I do think I may have discussed this word in the distant past, but hey-ho. No brain left to speak of (what with heat, decriptude, and the next post).
So, scribs:
n. — those disgusting things in orange juice. syn. — fish, pieces
Called “pulp” by advertisers, as if that is any more attractive.
Loathed by all normal children. Or by all children, since the ones who like this stuff are aliens. I’m embarrassed to say that I just called them “pieces.” So unimaginative, although anyone who hears the venom with which I pronounce it (yes, I still do) will realize that “pieces” is a very special, evil word indeed. The other two words are much more inventive, and “scribs” is genius. In fact, uttered without loathing, it’s quite useful; for instance, those little things that are left over when you tear pages out of a spiral-bound notebook. Those are scribs. There is no other word.
I’m going to have to qualify “all normal children.” I have grown up somewhat and find that I like fresh orange juice. But at age 8 or so, I naturally thought that other children were like me. If so, the “juice” they drank (or avoided drinking) was the reconstituted frozen (i.e., probably cooked first) stuff. Not only reconstituted, but store-brand reconstituted. And made by my mother—a cook so supernaturally bad that she could botch OJ. Of course I still have venom.
Hey—I interrupted scribbling…uh, oh—I really didn’t mean that, but the minute it was set down, there was no escaping the connection. Are scribs what I write? Just scribs? Am I going to have to change the name of my embryo blog to “Scribs”? So deflating.
Anyway, I interrupted to set up a contact page on this site, because I’m willing to bet other people have names for these repellent bits of flotsam. And it fascinates me.