Aha. My nemesis. I have returned. The God of Onions is laid bare in all his phallacies. Or something. My wife has just returned from a night out to accuse me of being drunk in charge of a word processor. As if! As if the word processor does not have a mind, and even a vocabulary of its own.
Speaking of which. I’m fairly sure Harper Collins don’t publish novels with the word ‘fuckbeans’ in them, so I may need to consult my thesaurus. Or Roger Mellie. One of the two.
it’s a hard knock life. Ok. It isn’t at all. It’s a life made sweeter by alluding to it having something to do with onions. Which as my nearest and dearest will testify, I detest. Unless cut into small enough pieces. And therein lies a lesson for all of us.
A bientot. 1,100 words tonight. I blame the Prosecco for everything. Except the onions. The cheese was probably responsible for that.
that, more than anything you’ve ever written that I’ve ever seen, conjures a very strong and somewhat peculiar image.
is there a voting page on the OED website where we can submit neologisms? i’d vote for fuckbeans.
perhaps, even, we can railroad the word into general usage by scrawling it across every blank space on the intarwebs in the same way that James Daly did in 1791. Except that was Dublin and Quiz, not Intarwebs and Fuckbeans.
What does it mean, actually?
Sadly, in the harsh proofreading light of day. Or in this case, tucked up in bed, forcing Fliss to read something before we can both fall asleep, it transpires that ‘fuckbeans’ is self-indulgent tosh.
Especially as the sentence originally ran — “Fuckbeans. A shitload of fuckbeans. A thousand splending fuckbeans.”
Which is probably N too many fuckbeans, where N is any number greater than zero.
Rest easy OED.