On Yay

Earlier in the day, I found myself troubleshooting a computer in the Costume shop. From there, a recipient of a present of garden tools couldn't withhold her glee. I worked, then... "Yay!"

I attended a silly kid's movie last night featuring a big race. At its conclusion (the race, not the movie) with our hero triumphant, the kids cried out, "Yay."

Saturday night, I stopped at Mr. ArnevicusGay's house to witness the debacle that is the card drinking game, "Asshole." (In Syracuse, we never made much of drinking games. Maybe we flattered them a bit, tried 'em out for a minute or two, but we promptly pushed these frivolous endeavors aside for further study of liquor's ability to justify drinking more liquor.) Instead, on every set of four in a row, or on an assigned card, we had a social. A group of OeJay's peers cried out, "Yay."

Yay. I suppose I can't immediate fault a word that the Urban Dictionary defines as a nickname for cocaine.

I can, however, plot the demise of those who use this "yay" a smidgen too much. I like excitement as much as the next guy, but I've no desire to express my desire to explore the Continental Congress member in me. Maybe I'm just more inclined to "Yes," or "Oh yeah," or "Ay Papi!"

Yay-Sayers, be warned. IF I can write a shoddy, poorly thought-out blog about you, imagine what I could do with a tire iron.