on a personality and outward appearance so as to look what he wants to be thought. You might say that society is entirely made up of assumed personalities.” Now there’s a thought that will separate the Erudite from the Troglodyte.     

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     As in most things, women have the last word. So I ask her what she thinks floccinaucinihilipification means. She takes a long look at me. “I think your daddy had you figured out…you aim for nothing and rarely miss.” 

Bud Hearn

March 14, 2014

Sketch courtesy of Leslie Hearn