Friday Morning Latin Lesson, Volume XXIX

I was about to do something stupid. I was about to ask you people if you've ever messed up real bad. Of course you haven't; you're all as perfect as Jessica Biel's bosom. Much like myself, you have a spotless record.

Well...okay, so maybe I do have a couple of question marks on my record. Going to grad school. That might have been a bit of a big, glaring red question mark. And, apparently, I've been accused of not remembering how to write the shorthand form of a carbonate.

Oh, and there was that time that I was learning to drive. What? I haven't told you that one? Well, pull up a steaming cup of coffee, kids, cause we're hopping in the Way Back Machine for a paragraph or four.

I was fifteen (remember, you get your license at 16 here in the States) and I was practicing with my mother's pride and joy: the minivan. As if I wasn't emasculated enough by being forced to drive a minivan, I wasn't allowed to take the minivan out onto the streets of my town (you know, the sleepy, one-horse type that I grew up in). Top that off with the fact that no one ever told me to use just one foot for both the brake and the gas. I thought "Hey, there's two pedals...I have two feet." Logical conclusion, right? I thought so, too.

So, as I'm pulling the minivan into the garage, I'm trying to see over the hood. Before me is my father and my bicycle and my father's workbench. As my father was guiding me into the garage, I was slowly working the pedals with both feet. Not having the finer touch skills developed yet for the proper pedal work, the whole thing sounded like "VROOM! URCH!!! VROOM! URCH!!! VROOM!"--you get the idea. Finally, I've got about one foot to go before the van is parked and my "lesson" for the day is over. My father (luckily) steps out of the way, and I go to let the van roll forward and then I'll step on the brake, park it, and we're done.

Except...I hit the gas. And my bike. And my father's workbench. The damage wasn't too bad: I had dented the front fender a bit from one of my bike's pedals and there were two deep gouges in the hood of the van from my bike's handlebars. All-in-all, not bad. My mother, who had been sitting on the porch criticizing my performance rather than helping guide me, came running out into the yard, saw the bike wrapped around the front of her baby, and offered up a whining cry reminiscent of Jabba's Pitmaster when Luke killed the Rancor in Return of the Jedi.

While the damage was not bad (it cost my dad $50 to get it all fixed), my mother saw it in a whole different light. What I had done to her minivan was apparently the moral equivalent of lining up a pack of preschoolers and putting a bullet in the base of their skulls, and then cutting out and eating their livers, all while their mothers looked on helpless. Eighteen years later, and I still haven't heard the end of the time I cranked the van into the back of the garage.

So, while all of you might still be the bodily incarnations of perfection, here's a little phrase that you can offer those around you when they mess the bed:

Qualis reges futuiverunt, talis futuivisti!
Pronounced: "Quah-leese ray-gaise foo-too-ee-ware-oont, tah-leese foo-too-ee-weese-tea!"

Translation in the hovertext.
Sure, there have been lots of other people that have made mistakes, but Hugh Grant's arrest still boggles my mind. Why would you opt for some plump street walker when you have Elizabeth Hurley sitting in a short nightie at home waiting for you with candles lit, Barry White playing softly in the background, and a bucket of strawberries and whipped cream? At least, in my mind, that's how she'd be waiting...