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It’s easy to make mistakes when speaking English. We do it all the time. What I mean is this: have you ever ordered Barbarian Creme Doughnuts when what you really wanted was Bavarian Creme Doughnuts? See what I mean?

It’s astonishing how one or two measly little letters can make all the difference in something being okay or not okay. Like it’s probably best not to tell your parents that your boyfriend gave you a love litter, if you know what I mean? Double whammy bad!

Would you think that it was excessive bragging if you go on and on over how you hang strands of tonsils all over your Christmas tree?

And would it be demeaning to call your husband your “hobby”?

What about that farmer who just had a wham bam of a successful harvest? You had to feel happy for the guy because he hadn’t had a good crap in years.

If someone asks you why you’re pimping … er, make that limping … should you say that you sprained your uncle?

Good manners dictate that when introducing your parents one should avoid declaring, “This is my mom and my dud,” even though, in all honesty, Dad may be a grouch potato.

And while attending a fancy dress party, avoid like the devil telling the hostess how hippy she looks. But, do remind her of how hot she was the day she got married. Yes, she was one tempting bribe. (Don’t forget her sisters, Surly and Trash, who were her bribemaids.)

Your neighbor may not understand if you compliment him on his weed-free yawn, but, then, he might overlook it if you invite him out for a drink at the corner bra. Or better yet, go to the grill for dried eggs and … shhhh … hushbrown potatoes.

I’m guessing that husbands everywhere who have plowed through an overly stressful day at work will be comforted in hearing they’re having calm chowder for dinner. To add to this unexpected, but welcome tranquility, be sure to guide them to their seat at the dining table. You know the one, the harmless chair.

I’m not sure about this next example, so help me out here. Do you think that, while talking to foreigners, we Americans should really tell outsiders that every four years—without missing a beat—we all get together and have a great big erection? Would they understand? Still, there’s something to be said about the joy of good sox.

This brings us home to Minnesota. Would it be or would it not be wise to blatantly boast that every year, without fail, we Vikings have a season exclusively for hunting peasants? Would outsiders want to move here knowing that … even though we are the home of spiced sham?

And for sure, no matter how much fun it sounds, steer clear of a good old Minnesota slayride. It could smell your demise especially if they offer you blue bury pie! Refuse it!

And then there are the lousewives who we all recognize as true grime fighters. To show your appreciation for all your wife’s hard work, why not put on your best turtle wreck sweater and take your souse out for dinner? Encourage her to wear her new winter goat, then dine in style at that fancy French restaurant—Le Gland.

I’m all for people having hobbies. They’re awesome for relaxation and spiritual growth, but really now, does it make sense to spend your precious free time correcting butterflies?

And then there was that student of mine who declared that he and I are like two shi&s passing in the night. I would have washed his mouth out with dope, except I didn’t have any.

(I used it all up after learning about those poor innocent Minnesota peasants.)

Just about everyone has seen the movie “Gone With the Wind.” But, have you seen the real one, the original uncut version: “Gone With the Window”? It was directed by a crack new team in Hollywood: Anderson and Pella.

I now draw this nonsense to a close. But, in doing so, dear readers, in case I don’t see you this year, let me wish you a Happy Thanksgiving, Merry Christmas and Happy Oyster.