Neat

I hate the word neat. Not the neat where things are tidy and straightened, but the kind of neat where it means good or interesting. You will never hear me say THAT version of neat, ever. I might say “bad ass” or “totally rad,” but never “neat.”

If I ever say the word neat, you should beat me up immediately. Kick my ass ASAP.

In fact, I have a special set of nun chucks in the event of such a mistake. They’re labeled with the word “neat.” Not the ones on the middle shelf, those are for every day use, but the nun chucks on the top shelf are locked away for such an occasion. You’ll know them because written below it says, “In case of ‘neat,’ break glass.” Smash it. Grab em. Beat me. Especially over the head because I don’t want to remember ever uttering the word. If I happen to slip into any sort of coma, pull the plug STAT. My eulogy will read, “Died suddenly when inexplicably said the word ‘neat.’” My family will understand.

Here’s the kind of guy that would say “neat:”
He’s holding hands with his newly wed wife, and they’re strolling along in the park, smiling brightly because they just finished a duet of “I got you babe” together. And they’re frolicking among the flowers and squirrels and skipping arm and arm.
And the wife looks over at him and says, “Some day when we have kids—.”
“Timmy and Sarah,” he interrupts lovingly.
“Yes, little Timmy and Sarah. We’ll have to bring them to this park.”
And he turns to her and says, “That would be neat.”

I mean, come on, the guy needs to be nun chucked to death. Ninjas should catapult from nearby bushes and trees and other shrubbery, nun chucks flailing. Striking blow after blow, they beat the neat out of him. Even Chuck Norris shows up and kicks him a little. That would be neat.