Written and Illustrated by Tom Hagy
Disclaimer: To call this satire is an insult to satire. Be careful. It's a mix of truth, lies, errors, and outright fabrications. Last edited 6.23.2025, 11:51 am.
Pars I
Julius Dramaticus Anyone who takes a romance language ends up wondering why the months of September through December do not correspond with Latin for the numbers nine, ten, eleven and twelve. If you have not wondered about this, yours is a richer existence than mine. Decem is Latin for ten, for example. Diez in Spanish. Dix in French. Dieci in Italian. Kymmenen in Finnish. Not a romance language but always funnish. I had left out Portuguese and Romanian, because a) I didn’t know they were in the same category and b) I’m lazy, but they are Dez and Zece, respectively. Italian for lazy is pigro, which is pronounced as hurtful as it looks.👉 Side Note: They are called Romance languages, not because they make us swoon, not because they make our hearts pitter-patter, not because they thrust us into lifelong commitments whilst intoxicated, but because they derive from Latin, as in what Romans spoke. You know. Romans' Language. More specifically, Vulgar Latin, rather than Literary or Formal Latin. Vulgar Latin — and this says all you need to know about those old Romans (and us, for that matter) — was what “common people” spoke. This was to distinguish “street Latin” from the lofty utterances of the pontificating (bloviating, more like it) elite — their indexing fingers pointed toward Mount Olympus — in togas and sandals with wreaths for hats, a practice abandoned when people started hanging wreaths for Christmas, the holiday celebrating the birth of the guy they crucified.
It took Italian men centuries to come up with something better than head-leaves, but when they did it was fantastico! The elegant Fedora, the sophisticated Bowler, and the flat caps worn by the rest of us. And the Irish. [Editor’s Note: This paragraph is what the Romans called “X pounds of cacas in a I-pound saccus.” Regretfully, and with apologies, there are more to come.]
Continuing. July and August were named by some egg-shell-ego dudes who liked to name things after themselves. Imagine the nerve. We’re talking about Julius and Augustus Caesar, of course.
In 44 BC, Julius was proclaimed "dictator for life" (dictator perpetuo). He wanted to leave his mark by literally leaving it on anything he could. Look no further than the Caesar Salad and Caesar’s Palace Hotel and Casino. There are stories of the cesarean section which I would like to debunk right now. One story is that it was named for the procedure that brought Julius into the world. Another is that it came from the Latin word caesus for “to cut.” That would mean Julius came into and exited the world with the help of knives. Nonsense!
The correct spelling is Caesarean Section and refers to the block of seats reserved for Caesar’s family at the Colosseum. They were Caesan Ticketholders. Everyone knows that, and that the four seasons – spring, summer, winter, and fall – were originally the Four Caesans, which also was the name of a popular quartet that served as the Colosseum house band, a gig that ended with the murder of Julius. The band reconstituted under the name “The Rolling Stones.” Their popularity at what would become known as Easter celebrations was coincidental, and a story for another time.
👉 Side Note: The verb caesus. That’s the infinitive for “to cut.” Latin verbs are single words, not like their English counterparts which require the word “to,” as in “to drone on endlessly for the sake of Jupiter when will he stop?!” If we were to say “to endlessly drone on” we were shamed before an audience of our peers. Fortunately, Roman girls were not allowed in our classrooms. How I just made myself an ancient Roman is probably due to a fever. So, and now you know, that is why we used to be told not to split infinitives, or “to improperly split” them. Because IF we were writing in Latin we couldn’t, but we WERE NOT writing in Latin so we could. I’m talking to you, Mrs. Rossiter!
Continuing. Moving down the family tree, to describe someone venerable we might call them august. You have probably guessed by now that that came from Augustus Caesar, the great nephew of Julius. (Speaking of Julius’ family, he named his son Caesarion. Thanks, Dad.)
Julienne Fries, while not named after Julius C, I say, based on no evidence, that the French chef credited with inventing thinly sliced potatoes was named after the Roman Emperor. Americans, which until recently eschewed anything that smacked of emperors and kings and dictators and anything that sounded elitist, like any French word, just called them French Fries. During a previous nationalistic fever they were renamed Freedom Fries. Today many Americans love Dick Taters. If we’re looking for foods named after us, you can look at least to the Americano, which is espresso diluted with hot water. American soldiers in Italy didn’t love espresso, so Italian cafes diluted it for the Yanks and named it for their foreign customers. Next time you’re having French Fries and an Americano please think of me.
Pars II
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| Bowler Petasum |
There was a time when we followed a lunar calendar which comprised only 10 months. (Apparently there was also a time when people in Philadelphia did not eat their French fries smothered in Cheese Whiz, a cultural landmark that deserves its own day.) In fact, the word "month" shares its root with "moon.” The word "month" comes from the Proto-Germanic word menoth, which also means moon.
👉 Side Note: In writing this I learned, and don’t hold me to it, that “Proto-Germanic” or proto anything means language scientists made up when they couldn’t find a word’s origin. Can you believe that? They would conjure or assume an earlier form of certain language, or lingua in Latin. It must have existed, they figure, otherwise where would the word have come from? I like this way of thinking. I mean, why do all that research to prove something existed. It had to exist; therefore it did; let’s order lunch. I think there is a link between Marjorie Taylor Green and a rock, a Proto-MTG. Next question? Now that’s just pigro. Or maybe just languid, from the Latin languidus, for that droopy feeling that hits any office worker mid-afternoon. “The Roman army languished pathetically. After all that killing and dismemberment there was not even a decent cafe in sight to give them a fresh jolt.”
Month is mensis in Latin. Moon is lunae in Latin, which is the root of lunacy, for intermittent moon-driven fits of insanity or, in my experience, common folks having fun. I, for one, will not dignify or perpetuate the insulting connection between a menstrual cycle and temperament. I’ve been married twice and I don’t wish to make it thrice, though menstrual does share its root with month. I will, however, attest to the existence of a man’s time of the month, which is any day he is interrupted from sitting on his ass with no plans for the weekend, let alone for the future. We put the men in menstrual. It’s a fortuitous fit.
👉 Side Note: In drafting this …. whatever “this” is … I used a lot of italics, which is Latin for Italian, and slanted to resemble handwriting, which no one knew how to do anyway. And soon no one will again. The Romans wanted to distinguish between Italian and Latin, the letters of which stood upright, like a soldier, ready to take away your human rights on a moment’s notice. ("Foreshadow" is a transitive verb meaning to represent, indicate, or typify beforehand.)
Continuing. “Crazy as a loon” is linked to the bird which has a maniacal call. I suppose it is, but I’ve heard worse. I nominate the Kookaburra. They have a bizarre call and “kook” is another fortuitous fit. Others prefer to believe the roots of lunatic are in lunaticus, Latin for moonstruck, myself included. Take that how you likticus.
When the Julian Calendar (not the Julienne calendar, which was made up of MMM (3,000) thinly sliced months, nor the Julienne colander, a pan with hundreds of poke-holes used for draining — draining, you know, like reading this, whatever "this" is) hit the scene in 45 BC, introduced by old “Jay” Caesar ( a nickname his bocce buddies called him for his love of cannabis and his refusal to cross streets in designated pedestrian pathways) the switch was made to solar. I blame this, based on nothing, for starting some cultures straying from the metric system, which makes infinitely more sense than what we use in America, the so-called Imperial system developed by another empire that is no more. As if math wasn’t hard enough. I mean, why not base our system of weights and measures on 7.6 or 3.14?
Why switch from lunar to solar? If you’re still awake you might have asked this. It was better to match the calendar with the seasons. How else would anyone know when snow tires would go on sale? It would be a moving target, and Romans preferred their targets to be stationary, especially when stabbing them.
To come up with 12 months, they added January and February, replacing March (named for Mars, the god of war) and April (named for Aubrey Plaza, the goddess of droll) as the first two months of the year. January was named after the Roman god of replacement windows. February came from februarius mensis, Latin for “month of purification.” It shares a root with the word “fume.” The Old English name for February meant “mud month,” which didn’t test well. “It’s not romantic,” one person commented, as they emptied their toilet into the street.
Julius took a stab at some new names (a juvenile verb selection if ever there was one). “I know!” he said. “I will name one after me!” With that the formerly fifth month of Quintilis (quintus is Latin for fifth) became July. He insisted the month have 31 days, because he didn’t want his month to be outdone by other months, including those named for gods. Julius was insecurus. Can you imagine such a powerful man being so petty?
Then Augustus came along and renamed the sassy month of Sextilis after himself. Sextus is Latin for sixth. Sex is sexus. Textus is Latin for “send us a message when you decide where to meet for happy hour.”
Pars III
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Infantilis Dictator in Butler: "You stand there. I'll stand here. Wait. OK. I'm ready!" |
Today’s American Caesar, who does the world a favor by not wearing togas and sandals, the very least he could do, loves to put his name on things he owns and some things he does not. He loves to rename things to prove he can. He plans elaborate and expensive trips, gatherings, and parades but — and here is his genius — he lets everyone else pay the bills. This is why he was removed from numerous happy hour text message groups.
👉 Side Note: Stupidos. Fatuus. Clepta. Latin words to describe him. Just for starters. Cleptapatra!
Shortly after his second coronation, Emperor Donald John Trump, handed down an Executive Edict which he felt certain would remedy the woes of a downtrodden nation on the verge of collapse which somehow was also the envy of the world and credited with propping up the global economy. From that day forward, the Gulf of Mexico would be the Gulf of America, which cartoonists quickly also labeled the space between the emperor’s ears. Yes, his ears. Including the miraculous one that withstood a high velocity round from a sniper’s rifle, will be on display — part of his head not layered with tanning spray — at the multi-million-dollar military parade on his birthday. Maybe his congressional fluffers will name that day after him. It’s better than naming a star after him, but no one reading this would be surprised if he renamed the planets, except for Uranus, which we will tell him is Latin for “the emperor’s mouth.” For my part, I am going to pay $5 to have a random lizard’s sphincter named after him. That’s what I call a bargain.
I write all of this to get ahead of what I anticipate will be another executive order, this one inspired by the Caesars, by which Trump will rename a month after his own corpulent (pinguis) self. Following the pattern set by the Roman leaders, we need to use his first name.
👉 Side Note: There was a Caesar named Todd. He wasn’t around for long. Just 24 hours. But Romans recalled the expense of changing the names of months on calendars across the empire, many still in stone, so they said, “How about this. The current day will be called Todd Day! The day will retain its original name, but, to differentiate between previous days and following days, it will be called Todd Day.” Delighted, Todd Caesar made it law. It would soon become "todday" then “today” and one of the least known facts about our efforts to name everything. It also was the only thing Todd Caesar accomplished in his brief reign, most of which was spent in a wine bath being fed grapes, berries, and cocktail nuts by prostitutes. His last words were, “Wait, are those peanuts? Et tu, nuces?” Todd had allergies, though his successor, his five-year-old son, Toddson, mistook them for assassins and ordered everyone in Rome crucified. He withdrew the edict after a nap.
Now begins the fun part. The Big Beautiful Naming. It’s interactive. I invite you to participate. Where do we go from “Donald”? Do we follow the templates handed us? Donius, Donember, Donuary? Do we make it descriptive? Disgustus, Defundus, Demoralizus? Catchupicus? Flaccidus?
Also interactive will be coming up with celebratory traditions. My contribution will be to his grave. Rather than a statue or monument, I envision a football field sized dance floor with his face on it above his tomb. Replicas will be placed across the land.
Or maybe we should call this new one-day month dedicated to the memory of Mango Mussolini — “Whew!” Happy Whew!
On a positive note, the Julian Calendar went live in 45 BC. Julius was killed the following year.
Finis
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