Words, Words, Words: Development

“As a founding member of the AAAAAA, the American Association Against Acronym Abuse Anonymous, I ask your forgiveness for the epigraph above. I could not resist. The AAAAAA, which operates out of my basement on a limited budget, discourages most if not all new acronyms and abbreviations for the simple reason: English has enough. When Clemson’s Emeritus College (EC) attempted to merge with the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute (OLLI), I pointed out that the result might eventually be ECOLLI. That stank, and the motion failed.”—Skip Eisiminger

Skip the B.S.

By Dr. Skip Eisiminger (aka The Wordspinner)

I. “In every skinny phrase, there’s an acronym slithering out.”—The Wordspinner

CLEMSON South Carolina—(Hubris)—April 2025—E. M. Forster’s critical assessment of tomes coincides with my own: readers praise them because they’ve managed to read them. I used to tell my classes that James Joyce’s Ulysses, one tome I did manage to complete, is a great novel, but I never assigned it because I’d be forced to read it again. As a former professor of English and Humanities, I should be ashamed because Moby Dick (with 635 pages in the original) or War and Peace (with 580 main characters and about 20 more in minor roles) are among the lacunae on my curriculum vitae. I’m sure I’d have a better opinion of both novels if I’d read more than the Classics Illustrated Comic Book synopses.

Another tome I finished was Samuel Richardson’s Clarissa; or, The History of a Young Lady: Comprehending the Most Important Concerns of Private Life. And Particularly Shewing, the Distresses that May Attend the Misconduct Both of Parents and Children, In Relation to Marriage (1748). Like my mother’s cod liver oil, I forced myself to read this tome because I thought it might make me a better person, or so I’d been told. After the “medicine” had been swallowed, the professor told our class, “If you enjoyed Clarissa, I’m sure you’ll like Pamela; or Virtue Rewarded.” A few days later, I happened to see Richardson’s epistolary novel lying “remaindered” on a library table, and I thought, “My virtue needs rewarding, and I have ten minutes before class, I’ll give it a try.” Thumbing to something that looked interesting, I read, “Dear mother, For the last letter was to my Father, in answer to his letter, and so I will now write to you; tho’ I have nothing to say.” I copied that purple epistle in my journal and put the novel back on the table, thinking I could either pursue my career goals and raise a family or read the rest of Pamela.

Those who shaped my critical-length values range from the Roman poet Horace, “When I struggle to be terse, I end by being obscure,” to the American humorist Mark Twain, “A successful book is not made of what’s in it, but what’s left out.” What I took from my mentors is that there’s a fine line between saying too much and saying too little. To illustrate this “line,” what follows are two true stories. In the first, Maria draws the line just right:

Maria was a fit Hispanic woman, about 45, I guessed, 5’ 8” and perhaps 130 pounds. “Uh,” she shyly said the first time she came to the Clemson Vet Writing Group, “I’m Maria, and I’m retired from the Air Force.”

“And what did you do in the service?” the leader asked.

“I refueled aircraft.”

I’m not sure what the others thought, but from her modest stature and neutral surface, I assumed Maria was a former airman who’d spent her time driving a gas truck around various stateside airbases. I had an uncle who did something similar in the 1950s, befouling all promotions so he wouldn’t be transferred from the Ft. Benning-Columbus, Georgia area where he ran a lucrative home-contracting business the two years he was on active duty in the Air Force.

After a 15-minute free write on “Tattoos: Love ‘em or Leave ‘em,” three of us in the writing group read aloud what we’d written; Maria did not. In fact, she declared, “I’ll never share.” The leader assured her that not sharing was fine; the only requirement for this group was writing. Writing, he said, had been instrumental in his own PTSD recovery.

Once a week, Maria and the rest of us wrote together, but true to her word, she never shared. She did, however, become more vocal and animated, and her often profane comments were comically insightful.

After about six months, she gave in to the group’s pleadings and shared a brief story about a plane that “went DPS” on a snowy runway.

“What’s DPS?” someone asked.

“It’s some re-fuck-ulus military jargon hiding behind an abbreviation,” Maria said. “DPS stands for ‘depart the prepared surface.’”

“What sort of plane was involved,” the leader wondered, “and where was this snow-covered runway?”

“It was in Kyrgyzstan after a mission over Iraq in 2008,” she said. “The plane was a KC-135 Stratotanker—and I was the pilot.”

Though it had taken some six months for this story to cross the finish line, Maria’s economy given the personal constraints was flawless.

In the second story, the confusion caused by the economy is forgiven thanks to the humor it generated.

Several years ago, the esteemed editor of Hubris, the online magazine you are reading, asked me if I’d nominate her for an honorary doctorate at the University of South Carolina, a school we both had degrees from. I agreed, but several weeks, perhaps it was months, passed before I received an email alluding to her “fud cause.” I replied:

“e, I give up. What exactly is your ‘fud cause’—a file update; fear, uncertainty, and doubt; or a female urinary device? Skip”

“Skip, Fud=honorary PhD, pronounced ‘fud’—[It was then that I remembered.] e”

“e, this phish pfan should have nown. Skip”

“Phor sure. e”

If this epistolary exchange had been any longer, it might have pixilated in cyberspace. Instead, it’s printed before your eyes, and I no longer need to worry that I might lose this polished gem.

II. “Shoppers with an FOMO should BOLO for a BOGO sale because YOLO. In other words, shoppers with a fear of missing out should be on the lookout for a buy-one-get-one-free sale because you only live once.”—The Wordspinner

As a founding member of the AAAAAA, the American Association Against Acronym Abuse Anonymous, I ask your forgiveness for the epigraph above. I could not resist. The AAAAAA, which operates out of my basement on a limited budget, discourages most if not all new acronyms and abbreviations for the simple reason: English has enough. When Clemson’s Emeritus College (EC) attempted to merge with the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute (OLLI), I pointed out that the result might eventually be ECOLLI. That stank, and the motion failed. The AAAAAA’s by-laws’ humor clause, however, allows for the occasional acronym if it’s funny and exceptional. In one of his routines, the stand-up comic Nate Bargatze tells of his boyhood dream of playing in the NBA, the National Basketball Association. Sadly, however, he failed to make his high-school basketball team, but he did make the cut for his church-league team in the NBA—the Nashville Basketball Association. I give that acronym a high pass.

The comic dichotomies of the acronym/abbreviation are endless but here are a few of my favorites:

• TLC may mean “tender loving care” or “total lack of concern.”
• AWOL may mean “absent without leave” or “acting without leaders.”
• ATM may mean “automatic teller machine” or “anytime money.”
• BMW may mean “Bavarian Motor Works” or “Bubba’s makin’ wheels” [in Greer, SC].
• PETA may mean “People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals” or “People Eating Tasty Animals.”
• Ford may mean “first on race day” or “found on road dead.”
• MREs may mean “meals ready to eat” or “meals rejected by Ethiopians.”
• And BYOB may mean “bring your own Bible” or “bring your own booze.” You can imagine the embarrassment when a freshman at Furman University, once zipper-Bible Baptist, went to a party swinging a six-pack of beer.

Humor, in this reader’s opinion, excuses many if not most writing and speaking errors.

III. “Every slaughtered syllable is a good deed.”—James Dickey

Though one could trace the roots of “flash fiction” to Aesop’s fables and Zen koans, I first heard the term in the 1980s when I was preparing for a sophomore literature class on Hemingway’s short fiction. My source claimed that Hemingway had won a bet by producing a small masterpiece on a restaurant napkin: “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.” Trouble is, there’s no evidence the bet was ever made or that Hemingway wrote the words that supposedly won it. Nevertheless, the six words, like the best haiku, are evocative, and regardless of who wrote them, they inspired a flood of short-short fiction. I had no interest in writing six-word, stand-alone sentences, but I did start collecting what I thought were the best examples of other flash genres. Here’s my collection thus far:

• Flash numeral: 0
• Flash math formula: A = a². formula for the area of a square
• Flash algorithm: sin (30∘) =1/2 ⁡ ( 30 ∘ ) = ½. Archimedes’ algorithm for approximating Pi. See me in my chambers if you want an explanation.
• Flash nonfiction: “E=mc²,” Albert Einstein. Visit Hiroshima if you need a gloss of its power.
• Flash war communiqué: “Sighted sub, sank same.” Donald F. Mason
• Flash ultimatum reply: “Nuts!” Gen. Anthony McAuliffe
• Flash telegram: “Stop!” Anon. One can only imagine the meaning given the absence of context.
• Flash abbreviation: “X” for [Jesus] Christ the anointed
• Flash film review: “I’m a Camera”: “No Leica.” Goodman Ace
• Flash poem: “Potholes”: A void. Edmund Conti
• Flash suicide note: “My work is done. Why wait?” George Eastman, founder of Kodak
• Flash koan: “Wherever you go, there you are.” Anon.
• Flash oratory: “The Gettysburg Address,” At 272 words, Abraham Lincoln’s speech is still the best a human has spoken in English. The esteemed orator who preceded Lincoln spoke for two hours, and no one today recalls a word of what he said.
• Flash Oscar speech: “Thank you.” Patty Duke. Greer Garson had once prattled on for five and a half minutes prompting the Academy to set time limits.
• Flash sermon: “Be kind.” Anon.
• Flash recipe: “Moose stew: Shoot one moose. Boil.” Anon.
• Flash tweet: “tl; dr.” [Too long; didn’t read.] Anon.
• Flash paraphrase: New Testament: “He was born. He lived. He died. He’s coming back. He’s not going to be happy.” Anon.
• Flash monologue: “‘Shut up,’ [Daddy] explained.” Ring Lardner
• Flash ballet instructions: “1. Don’t fall. 2. Get up.” Alexander Pushkin
• Flash homework assignment: write a short story with these elements: religion, royalty, sex, mystery. Sample “A+” story: “My God,” said the queen. “I’m pregnant. I wonder who did it.” Anon.
• Flash corporate slogan: “Think.” IBM
• Flash SAT Essay: “You ask if tradition and progress ever conflict. Yes, tradition and progress sometimes conflict.” Anon. Despite its commendable concision, it was graded “F.”
• Flash crime novel: “Bang!” Anon. Some context would help.
• Flash material admonition: “You can’t have everything. Where would you put it?” Steven Wright
• Flash resignation: “I quit.” Anon.
• Flash marriage acceptance speech: “You had me at ‘Hello.’” Renée Zellweger in Jerry Maguire
• Flash ad: “For sale, parachute, never used.” Anon.
• Flash bench judgment: Replying to a delinquent taxpayer who said, “As God is my judge, I do not owe this tax,” Judge Howard Dawson said, “He isn’t. I am. You do.”
• Flash cinema: “Fred Ott’s Sneeze.” Filmed and copyrighted in 1894 by William Dickson, it lasts five seconds.
• Flash architectural dogma: “Less is more.” Mies van der Rohe
• Flash rebuttal: “Less is a bore.” Robert Venturi
• Flash life hack: “Own the stone.” Sisyphus, or as the Marines say, “Embrace the suck.”
• Flash financial advice: “Enough is plenty.” Felicity Hayes-McCoy
• Flash revolutionary rhetoric: “Get in good trouble.” John Lewis
• Flash aging advice: Give more, expect less. Paraphrase Jesus of Nazareth
• Flash will: “All to wife.” Karl Tausch scrawled this on the wall beside his death bed. Compare this will to Frederica Cook’s which ran 1,066 pages bound in four volumes.
• Flash obit: “De Sade, Donatien Alphonse. French soldier, pervert.” Anon.
• Flash last words: “They couldn’t hit an elephant at this distance.” Gen. John Sedgwick
• Flash conclusion: “Etc.” Richard Armour
• Flash epitaph: “I should have been cremated.” Anon.

If you think of any others, please write to me in the comments section below. Thanks.

IV. “Some film trailers are better than the films they condense.”—The Wordspinner

Too often, acronyms and abbreviations invite ridicule or retaliation. MENSA, an organization for the top 2 percent of smart people, invited the formation of the less gifted organization: DENSA. (Think of DENSA as that pattern on the underside of a Trump-family carpet.) “Mothers Against Drunk Drivers,” or MADD, invited the formation of DAMM, “Drunks Against Mad Mothers.” But the worst of these invitational acronyms must be CINCUS, pronounced “sink us.” Before Pearl Harbor, CINCUS was the title of the Commander in Chief, US [Fleet]. When the last admiral to hold that title was canned, Admiral Ernest J. King took the six letters he’d inherited, added three letters his predecessor had excluded, and created COMINCHUS, Commander in Chief, US [Fleet]. And thus began the US Navy’s efforts to sink the Japanese fleet.

As a speaker of English, I’ve long been proud of the fact that my native tongue has the largest vocabulary of any major language, but it’s also the most economical. I discovered this economy when browsing in the Hexaglot Bible: an edition which places six Bible passages on opposite pages in six languages: for the Old Testament, these include: Hebrew, Greek, Latin, English, German, and French; for the New Testament, they include: Greek, Syriac, Latin, English, German and French.

But the economy of speech and written word, as Horace warned us 21 centuries ago, is easily misinterpreted and, as it turns out, rude. When someone I read about mailed his grandson a generous check for his birthday, the textspeak reply was “ty” (thank you). After this grandfather deciphered the text, he replied, “yw” (you’re welcome). No word on whether the rude youth felt the burn.

In November of 2023, my wife and I drove to Anderson, South Carolina to finish some business we had at the Regions Bank. Having just collected the mail, I had the latest New Yorker with me when she picked me up at school. On the 30-minute drive, we mostly discussed the cartoons I didn’t understand. Quickly tiring of that, Ingrid wondered, “Who’s that on the cover?”

“Let’s see—it’s a handsome, 30-something, African-American couple in the rain, standing under a bridge.”

“What’s the title?”

After consulting the index, I said, “Dumbo.”

“Dumbo? Isn’t that racist?” Ingrid said.

“It can’t be; this is the New Yorker, not the minutes of the White Citizens’ Council.”

In the Anderson bank, as one banker went to get a printout, I asked the Black woman who’d been helping us what she made of “Dumbo” by Kadir Nelson, an African-American artist.

“Frankly, I find that insulting,” she said. “The only Dumbo I know is Disney’s flying elephant.”

I promised both bankers I’d investigate and email them my findings. It seems that “DUMBO” is an acronym for Gotham residents living “down under Manhattan Bridge overpass.” The title, however, was not all caps, just “Dumbo” as in “dumbass.”

As Horace said, when we strive to be brief, we often are obscure and sometimes rude.

V. “To be brief is almost a condition of being inspired.”—George Santayana

I’ll close with my best effort to tell a good story without gilding the lily or skimping on the water. It’s too long to be a flash anecdote, so I’ll just call it an anecdote. My hope is that it will act as an antidote for the “poisons” I’ve mentioned above.

“Heirs to the Mt. Olive pickle fortune, Dean Morris Cox and his wife, Irene, had lived for 40 years or more on a boggy acre with a stream meandering through their front yard. Both were long-time wildflower enthusiasts living as they were on the banks of a small Lake Hartwell tributary. So, when Lake Jocassee, in the mountains to the north, began rising toward ‘full pond,’ and a friend whose property was scheduled to be inundated invited the dean to transplant a few Oconee Bells, Morris leapt at the opportunity to assist an endangered species.

After several hours of digging and hauling the plants to the trunk of his Rolls-Royce, he headed home in muddy clothes and rubber boots. On the way back to Clemson, he stopped in a country grocery to buy a soft drink and a pack of peanuts. As he waited to pay, the customer in front of him dropped a dime. Gentleman that he was, Morris picked it up and offered it to its rightful owner. After giving his deanship a quick assessment, the customer said, ‘Keep it, old man—you look like you need it more than I do.’

So, Morris quietly pocketed the coin, paid for his purchases, and returned to his car. As he was preparing to leave, the charitable customer approached the Silver Shadow, tapped urgently on the driver’s-side window, and said, ‘I want my dime back.’”

To order copies of Skip Eisiminger’s Letters to the Grandchildren (Clemson University Digital Press), click on the book cover below or contact: Center for Electronic and Digital Publishing, Strode Tower, Box 340522, Clemson SC 29634-0522. For Wordspinner: Mind-Boggling Games for Word Lovers, click on the book cover.