Yob: I did it! I created a word. At least I thought I had. Until I discovered some slippery, sly English peops (I can say that because some of my best friends are English) had beat me to it. However, when my son won at scrabble using “Yob”– which according to Merriam-Webster is b-o-y spelled backward (really?), and meaning: a young man who is rowdy, rude, noisy, and aggressive (I live with Yobs and didn’t even know it), and rhymes with Gob (Ha! Didn’t see that one coming did ya’) – I was forced to face the disappointment or lobby M-W for inclusion.
You see, for some time, Yob has been a Homonym of sorts in my household. Allow me to illustrate.
“Get a Yob”: In this context, Yob is most effective in answer to the frequently asked question from minors in household: “Mom, can I have…(fill in blank with overpriced electronic of choice)”. Used in this form, Yob means: If you want particular time sucking device, you will have to work, earn money, save, spend it all on desired item and realize you are flat broke…again.
Positive attributes of usage being, minors are proud purchasers of mind emptying electronics and my Botox emergency fund remains intact…oh, and they like, learned some kind of valuable life lesson or something.
“Not my Yob”: The usage of the word in this context is a clear indication that a “pass the buck” scenario from one adult to another is about to take place (from myself to hubs if you must know). At this crucial moment, husband is forced to revisit the possibility he failed to examine the fine print in the marriage contract explaining his Yob description included: all things gross (puke clean up), all things that make you simultaneously sweaty & dirty (summer yard work), and all things smelly ( taking out all trash).
Sadly for him, the misplacement or loss of said document has relegated husband to taking wife’s word on the subject.
“Do your Yob”: The bellow of the word in this context is music to the ears of one occupant of the household…my dog. At moment of utterance, the word ringing in dog’s ears causes her thought process to go something like this…The Mom is cooking…dropping food on the floor…all over the floor…like always…I must away…to the kitchen…no time to waste…to clean the floor…I love my Yob,…no, I REALLY, REALLY love my Yob. (Which in this context means – That thing one does when not sleeping, eating or urinating on the tires of cars in the driveway…preferably you are a dog if you are using the word in this context).
Disclaimer: For those of you getting the ole undies in a bundle over the use of this questionably politically correct pronunciation, please keep one thing in mind. As a person from San Hose, who has endured a lifetime of “You really do know the way to San Hose, don’t you!” and “Are you from San HosA or San HosB?”– I think I have paid my dues and deserve to take a few liberties. No Yoke.
Only a few words were maimed in the writing of this blog.