And, so be it,

We're Down to the Short Strokes.

Please, if you have children in the room, ear muffs. This may get a tad filthy.

Because this is a piece about the things we say: The colloquialisms, the off-hands, and the normative asides we offer that, well, we probably shouldn't.

In plain corporate jargon, Down to the Short Strokes would suggest the end of a negotiation or maybe the completion of a months-long project. Which, maybe, because, I guess (if one were to infer), the long strokes would be, well, the beginning of a sexual and handsy tête-à-tête. The short strokes then would be, mainly, I think, a series of rapid movements to culminate the finish, as it were.

<scratches 'Short Strokes' off everyday talk track>

But how about Hot to Trot, the mid-20th century slang connecting your eagerness with the anxiety of a tied-up horse? You clearly remember Shalamar's 1982 disco hit, A Night to Remember, with the catchy chorus, Hot to Trot, leaving no doubt about the term's promiscuity - and nearly guaranteeing you a night you won't soon forget.

Then again as professional desk jockeys, we're told to Bang Out a TPS report? Or, better yet, reduce the cost of a contract to obtain a bigger Bang for our Buck, which by my math, at today's high interest rates and inflation...

<writes formula angrily, snaps tip of pencil>

...would leave you with very little of the short strokes. If you know what I mean.

Shall we Open the Kimono, all in the name of transparency?

And nudity. Right, in the name of nudity, that's better.

I'll admit, that was some Low Hanging Fruit which, if one were to guess, could be about the bend in an over-abundant branch of Cortland apples but, no, it's really about someone's junk, so you should think twice about hitting that one.

Hitting That One. Gah. Sorry. <snorts to self>

Speaking of fruit, how about we all go Balls to the Wall? This from the old military adage about throttle-levers with ball shaped grips, pushed forward to capacity. But when you say it, yeah, you're thinking about balls and what in holy hell would make anyone want to smack them against any wall.

I suppose - in our effort to establish gender equality - this is where you might remind me that those of the female persuasion find it difficult to connect with the concept of Balls to the Wall, and so I've surely gone absolutely Tits Up. A term you might hear in your office's break room or around the water cooler, signaling my instability or hypocrisy, but somehow more akin to comparing me to your Amazon virtual webserver that just went offline.

Anyway, if you're talking about me this way, it's clear I've Screwed the Pooch. Which reminds me of the old wive's tale of an awfully lonely farmer who would lead one of his sheep up to the edge of a body of water, where he would befit its front legs with heavy lead boots. The rumor is this was all to keep the sheep still, so the farmer could spend his free time centered directly behind it.

Yeah, it’s just a rumor, alright?

But, it comes with a lesson, one that I’m still unsure of, which may be as simple as everyone should donate to the ASPCA.

And so, as I'm just finishing my morning commute, and sliding my key card into the turnstile to open the elevator doors - so that I may rise to my floor - please allow me one last big finish or, well, a Money Shot:

It’s high time we all stop Pussyfooting around with the inappropriate corporate double entendres. I’d like a recommendation to solve this on my desk stat.

So, why don’t we Touch Base before the end of the day because, as we all know, everyone loves a good Happy Ending.