There is a creeping tendency, beloved readers, in the modern dialect of which the untrained, or unsearching, or accustomed and lazy tongue might be unaware.
Roll that most resplendent of human organs, the mouth, over some of its otherwise mute prey (words). Send the tongue trippingly (that’s Nabokov, an atheist [eds double check]) down some treats like gallows, and gallstones, and galley. Notice something odd. Something soft.
Something wrong.
Perhaps it’s that most tender of prefixes’ proximity to the early batting order of glaucoma? No, it’s something bigger and more troubling that perturbs the purring, Rolls Royce mind (cf. McEwen) of this interlocutor. It is something much, much bigger.
The French had the laudable prescience to gender their words. One knows one sounds, indeed looks, a little more like a lady when ordering une palmiere. To be an agnostique is a noncommittal deference to the less sensible gender (one notes no such feminine hesitance in un libre-penseur (free-thinker!)!).
English is a beautiful, heady, spineless tongue. Examine again that innocuous list of words: we are smuggling gender through the prefixed (or front) door.
Dear readers, we forget the power with which we imbue our words. In the same way that an erudite monologue by a late, great, whiskey swilling orator might curb the ruder appetites of the day, so too might a thousand instances of these closet feminazistic utterances subtly regress our brains to the anklebiting progressivism that sees language stifled, expression impaired, and prolixic, dextrous acts of verbal defiance become thought crime (cf. Hitchens, cfing. Orwell).
I will take up arms and reclaim MANlipoli. I will fight for the noble, proudly advancing memory of MANileo. We must MANvinize in the face of this flaccid, effete threat. Better to die on one’s manly feet, than live in the gallows. For that is the morbid gal-ternative should we not watch what we say.
You can keep gallery, though. Galleries are for pansies.
