It's also a good way to keep me from talking. When I was a little kid, my Mom told me I had "logorrhea." When I asked her what that meant, she said (in English), "Diarrhea of the mouth."
Suburban Chicago, August 1963. A chair from my play table is on the patio again.
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Yes but now, thanks to the wonders of advanced medical science research, we know that logorrhea in childhood typically develops into blogorrhea in adulthood. Pony manure under the Xmas tree means there must also be a pony somewhere.
I have a form of blogorrhea, but not the contagious kind. That type derives from hippo manure.
I have some 1960s Hippo photos; I'll dig around.
Once little girls learn to talk, a whole new dimension opens up for them.
Boys, not as much.
That's odd because I knew many chatty boys.
Most of the boys I knew yelled, rather than talked.
That's probably true of many boys.
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