Gollywump, Dad, happy frogbottom

"The Waiter" by Giuseppe Arcimboldo/Wikimedia Commons

By Laura Grimes (with help from the Large Smelly Boys)

Shhhh! Be vewy vewy qwiet! Sneak attack in progress.

It’s a big day in the Scatter household, when patriarch Mr. Scatter is feted (not fetid). So the Large Smelly Boys and I are hijacking the blog for a surprise post. The fun part is seeing how long it takes Mr. Scatter to find it. Don’t tell, OK?

It’s quite possible the rest of the blog world knows Mr. Scatter as a stately critic, a keen observer who elegantly writes deep thoughts about serious topics. Imagine him two-finger tapping away in a tweed jacket, a strong black coffee at his elbow, a softly snoring cat at his toes, and a mellifluous Haydn concerto mingling between sunbeams. That’s all pretty much right, though the jacket comes out only occasionally.

The blog world only knows Mr. Scatter’s high English finger-tapping language, though. His family hears a whole other side of him. Betcha didn’t know he has a hidden talent. He’s fluent in Bobspeak.

Just at dinnertime Mr. Scatter actually hollered — no kidding — “Time to eat! Mongo gila! Take your clothes off!”

When he reads this, he’ll adamantly deny it, but that’s only because talking that way comes so naturally to him he won’t even remember saying it. I wrote it down, however, so it must be true. That wasn’t easy, though.

The Bobspeak is so common, and our ears are so attuned to it, that we don’t even notice it anymore. When the LSBs and I conjured up this project, we tried to pay attention to what Mr. Scatter said so we could write it down, but his speech was just an everyday wash of words to us. We had to seriously concentrate to take note of, “What kind of glasses do you want with your sparkly partly” and “Whose tomato booger is that?”

The birth of this project was a little game we spontaneously played at the dinner table a few weeks ago. The premise was simple: Imagine Mr. Scatter talking his everyday talk, not at home in comfortable company, but as a waiter. Not just any waiter, though. It had to be at a high-class restaurant, where it’s all about decorum, cloth napkins, and stemmed wine glasses half full.

So imagine Mr. Scatter in a white button-down shirt, standing at a table covered in a white linen cloth, and chatting rather formally with well-dressed patrons who know how to tip 20 percent. What do you think he would say? It would go something like this:

  • You know, you have hairy legs, but not as hairy as Mommy’s.
  • Whatever you do, don’t tell her I said that.
  • Nice pants.
  • Going golfing today?
  • Staying in or going out?
  • You’re cuter than a bug’s butt.
  • What would you like to eat, Mr. Stinkbottom McGurk?
  • C’mon assbutt.
  • You know my cheese? Bite it.
  • Repeat after me.
  • When I was a little girl …
  • Foodtime for bonzos!
  • Holy (expletive), how many did you get?
  • Oh great, more crap?
  • This is pretty good considering.
  • Please pass the assbuttery.
  • Maybe it was eight eggs I et.
  • This is the best dinner I’ve had all day.
  • How do you like your dead armadillo?
  • That sucks green rat turds.
  • The bear went over the bear to get new underwear.
  • You never take me there.
  • I hate it when that happens.
  • I’m going to have to framble your bamble.
  • Get your turkeybottoms to bed.
  • Or bite me.




ILLUSTRATION: “The Waiter” by Giuseppe Arcimboldo/Wikimedia Commons