Instalment Six

There was a place where words were born. A learned place of polished oak hallways, of classrooms and workshops. Populated by craftsmen, artists, the brightest thinkers and sharpest minds. Toiling to create new words, beautiful words, words to express, to think, to declare, words to share.

Requests would appear; someone somewhere had a thought. An idea, a feeling or belief and a word was needed to make it real, to verbalize it, to make it tangible and stop it fleeting. The artisans would toil and tinker, crafting a set of well-formed letters, ready to roll off the tongue. A new word.

This was long ago when people cared to think new things. The work all but dried up, the thinkers and craftspeople passed on, leaving only support staff, who through laziness and neglect became slow and ignorant.

Need a new word for searching? Just make a proper noun a verb. Name a celebrity couple? Mash together two words and make an ugly new one. Portmanteau it is called, not that they cared to know. Political scandal? Stick ‘gate’ on it!

But the day they abbreviated ROFLMAO they could see the error of their ways. They knew the madness must stop.