Onomatopoeia

When my friend announced she was joining the group “writers embracing onomatopoeia,” I splashed her facebook page with this loquacious rant filled with phonetic freakiness and frolic:

Onomatopoeia? Hmmm. I dated him once. He's a chump who collects choo choo trains. Psssst. I met him on Yahoo. In the beginning, it was all whoo hoo, ooh lah lah, and hip hip hooray. Whoa! In bed, he was all tah-dah, full of ummmph and ba-da bing. He ooozed charm, but I broke up with him because he had a tendency to buzz, hiss, and sizzle when he was pissed. He is a razzly dazzly snake who slithers and slinks in and out of women's lives, particularly those who wear froo froo tutus. Onomatopoeia was a cheap ding a ling with plenty of ka-ching who didnt buy me bling. He left me feelig punked and zinged. He was a blip in my life who turned out to be a mother*Bleep* Ooops, I shouldn't cuss.

Onomatopoeia will zoom through your life and then bang! It's over, kaboom, zilch, kaput, leaving you to feel zonked. I had an ah-hah moment when the lighbulb in my head went ding and I knew it was better to be lah-de-dah about the whole thing. Awww, don't feel bad for me. One less luggage to chug. Onomatopoeia is a hiccup and a sigh in a life otherwise filled with hooplah. However, as sure as dogs bark, cats meow, ducks quack, chickens cluck, doves coo, turkeys gobble, cows moo, sheep bleat, horses neigh, and pigs squeal, I still babble about Onomatopoeia as I listen to the tick tock of the clock and wait for the phone to ring. Should I beep his pager or click "send" to text him? Or knock on his door? How do I hush the pitter patter of my heart?

Shhhh, don't tell anyone, but Onomatopoeia's brother is Mr. Wham, Bam, thank you Ma'am. He toots his own horn, but he's more dud than stud. He huffs and he puffs but he creates more ow than wow in the whoopie wiggle. You'll feel a boink before he falls over with a thud and a thump. Then he zips it and poof, you hear the roar of his car engine, the screech of tires crunch over gravel and the honk of his car horn. Eek! He misses the toilet when he tinkles. It's icky when he farts and burps, so don't forget to gargle after smooching with this troll looks like one of the oompah loompahs from Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. He was a stuttertutterer who mumumbled when he spoke, warbled out garbled melodies, giggling and guffawing after guzzling too much booze.

Please don’t think my chirpy chants mean that I've flown over the cuckoo's nest. Aaaargh. I deserve to be whacked and slapped for chiming in with these cheap chuckles, ha ha, that comprise my amateur jingles. You'll think I'm a jerk who's gone beserk if I don't quit these quirky quips. I've squiggled too many boo boos to jiggle out of this conundrum. My life is otherwise hum drum and ho hum. Boo hoo. I'm done now, so you'll hear not a peep or a squeak out of me.