Today at work, Jeremy asked if  r-i-p-o-s-t was a word. After
mulling it over in my head for a bit I replied that I wasn’t sure;
hadn’t heard of that one before. I don’t know if it was the paint fumes
or all of the reeses pieces we had eaten that afternoon, but something
about the word struck me funny. In my mind it had no meaning, it
sounded like a real word but there was nothing behind it; it could be
  I proceeded to experiment:
“My, what a ripost young lady!”
“Guess what? I had a ripost with my lunch today.”
“This paint is dripping in a ripost pattern on my arm.”
“You have a ripost sense of humor!”
(To a slow car) “Since you insist on being so ripost, I’ll have to pass you.”
“Don’t you think those clothes are a little ripost?”
   Okay, maybe I enjoyed myself a little too much, or maybe
I’m too easily amused. Anyhow, mom looked it up in the dictionary when
I got home and found a word pretty close: riposte. It’s a fencing term
defining a quick return thrust after a successful parry, and could also
mean a retort (sort of the same as the fencing thing only with words).
In that case, we had spent much of the afternoon sharpening our
riposting skills.
Maybe I should paint outside where the air is better.

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