Around 2008, a few of us were knocking back some drinks one afternoon at Yancy’s Saloon in the inner sunset, discussing the impending doom, inflation v. deflation, etc. Hyacinth (approximately pronounced “ya-SINTH”) the Montrealer showed up with his nubile and simmering cousin, just a kid really, whom I asked whether she thought the world would end in fire or ice, to which she said in a heavy French pout, “the world will end ‘orny.”
Hyacinth turned to me and said, “Boom. You are blown away, man. B-o-o-o-m!”