As a true aficionado of Stella Gibbons’ Cold Comfort Farm (1932), I couldn't resist captioning this Normaphoto after the wondrous character, Aunt Ada Doom: '‘Twas a burning noonday, sixty-nine years ago. And me no bigger than a titty-wren. And I saw something na(sty in the woodshed)."
Much as I would like to do a doodle of Aunt Ada's titty-wren, midnight has passed and my powers submit to curfew. So instead, I'll submit for your consideration another word: Pyroclastic. Pyroclastic is an adjective applied to volcanic gasses, poisonous smoke, lava and heinous chunks sucked off the roof of Perdition to spew and spread destruction, death and fear over the surface of Earth. Lately, this word has gained use as a gerund, pyroclasting political tantrums in a capitol once dedicated to government by discussion --to sanity.
And, before bed, while I'm at it, I call upon political parties to accord others courtesy. Cats of all persuasions have intense common interests. Y'think humans might keep up?