That man or woman or person who shares all your most intimate sexual moments with you on a daily or long-term basis, he or she being of either sex, or, occasionally the same sex, or, sometimes, being a mix of sexes, or occasionally someone of no sex at all (but that does not often happen). In normal sexual relationships, mostly being someone of either one sex or another who, with his or her partner of choice, enjoy carnal knowledge of each other on a long-term basis, as according to the sexual preference of either partner.
Come, my dear, be my sexual partner, either for a day or two or maybe even the rest of our lives, or maybe even come skipping up the aisle with me and, with a bit of luck, and in the meantime, we’ll also have some fun between the sheets whenever we want to, weather permitting.
A tightly packed mass of hair regurgitated by a cat or other feline, or a dog, or an other hairy mammal, that comes from it licking itself all day long because it likes to do it, preferably while people are watching. In humans this behaviour has a scientific name, but it still does not make it any less disgusting.
A middle aged balding man with astigmatism and a sinister squint walks into a doctor’s surgery one day and says to the receptionist, “Well Doc. I puked up this massive hairball from my stomach this morning, straight after breakfast, I guess that this means you think I should stop eating my hair them?” Needless to say the receptionist was none too pleased at hearing this news about a man producing a furball for breakfast, not least because she had just came back from lunch.
A yearly get together promoted by a load of ancient Spartans to peruse the equality of their youth, by allowing them to parade their prowess before them through the formalization of pederastic pedagogy via the medium of dancing; or, alternatively, a kinky Greek word not actually meaning the morbid fear of gyms, but it is quite close to being so, and which originally probably came about by knowing too much about what happens to young men in them.
Let’s go to the Gymnopaedia, you and I, it’s a good day to heckle those old men ogling the young men there, and teach them a lesson they’ll never forget, and with luck we’ll be able to ogle a few young women as well while we’re at it, just for good measure.
The ultimate state of excitement in a person’s life before a more relaxing interlude takes place; or, a very important event not to be missed by not paying enough attention to it at the time, as, in the rush someone might inadvertently miss the moment of his own death by mistake (or, what is inherent in the process of dying, the precise moment of his death), and so would find himself in a right state because he would not quite know what to do with himself next, he being dead, as he having missed paying enough attention at the time to the second most important event in his life, which would clearly be a right kettle of fish.
Die inadvertently, my word! that would be the last thing I’d do, as dying is a thing that must be done right, even if one has not particularly managed to live well.
A garlic-eating folk singer of ancient origins; as a group they generally being ones flourishing principally in the Middle Ages in the South of France writing catchy tunes and jingles in a complex metric form for court musicians.
I am not a not a man with a pointy stick wanting to poke unwilling participants in the gladiatorial games with it (and thus who do not like it up them), I am a troubadour, that is, one whom sings soppy love songs to courtly people with nothing much better to do than to listen to those who sing sad songs about unrequited love in drafty old castles by the sea.
A pretentious non-entity; somebody who does not completely lord it over all he surveys at the workplace or at a social gathering but would obviously like to, he being a sort of “straw-boss” of officious ceremonies, or, if not exactly so, something quite close to being so.
Why, if I did not know any better, my man, I’d call you an officiousnado, but the only reason I’d rather not is that I don’t particularly like spouting compound words or otherwise inventing neologisms while I’m incensed enough to make them up over such an insignificant, pushy little fellow as you obviously are.
Intellectual copyright theft of the worst kind, or passing off; a ripe forgery in the literary sphere; taking something one took the time and trouble to write out again in a slightly different form and claiming it as one’s own inimitable work as coming from the sweat of one’s brow, and so then, in some vital respect, it must be one’s own work, if only because if one took the time and trouble to do it again in a slightly different way then it must be one’s own intellectual copyright material to do with as one wishes, and so legally, in consequence, it is therefore still intellectual theft from its original owner, and decidedly so also, but then becomes serious only if it is found out.
It was not that the author disagreed with what was written one jot, as he has written it himself, it was that someone else had taken it and published it in his own name, which was plagiarism of the worst kind, and especially so since its original author had not been paid a penny for it either.