Jazz Up Your Lesson

Donald and Sarah were both avid cruciverbalists, and every Saturday they argued over the magazine section of the newspaper. Always the dimbox, Ida solved the problem by purchasing two papers.

“That writer is a delusional cockalorum!” exclaimed Lucy, the receptionist at the publishing house. “The way he puffs himself up is simply obnoxious!”
“Yes,” agreed Hetty. “Have pity on me. I have to edit his memoirs, and the man is a shameless autohagiographer.”

“He’s as dense as a pithecanthrope, he really is. I do not think he has ever had a complex thought in that big head of his!”
“Well, I did think him somewhat of a troglodyte when I met him at the dance. Has the man ever heard of manners?”

Morgan was a gaffoon on the evening radio show. It was lucky for him that he was used to being a lychnobite; his previous job was a night watchman for the local bank.

“You never pick up a book, you never read the newspaper, you never go to the movies, you never pay attention to anything around you. Instead, you stare at the wall and loll around the house. You are both a fysigunkus and a dringle!”

Paula could not believe her good fortune. Her humane society hired her as their fewterer, and that was a perfect fit for her, being a theriolater.

Stella was not a philonoist until her thirties, when she decided to go to college. By the time she received her Ph.D., she liked to call herself an opsimath.

The protestors insisted that the manufacturer was polluting the air. They were philogeants – as well as all are, to some extent – but they were also ecodoomsters, and a lot of people just did not believe them.