“Whoremonger” is a wonderful noun, a brutal onomatopoeia impossible to enunciate softly. It neatly comes with its own exclamation mark. We should use it more often. Of course, there are those who caution such a locution shouldn’t be uttered in genteel company.
“Ut. Tut. Tut. Tut. Tut,” I say, gently thumping the air 4 percent of a cubit before their sternum. “It’s in — the Bible.”
It’s actually in the Bible several times. I’m not a biblical scholar, but my wild guess is that Christianity is pretty much against the swarthy pastime of Democrats and pornographers.
If I had a pastor, I’d attend services more often if he’d only pepper his sermons more with the job description:
“WHOREMONGER!!!!” my pretend pastor screams, pointing a quivering and gnarled index finger toward someone in the back row.
I know I’d turn around and scan the pews to see if Bill Clinton were the guest attendee in question.
Not that I can boast from any firsthand or other first-body part experience, but I have at least an intellectual understanding of the word, “whore.” I had to look up “monger.” It’s Old English in origin, from “mangian” meaning, “to traffic or peddle.” Joining the two words creates the ultimate conversation-stopping experience.
You’re at a cocktail party. You’re in polite debate with a professor who makes six figures lecturing on The History Of The Bongo Drum. You’re discussing Hillary Clinton. He’d like to see her run in 2020. You’d like to see how long it would take to dissolve her in a vat of Russian salad dressing. He makes his point. You nod, as if in mythical hands-across-the-aisle understanding. Then, vous accusez:
“Whoremonger!”
Your opponent stumbles and stammers, clutches his heart, then collapses into a fetal ball.
Why wasn’t I taught that in high school debate at Hart?
It’s the universal argument winner, especially if you’re a woman. You’re feuding with your husband over something banal, like taking Super Bowl Sunday to visit your infirmed and doughy aunt. The Love Of Your Life points out that not only is HIS team in the championship, but, bonus, he has three brothers and an uncle starting. And, if they win, a 7-year-old boy in New England gets that kidney transplant. Instead of providing a reasonable argument, the woman adopts her default-position morally superior posture, whispers “whoremonger!” followed by, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
We men. Despite all the tripe you read, we’re the more introspective species. We’ll spend months taking personal inventory, examining dark places that don’t even exist. We guys. We’re victims of our own Stockholm Syndrome. We’ll confess to crimes we don’t commit.
“Honey! You’re right! I’m a whoremonger and I didn’t even realize it! Que Dieu me pardonne!!”
Not that I’d wish job hunting on my worst enemy. But, at the very least, looking for gainful Sit Your Butt Down At That Desk For 10 Hours And Don’t You Move Little Mister employment would allow me to insert the occupation of Whoremonger into my résumé:
2014-PRESENT: City of Santa Clarita; Asst. Whoremonger.
Worked with Human Resources, oversaw staff of 27; Coordinated scheduling; offered encouragement and on-the-job training; negotiated salaries; designed platforms, marketing strategies and custom uplifting brassieres; mongered a lot.”
HOBBIES/OUTSIDE INTERESTS — Taking classes on whoremongering, running charity 5Ks at Lake Whoremonger; Knitting lettermen sweaters proudly displaying “Whoremonger High”on back.
Whoremonger is a great band name, although not so much for the big swing orchestra of the 1940s. The Greatest Generation would just stand listlessly on the dance floor, not wanting to boogie or woogie to Tommy Dorsey & The Whoremongers. But, for a big-hair band from the 1980s?
Whoremonger.
Great name.
Great name for a rodeo bronco or a thoroughbred.
“I’ll bet $50 on Whoremonger in the second, to place…”
When I win the lottery, I will acquire a butler. The doughty servant’s name shall be: “Babcock Whoremonger!”
“Babbsy, you indolent slouch,” I summon. “Fetch me tea, three Democrat congresswomen with low self-esteem and a washcloth. And, some saltines. Chop-chop. That’s a good dogsbody, Whoremonger…”
“Very good, sir,” says Whoremonger, bowing as he retreats.
“Whoremonger!?” I call him back.
“Sir?”
“Did I detect — a tone — in your voice?” I ask.
“Uh, no sir! No! I offered no tone whatsoever,” explains Whoremonger.
“A — surly — tone?”
“No! Please sir! I meant no harm!” begs Whoremonger.
As his rightful punishment, Whoremonger must sing The Song. He straightens, tugging on the front of his formal black tails. He clears his throat:
“My master’s the King of England. He likes to sing and dance. And if I don’t believe him, he’ll punch me in the pants.”
“As usual,” I yawn. “Not an ounce of sincerity in your lyrics, Whoremonger. Leave me, you bony odalisque.”
I think of all those thousands of potential illegal aliens from Central America hiking toward the U.S. of A. They’d be terribly disappointed and at such a language loss. “Whoremonger!” carries a punch in English. Translated to Spanish, their word is “pionero.”
Pionero.
Really?
That’s your “A” game? That’s all you got?
Calling someone a diminutive menu item from a fried chicken outlet?
John Boston is not a whoremonger. He’s a local writer.
