Hello! My name is Theo, and I’m here today with what is apparently a frequently requested topic: 1920s American slang! I’m a huge language nerd, and the 1920s has some absolutely fabulous slang, so let’s get into this!
Terms meaning something is good:
Bee’s knees (This was part of a greater trend of animal anatomy slang in the 20s, which I would be happy to do another post on if there’s demand for it).
Cat’s meow (also “cat’s pajamas” and “cat’s whiskers”)
Hip to the jive (“That’s hip to the jive” means “that’s cool”)
Hot dawg! (An exclamation on its own, spelled that way only in flapper circles until the 40s)
Nerts! (An exclamation on its own, “splendid!”)
Terms for women:
Baby vamp (any pretty woman, sexual)
Bearcat (a fiery woman)
Blue serge (A sweet woman)
Bug-eyed Betty (an ugly young woman)
Canceled stamp (A wallflower)
Chassis (Specifically, a woman’s body, ie “Look at the chassis on Jill!”)
Choice bit of calico (A pretty young woman)
Chunk of lead (An ugly young woman)
Doll (An attractive woman)
Dumb Dora (An unintelligent person, often a woman, usually a flapper)
Face stretcher (An old woman trying to appear younger)
Flapper (A modern woman of the time, definitely do some more research into them if their culture is something you’re interested in)
Jane (Any woman)
Moll (A gangster’s girlfriend)
Skirt (any pretty woman)
Smarty (A pretty flapper)
Snake charmer (A female bootlegger)
Tomato (A woman)
Vamp (Similar to modern term “man eater”)
Terms for men:
Airedale (any ugly man)
Baby grand (A heavyset man)
Big six (any strong man, from car ads from the period relating to engine power)
Big timer (any charismatic man, romantic connotation)
Bimbo (Yep, this used to be a term for men!) (Tough guy)
Cake-eater (A ladies’ man)
Charlie (A man with a moustache)
Dewdropper (A man with no job who sleeps during the day, insulting)
Drugstore cowboy (A well-dressed man who hangs out waiting to pick up women, one of my favorite bits of slang)
Father Time (A man over 30)
Fella (you can use it like “dude” or “man”!)
Goof (An idiot, also boyfriend)
Hard-boiled (A tough guy, ie, “He’s so hard-boiled!”)
Joe Brooks (A well-dressed man)
Old boy (A term of address between men, also “old man” and “old fruit”)
Palooka (A social outsider, also, a mediocre boxer)
Weasel (A boy who steals a girlfriend from another boy)
Terms relating to alcohol:
Bent (drunk, ie, “He’s completely bent on whiskey”)
Blotto (excessively drunk)
Bootleg (illegal alcohol)
Bootlegger (a transporter of illegal alcohol)
Coffin varnish (Poorly made bootleg, often toxic)
Dead soldier (Empty beer bottle)
Edge (Light buzz)
Embalmer (Another term for a bootlegger)
Giggle water (alcohol)
Gin mill (A cheap speakeasy)
Hair of the dog (A shot)
Half seas over (Drunk)
Half under (Drunk)
“I have to see a man about a dog” (A common euphemism for needing to leave, usually with the specific connotation that one was leaving to buy whiskey)
Juice joint (A speakeasy)
Toot (A drinking binge/bender)
Panther sweat (whiskey)
Quilt (A drink that warms the drinker)
Rummy (think “drunk bum”)
Snake charmer (A female bootlegger)
Speakeasy (An illegal bar)
Terms relating to money:
Four-flusher (someone who gives off the air of wealth while using other people’s money)
Heavy sugar (a lot of money)
Orchid (An expensive item)
Simolean (Yep, this was real and was the inspiration for the name of the currency in the Sims universe)
Ways to tell someone to go away:
Get a wiggle on (much less aggressive than other terms in this section)
Go chase yourself
Mind your own beeswax (“This is none of your business”)
Mind your potatoes (“None of your business”)
Terms for nonsense:
Applesauce (Empty flattery)
Bull (Also: police; exaggerated stories)
Line (As in “I’m being fed a line”)
Terms entering into use during the 1920s we still use today!:
“Absolutely” (drawn out, affirmative)
Baby (Sweetheart. At this time, also showed that something was of high value and should be respected (these were generally separate uses)).
Cig (Usually “ciggy” at this time period)
Crush (Also, “carry a torch”)
Dame (NOTE: This term arose in the late 20s and did not enter common use until the 30s. If your story is set in 1924, maybe don’t.)
Goof (An idiot)
Positively (Same use as “absolutely”, also combined into “posilutely”)
Teenager (NOTE: Like “dame,” this term didn’t get common until the 30s, the term before that was “young adult”)
This fic was inspired by the ever talented Leticia ( unicorn-feelings), who managed to create such a wonderful edit of Everlark that it actually brought me to tears. It looks so realistic, like something that actually came from the movie, so naturally, I had to write a fic to go along with it.
Essentially, I’m denying that the last part of Mockingjay Part 1 even happened lol, but I think that’s better off. Katniss and Peeta deserve the world, deserve to be happy.
So, without further adoooo~
Those two simple words are enough to send a bolt of energy, of anxiety, of relief, surging through my body.
I was petrified that the rescue mission was going to fail, and end up with fatal consequences. The moment we lost contact with the rebels, those brave souls who risked their lives for my request, I thought it was all over.
Not only did I believe I had lost Gale, but Peeta as well.
The person who understands me in all of this. The person I would die to protect. The person I cannot live without.
But somehow, fate have it, they managed to return, safe and sound.
It takes me a moment to process what Haymitch just told me, before I’m barreling out the door, running blindly as I careen for the piece of my life that has been missing for far too long.
I think I can hear Finnick behind me, but I’m too wrapped around my own motives to pay him much notice. We arrive into the main ward of the District Thirteen hospital together, and immediately my eyes are scanning around.
He’s not here, or at least I don’t think so. But others certainly are.
I spy an emaciated feminine body on a gurney, and I find myself doing a double take.
“Johanna?” I weakly croak out.
She rips the breathing tube out of her nose, shoving medical attendants away, before giving me a sneer smile.
I stare at her agape, unable to say anything more. I’m absolutely horrified at her appearance; she has changed so much.
If the Capitol was able to inflict that much damage on her, someone who wasn’t directly associated with me, then what they did to Peeta would have to be…
My throat clenches painfully, and I shake my head curtly to snap myself out of my thoughts.
No, he’s here. I have to remind myself that. He’s here in District Thirteen, alive.
It doesn’t matter if he’s completely bruised, battered, beaten and bloody; he’s Peeta. He’s my Peeta. And I will never let him from my sight again.
I jolt away from Johanna just in time to see Finnick crashing into Annie, their embrace tight and filled with tears. Is that how my reunion with Peeta will be?
Various nurses point me in the right direction, and I stumble towards the small hospital room in a daze. Giddiness has begun to flow through me, overtaking any fears I was once feeling.
Peeta. Peeta. Peeta.
His name sounds in my mind over and over again, causing my heart to race.
I can picture his shinning blue eyes, staring into mine with so much affection and gentleness laced behind them. I can hear the sound of his voice, the soft, sweet tone that never fails to soothe me. I can feel the strength of his arms, the solidity and warmth of his embrace.
It doesn’t even sink in that I’m crying, tears dripping periodically down my cheeks as my gait speeds up to a run.
Okay okay okay - IT’S FINALLY THE WEEKEND SO I’M FREE TO SPEND TIME TO MAKE THIS POST–!
I’ve reached this milestone for about a week or so now, but unfortunately school and studies, plus upcoming finals (next week) has been harassing me so I rarely had the chance to do anything on her besides answer quick asks and answer a thread or two DDDD:
THIS, I CANNOT RUSH, FOR I NEED TO MAKE THIS SPECIAL AND MAKE MY MENTIONS AND THANKS TO THOSE I LOVE ON HERE S P E C I A L. NO RUSHING, NO BS-ING, I MEAN EVERYTHING I SAY HERE ON THIS POST SINCERELY AND PASSIONATELY (I’m grossly affectionate lolololol) SO WITHOUT FURTHER ADO–LET’S GO!
January 21st, 2014 - 11 Days and 12 Hours until Matsuoka Rin’s Birthday!
Title: Dead Even Author: novembersmith Rating: NC-17 Characters/Pairing: Haru/Rin Summary: ”So it is that ‘dead even’ means that two people or things aren’t just close in a competition. In fact, there is no way to separate them.” AKA, a competition in stamina. AKA AKA, shameless porn.
Notes: Contains rimming, just as an FYI! Thanks to formerlydf for looking this over for me, plaemon for being so patient with me, and matsuoka-lin for going above and beyond the call of modly duty to help out with edits! ♥
Thanks to LoveAllTheYaoi from deviantart for allowing me to use her fourth prompt, which is:
“Yeah I’m an alcoholic, but you’re a fucking stoner!” Delirious shouted as he threw the bong across the room.
Delirious felt sick to his stomach as he forced himself to examine the sticky glass contraption.
He had found it in a closet as he put away laundry, wrapped in a garbage bag and tucked delicately in a corner out of plain view of Vanoss’s barely used bedroom.
There was so much buildup within the smoke vessel - there was no way that this was a brand new bong. The bowl and ashcatcher were absolutely caked in smoky black tar. Sickly greenish-brown tinged water sloshed gently in the water container, pushing flakes of half burnt marijuana up against its sides.
Vanoss had to have been smoking this for ages. Jonathan had no idea how long, but he certainly didn’t start yesterday.
Setting the bong down on the coffee table, he ran to their bathroom, bile rising up his throat. Coughing, he threw up his breakfast into the sink. He continued to gag emptily for several seconds, until the pain tears clogged his throat for his effort.
Wiping his mouth with a towel, he switched the tap on to rinse the mess away. He stared at his hollow reflection. His grey eyes were gaunt, and his face had gone pale. But he still looked the same - lean as ever in his faded blue shirt.
Was there something wrong with him? Did Evan find something wrong with him? Why would he-
He needed a drink. He needed a fucking drink right now to wash out his mind or Lord help him he was going to scream bloody murder.
He stumbled out of their bathroom, and made a beeline straight for their kitchen, passing the monstrous thing in the living room without a second glance. He yanked open the fridge and grabbed first canister of alcohol he could get his hands on.
He popped the tab off the can of beer, and tilting his head back, he gingerly poured it down his throat. It burned as it flushed down the taste of vomit and gastric acid.
He snatched up another - this time, it was a half a fifth of leftover Smirnoff - and downed that too. Letting the plastic container fall onto the counter with a clatter, he reached in and grabbed as much as he could. Several more bottles of beer, a new bottle of Bombay Sapphire, and two crystal decanters of a red wine and what looked like scotch - he didn’t care.
He dumped his spoils on the coffee table. He ignored the stupid bong. He pulled out his keys as he settled himself comfortably on the sofa.
To shit with his kicking of his habit nonsense. Screw that shit. He was going to paint the town goddamn crimson.
He was halfway through the gin and the wine, bottles strewn haphazardly on the wooden table, when he heard the jingle of keys and the soft swish of a jacket being removed - Vanoss had come back home after his run.
Evan trotted happily up the several flights of stairs, whistling to himself. He always enjoyed his morning runs - they cleared his mind and got him psyched for the day.
Unlocking the door to their apartment, he shrugged off his jacket and prepared to kick off his shoes. Running a hand through his mussed hair, he stepped into the living room.
He was met with an ordinary sight: Delirious laid on the couch, his head barely peeking out from the armrest.
But beyond him, standing proudly on the table, was a twisted dirty glass structure - it was his hidden bong.
His heart dropped down to the pit of his stomach.
How did he…
“Delirious?” he called out cautiously.
“What in the name of hell is this, Vanoss?” Jonathan spoke softly as he rose unsteadily from his position on the sofa. He gestured limply at the smoke vessel. “What is this?” his voice grew frustrated.
Evan only shut his eyes in reply.
Fuck! How did he find it?
“Tell me, god damn it!”
“Exactly what you think it is.” he spoke coolly, opening his dark brown eyes as he looked into stormy grey ones. “It’s a bong.”
“And why do you have a bong, Vanoss?” the man in the blue asked, incensed. “Why is there a fucking bong in our apartment?"
"So I can smoke weed with it.” he answered uncomfortably, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“Why would you need to do this, Evan? What the hell is wrong with you?” the drunk man gave him a bleary glare, his mouth gnashing.
Something inside of Vanoss snapped.
Something wrong with him? Seriously? While Delirious drank himself to death while he was forced to sit by and watch? Couldn’t he see himself?
“So what? You’re a goddamn alcoholic!” Evan snarled angrily, his hands clenched tightly at his sides.
“Yeah, I’m an alcoholic, but you’re a fucking stoner!” Delirious shouted as he threw the bong across the room. It shattered upon impact, spilling old bong water on the carpet.
“What do you think you’re doing, Delirious? That’s my shit!” he leapt over the couch to collar him by the shirt. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, clown?” Evan hissed in a deadly tone as he shoved him roughly against the wall, his brown eyes black with fury.
“Fuck you, Vanoss!” the man in the blue shirt spat as he attempted to wrench the tanned arm from his neck. “You’re a piece of shit!” Delirious threw a clumsy punch at his stomach.
“What, does that make you a saint then?” the dark haired man sneered as he easily blocked the fist. “Does being drunk all the time give you a free pass to scream at me, Jonathan?” he whispered hoarsely in his ear. “Does it?”
“Not like being fucking high all the time lets you do the same to me, you bastard!” he yelled as he struggled helplessly against Evan’s vise-like hold. “Let me go, you prick!”
“Calling me names doesn’t excuse the fact that right now you’re piss drunk and I’m sober, Delirious.” Vanoss laughed humourlessly as he drew closer to his captive. “I can smell it on your breath. So what’s your excuse, huh?”
“You.” he growled, his temper flaring back up. “Have you paid any goddamn attention to me lately? I just started trying to wean myself off this week because of you but you fucking had to ruin it with having fucking pot!”
Evan couldn’t speak. His grip on his best friend’s shirt loosened.
He…he was actually trying to quit drinking?
His brown eyes bored into tortured grey ones that didn’t look his way. He felt Delirious shake once under his touch.
He watched as the man slumped against the wall, his expression twisting into one of pained torment, his thin mouth wavering with effort.
He couldn’t stand to watch him. Call him a coward, but there was no way he could watch Delirious collapse without breaking himself. He turned away and strode shakily to the kitchen to count the bottles. He always hated numbers, but this time he needed to know the truth.
He had to know the truth.
He refused to think about his own vice - his own weaknesses were nothing. They were easy to overcome, in his mind. He had only been smoking for a couple months, anyway, to keep his mind sane with Jonathan being drunk off his ass all the time. He couldn’t even remember the last time his lover was completely sober or not hungover.
He mechanically wiped his hands on the hem of his red sweater, knelt down by the boxes by the fridge, and began to count their contents. A waft of sticky dried booze floated unpleasantly up his nose.
There was no chance in hell he was going to tell Delirious his drinking finally caused him to crack.
Delirious was hurt. He couldn’t believe Vanoss had betrayed him like this. All the thinly-veiled encouragements, all the insults, all of the begging, all of the nagging - it all meant fucking nothing. Everything was a fucking lie.
He had only tried to quit because of him. Lord knows he couldn’t do it himself. He couldn’t have pulled himself out of the grave he was digging for himself without Vanoss by his side.
He slumped weakly against the wall, barely aware of the slackening grip on his shirt.
Vanoss smoked weed, and a lot of it. Why? Why would he backstab him like this? Why would he have an addiction too? Evan was supposed to be clean. He was cleaning himself up for Evan.
He wanted to cry.
They were of the same. Vanoss wasn’t special. He wasn’t what he had built up his beloved to be; he was mortal, like everyone else.
He wasn’t a beacon of light at the end of the tunnel, he wasn’t an angel, he wasn’t pure, he wasn’t anything.
He was just fucking human.
Just like him.
He finally crumpled to the floor, and pressed his face against his torn jeans.