This is my first post. Hope to learn the ropes as I go. This one’s just to give you a word-game I invented, nice way to while away those minutes that need whiling away. I call the game jaxagrams in honor of their inventor and also because the neologism reminds me of hexagrams, which is a nice word. Anyway, the rules are simple. You take a word or phrase, any word or phrase you wish, and come up with as many complete anagrams of the word or phrase as you can imbed in a reasonably syntactical and connected discourse (you need only be concerned with letters, not punctuation).
You score by squaring the number of letters in the phrase and saying that times the number of complete anagrams you managed. If the source is a phrase, then you square the number of letters in each of the words in the phrase, add that together, and say the result times the number of anagrams. That’s why I beat BRITNEY SPEARS (1955 points) with DUMBLEDORE (2100 points)—see below, I’m going to give examples.
Perhaps there should be some way to rate degree of difficulty—perhaps the number of letters in the word or phrase divided by the number of complete anagrams. It tends to be easier to come up with anagrams as the number of source letters increases. It is of course easier if you make sure a number useful vowels occur in your source. The point is not competition exactly but purity of effect. Scores are just guages. The game itself should be stimulating, so one may not always wish to take the easiest path.
Okay, three examples. The first one, the SENATOR one, was occasioned when I noticed that what is now the final anagram in the game was in fact an anagram of SENATOR. BRITNEY SPEARS was occasioned when a friend told me that someone had noticed that PRESBYTERIANS was a perfect anagram. I borrowed that for my first one, and went on from there.
Not every SENATOR is A STONER, although more than ONE RANTS against drugs and yet uses them himself, and at least one is A STERNO addict.
It isn’t fair to describe a SENATOR as an ANT SORE or a RATNOSE, but many of them are guilty of NOSE TAR, and there is a reason we live beside such a TORN SEA.
Every now and then you may find a SENATOR who works hard, but most are ON A REST—OR A NEST—and are perfectly useless.
In short the best way to handle a SENATOR is with your TASER ON, since he or she will ROT SANE minds, and what these legislators have done to our country is nothing short of TREASON.
Score: 7 squared times 12 = 588
Note: number of letters in root word squared times number of instances of complete anagrams (root word counts only once—it is legal to use the root word again in order to achieve comprehensible syntax, but it only counts the first time)
I have to admit I’m getting a little tired of BRITNEY SPEARS, and it is not because I belong to the PRESBYTERIANS. It is just that I have seen enough headlines declaiming NY SPRITE BARES her tuckus again. As far as I am concerned, she is just another one of those BREASTY PINERS (thank God it’s a SPARSE NY TRIBE). Her search for male love strikes me as just more STARRY PENIS BS, and she’s so spacey she could be an alien. I’m almost sure I heard her say I BE TERRAN SPY. On the whole she’s a loser, the sort of person who, in a poker game, would never catch the ace, but would NAB PISSER TREY.
I do have some sympathy for her, though. I know she has dietary problems. If it is on the menu, she will always BYPASS TERRINE, and she stays hungry by not eating, so don’t invite her if you have barbecue stored up for a party, because she EYES PANTRY RIBS.
She has her good side. There’s her charity work on behalf of Southern midgets, in which she urges us to SPARE TINY REBS. Once, alone on a boat with a bunch of net fishermen, when there was only one can of beer, she let them have it, which explains the headline the next day: SEINERS PRY TAB. In fact, the rumor is that she’s giving up drinking entirely, having said BYE, ERRANT SIPS. Although she is reputed to be deficient in political knowledge, she once referred to the CIA as a BARREN SPY SITE, and when in retaliation they planted a tracking device in her head, like the one they used on the bionic woman, she defeated them by issuing the mental command, RESET BRAIN SPY.
She is no mere sea-side collage artist, one of those BRINEY PASTERS. She refrains from PRISSY E-BANTER, considering the writings of people who engage in it to be BINARY PESTERS. She shows a surprising degree of zoological and botanical knowledge. In England, she was able to tell by its cry when a nobleman’s donkey was tired, saying to the lord, SPENT BRAY, SIRE. In her opinion, one should not make rope or fiber from the pulp of evergreens, because PINEY BAST ERRS. She likes to write—it has often been noted that she TARRIES BY PENS. She is athletic, having placed well in a race conducted by a local greasy spoon, the BEANERY SPRINTS.
In short, although I am indeed tired of her, I must admit that she is NASTIER BY REPS than she is in person.
Score: 7 squared plus 6 squared times 23 = 1955
So, if heterosexuality is mode A and homosexuality is mode B, DUMBLEDORE has been RULED MODE B. Well, he is not guilty of letting his BED MOULDER, and we may be glad that he is no zombi, not one of the MODULE BRED. His sexuality comes as no surprise to those who knew that, as a young man, he had a MODELER BUD, or that he tried acting for a while until he was given a nothing part, and exclaimed in exasperation, ME, DUD ROLE? The RUMOR BLEED is to be expected whenever there is anything the least out of the usual about a character so in the public eye. He has been accused of ennui, but which of us has not arisen too indolent to dress, and gone around in slippers all day BORED, MULED, and depressed?
He is intelligent and sophisticated, not one of the MULER LOBED, and well versed in academic topics such as evolution: He saw right away how the early mammals BODED LEMUR, and the lemur boded the anthropoid. He avoids the lower-class night club in his area, thinking of it as a DUMBER LEDO. He is accomplished in many surprising arenas, having been a hive-master until his charges went into a BEE DOLDRUM, and a careful pilot who always made sure his plane had been DROME LUBED before he took it up. And no one who has heard him read poetry can forget the sound of his RUMBLED ODE.
He has never forsaken his beliefs to petition a BOLDER DEUM. He was obviously a born magician. Even as a child, when he dreamed of magic, his REM DOUBLED. But he does not misuse his magic in selfish ways. He has never appeared as a doppelganger or a noisy scarlet alien monster, for instance, refusing to become either a ME DOUBLER or a LOUD RED BEM. Why, he won’t even perform such a mild trick as commanding an ordinary mushroom to be tastier: DUD, BE MOREL.
And finally, we should all be grateful that unlike some in positions of influence nowadays, he has never LED RUDE MOB or even been a MOB DELUDER.
score: 10 squared times 21 = 2100
That’s it for now. Hope this provides some amusement for some kindred spirits.
Oh no (he cried in delight)! This game strikes too neatly at the nexus of my word geekery + my jagged but deep competitive streak. I will be whiling away some seriously un-whileable time on this later on tonight or tomorrow. Folks! Feel free to post yours here in the comments if you are so inclined!
Oh wow. That’s… amazing! I’ve never been too good at anagrams, but I’ll see what I can do.
Jack,
Your jaxagram about Dumbeldore got me thinking about the Potter books. In the one I’m reading now, The Half-Blood Prince, there’s a brush early on with the Prime Minister, in which you wonder just how much the Ministry of Magic functions as a type of shadow ministry—is it, rather, a PARLIAMENT of its own, complete with wizard and witch-based voting? I am curious to know how magickal votes would be calculated, whether through some bizarre MATERNAL PI or patneral algebra, or scribbled on the shells of tortioises and stuffed into PERT MANILA envelopes.
(As an aside, yes, I finally caved and started reading Harry Potter—which I completely adore, and which feeds this almost PRIME, NATAL need which I didn’t even know I had for sheer adventure; I know this is a bit of an INEPT ALARM, noting the popularity of the books, but this REALM, I PANT, is one of true wonder and delight!).
Part of the reasons I like the Potter series is the spin put on our Muggle world; even the ordinary is imbued with casual marvel. In a book set in our world, you’d get deer or a bird, but in a Potter at the very least you get an IMPALA, TERN, or other exotically-named analogue that is covered in poisinous spines and can argue with you about wands.
Further, the characters are so strong: there are no shadows of people here, PARTIAL MEN who stagger about the page, so bland one wishes to cover them with a MENIAL TARP to hide their insufficiences. No, these characters burn brighter than a lit NAPALM TIRE, searing your RETINAL MAP with quirks and flavor.
That being said, I am still puzzled by the public’s obssession over the books, a NEAT PRIMAL disorder which has recently spilled into the sex lives of the wizards. Look, I don’t care what kind of ANAL PERMIT Albus needs or doesn’t—can’t we get through a day without a tabloid screaming about some LAME TIP RAN amok? It really provides little insight into the books to focus on who is putting who’s MALE PART IN what.
Well, despite the MENTAL RAP I take by staying up so late to read the books, I have to say I’m delighted with them, and can’t wait to finish one tonite! Maybe this time I won’t have the dreams about Fleur Delacour—I know Ginny thinks she’s an ALIEN TRAMP, but really! I’m sure she’s quite nice once you get to know her.
gorjus
p.s. 10 squared is 100, times 17 is only 1700. But, I’m getting there!
So who’s cheating with an anagram generator. C’Mon . . . Fess Up!
I thought you wouldn’t be able to top “ANAL PERMIT,” but then I saw “MALE PART IN.”
I’m certainly glad someone has had the time to read Harry Potter. Me, I was busy all weekend at the Book FESTIVAL. It was disappointing—not nearly as much fun as VIAL FEST was, but then, apothecary conferences are always a scream, and informative, too. I learned how to make a SALVE FIT for a queen, for one thing. No matter how fun talking shop can be, though, one eventually gets tired of hearing about new ways to SIFT, LAVE, and grind. I actually spent very little time attending panels, and spent most of the visit hanging out with friends. Stef and I decided to go see a movie one night—that’s VAIL STEF, not Denver Stef, who skipped the conference to moon after her new boyfriend FATS LEVI, the world’s most famous Jewish pool hustler. We had to go to the late show since I wanted to finish watching Flavor of Love—it was the one where New York TIES FLAV to the bed. (That New York is a fame-hound, yeah? She’s make out with a SEAL IF TV would broadcast it. Did you see her go off on that guy because he gave her the flowers with nothing to put them in? Like that made a difference. She was already going to FLIT, VASE or no vase.) Stef wanted to see LAST FIE V, the fifth entry in the Jack-in-the-Beanstalk slasher-film series, and I grudgingly agreed, even though I didn’t like the first four. It was the usual thing: the giant stalks randy teens, and they only survive IF VESTAL. The scene where he crushes the one kid’s head in a FLAT VISE nearly ruined my appetite. But when we ran into our friend Vincent after the show, we decided to grab a bite to eat anyway. Stef suggested a gourmet restaurant she knew, and I said I thought we should go, AT LEAST IF V thought it sounded good, too. I remembered why I don’t hang out with Vincent anymore, though—he played with his food all through dinner, and I didn’t think the VEAL FIST he made was one bit funny. He’s a bully, too; his main goal in high school was to STIFLE A/V nerds. His philosophy has always been LIVE FAST and have a VAST LIFE —the VITA SELF program, he calls it—but even his hearty epicurean habits have been curbed by years of hearing that FAT’S EVIL. Or maybe he seemed so finicky that night because of the prices—I know my VISA FELT heavy when I pulled it out of my wallet, I think because I was weak with shock from seeing the bill. Despite our differences, I felt bad making him walk home; I would have given him a LIFT, SAVE for the fact that I was going the opposite direction. I would like to have seen his place: he traded his apartment for a houseboat – he LIVES AFT and uses the rest of the ship for an office. But now that his apothecary license has been pulled, I don’t know what he’ll do if he FAILS VET school, too.
Man, that was a lot of writing to only get 1472 points. I think I’ll pick a longer word next time.
A Portrait of CAPTAIN CRUNCH as a Young Man
You want to know who I am obsessed with? Captain Crunch, that’s who. The mythology of Captain Crunch to be specific: what it was that made the man who made the candy-coated cereal we all know and love. Some time ago I began imagining the Captain’s childhood on the farm, at play in the green fields while wearing his TUNIC, RANCH CAP, and bright blue jodhpurs. It was quite a sight! That CHAP CAN RUN,- TIC, tock, tic, tock, all the day long – the young captain would never slow down! I’d imagine him getting so thirsty, and his ever-attentive and loving mother (though some in their small rural community, who remembered her from her youth, and were ever mindful of her youthful though widely-known indiscretions with the fishmonger’s bastard son, consider her to this day nothing more than A CARP-CHIN CUNT) would know too that PARCH CAN CUT IN and wear a small, energetic boy like our Captain out, therefore she always made sure to have lots of PUNCH, AN ARCTIC recipe that she brought to those Midwestern grasslands after her family fled Lapland, and whole-grain snacks so the Captain would grow up strong and able.
The Captain’s father grew walnuts and cactus flowers on his farm. The walnuts flourished while the cactus flowers were often quite unprofitable. From his farmer buddies he often heard various incarnations of the CACTI RANCH PUN, though he never let if get to him. This was partly due to his naturally sweet disposition, and also due to the immense popularity of his nuts, which he sold pre-shelled in ten pound bags. During the cactus flower harvest, when the Captain’s father would sometimes begin to feel the awful weight of Sisyphus on his shoulders, he would reaffirm his endeavors with the mantra “PA CAN CRUNCH IT,” and lose himself in the beauty of his flowers, and pride himself on the life his walnuts provided for his family.
In adolescence the Captain’s martial impulses began to display themselves. At thirteen he was attacked by a feral dog, some hybrid hound with a dry socket and Egyptian tail that all the local boys called Patch. The dog had attacked the young Captain as he was walking home from his weekly pianoforte lesson that he had with the Minister’s wife. Patch had him in a ditch, and was getting the upper hand, trying to secure a death-grasp on the Captain’s throat, but the Captain, showing the panache that would define the meteoric rise, and the unexpected end, of his naval career, managed to flip the hound onto its back. “NATCH! PANIC CUR!” he shouted, “PATCH CAN INCUR my wrath as he has displayed his wrath toward I!” as he drove his fingers, hardened by years of farm-work and months of piano lessons, through the rib plate of the mongrel. Grabbing its warm heart in his fist he yanked it from the shaking carcass and, he believes, managed to show it to the hound before it passed. It was a memory that the Captain would often turn to when in need of an anecdote at one of his many black-tie speaking engagements later in his career.
At sixteen the Captain hitchhiked to Omaha to enlist in the United States Navy. It being war-time, and the Captain’s father having some connections to the Department of Agriculture, the Captain was able to go into officer training school – keeping him from the riffraff of enlisted men, who often only joined the Navy for free passage overseas where they hoped to make a quick buck in the illegal trade of opium. The eyes of such men would get glossy and stare far-away at the dream of all the CUNT, CHINA CRAP and income that would soon be at their disposal.
After his commission, eradicating the illegal drug trade in the US Navy became the driving passion of the Captain. He went in for very dangerous duty, going undercover and trying to bust the drug operations from the inside. In stings as stressful as those the young Captain was performing, he found an outlet in Eastern philosophy, taking very seriously the idea of fostering his vital life force. Once when his cover had been blown an opium dealer named Catnap d’Cart had shot him in the gut. Catnap was teasing him as the Captain bled onto the floor. “I, CATNAP, CRUNCH this mofo under my heel,” as he twisted the dirty heel of his boot into the Captain’s stomach wound while Catnap’s yes-men snickered. “NARC CAN’T CHI-UP now – I’ve got the bitch trapped! Ha! Ha! Ha!” The criminals muttered to one another approvingly. One in particular spoke a vile RUNIC CANT. “CHAP is gonna die,” thought our Captain.
Being so mocked by a man as low as Catnap infuriated the Captain, who closed his eyes and sought guidance, attempting to revitalize his chi, and figure a way out of the awful situation. His eyes opened. It was as if the Archangel Gabriel had touched him and given him an holy strength. He felt beatific, as if he had stumbled from some great masterpiece, like from one of the ones he had seen in Florence one summer on leave. “I CAN”T PUNCH ART!” The Captain told himself, “I CAN PUNCH CART!” he shouted as he grabbed the criminal’s boot and yanked him to the floor, and then eviscerated Catnap with his own pen knife in front of the yes-men, all of whom he subsequently punished and killed over the next 40 years.
The Captain began equating the terms: ANT HICCUP, NARC. If the Captain was going to stay in that line of work, he could be no louder than an ant’s hiccup. That was not his way. His nature was boisterous and ribald. He began his research in the field of food-work.
Initially the Captain thought it would be a CINCH. CARP! TUNA! what’s not to love? But soon he grew board with the early mornings of the fresh seafood trade and began studying the laws of confectionery, and thusly the Captain became legend.
His early efforts were disappointing, as he was unable to divorce his methodology from what he had learned in the seafood trade. He would often try to incorporate his favorite herbs and spices into his morning cereals. A CATNIP CRUNCH was awful in taste, but right in texture, and it turned into the touchstone of his confectionery career. After finally deciding to disregard the catnip in favor of various sugars, the Captain prospered, and became the man we know today. Captain Crunch spelled on the box in letters much larger than PICA, TAN CRUNCH goodness in Laplandic white milk pictured below.
all right, 7 squared + 6 squared * 20 = 1700.
Mmmm, Catnip Crunch…
Captain Crunch is awesome. I would never have thought you could do so much with a phrase with no e in it. There ought to be a degree of difficulty for source phrases with no e. Plus a really entertaining narrative. Probably there should be recognition for the entertainment value of the narrative, but that would require judges.
I am reminded of one of my favorite books, “The Sacred Diary of Adrian Plass Aged 37 3/4.”
Adrian’s son Gerald entertained himself with creating anagrams from the names of notable Christian evangelicals.
I’d like to see if BILLY GRAHAM could beat JAMES DOBSON.
If I am correct, brd’s “innocent” question will draw some responses. Incidentally, after reading some of the great grams created, I am of a mind the scoring should be changed to include what I have been called the difficulty factor, which the ration of anagrams you come up with to words.
But if you say this times the way I’ve been scoring, it reduces to the number of letters in the source times the square of the number of anagrams, a much larger number. I now think this represents the uh, achievement? of a particular gram better, since it places a premium on invention, on the activity of finding anagrams, rather than on the activity of selecting a word.
I will yield to other players in this, but what do you think, those of you unfortunate enough to have succumbed?
As someone whose jaxagram’s score would be much improved by shifting to this method, I have to say I like it, though self-interest may be a factor here. Kidding aside, I do like the idea of making length-of-root-word a factor in the score.
So have you all read John Green’s An
Abundance of Katherines?
http://sparksflyup.com/
in which anagrams figure prominently?
along with mathematical equations for figuring who will be dumped and who will be the dumpee
and the archduke of firdinand
This is very cool and excellent news. Hope all is well with everyone.
BRD—It is hard to know whether to prefer BILLY GRAHAM or JAMES DOBSON. It was the latter who was found in possession of illegal MOB SONS’ JADE. He is also very much anti-science, going so far as to question the value of a conference devoted to particle theory—as the newspaper reports, he JABS MESON DO—and opposes computers as sinful, bragging of himself that at least ONE JAMS DOS BS. He is more lustful than he admits, given to staring, as a female employee claims, at her JEANS, D BOSOM, and other charms. On the other hand I first met the former BY A GRIM HALL, and living as I do among Mormons it does not impress me that he declares the founder of that sect a friend—BRIGHAM ALLY, according to newspaper reports on his views. When he first came down from the Appalachians to preach, his manager was worried about the way he dressed being a little too country for his new listeners—HILL GARB MAY drive potential converts away, the manager cautioned. I don’t know how I feel about that concession, or about the fact that during his military service he invented the kit our soldiers use in the mountains now, the ARMY HILL BAG.
Obviously, the issue will require more thought.
Diplomat—I explained to a friend once that CAPTAIN CRUNCH is so taciturn. You have to take him as you find him, even though he is, as I explained, A CURT CHAP, NINA. I will spare you my CACTI RANCH PUN, though I am tempted, because it is so awful. Almost as awful as the meal I had once in a place where the dietary expectations were quite different—CAPUCHIN ‘N’ CARP, as the menu described it. There was something wrong with the tea, too, a sort of burnt wood flavor, a TANNIC CUP CHAR.
I far prefer the alcoholic beverages I used to enjoy in Alaska, when we all dipped happily from the ARTIC PUNCH CAN. I must admit we also toked a little from time to time, just for fun. There was a government agent who tried to spy on us, but his twitching stomach always gave him away. We recognized the NARC PAUNCH TIC.
We got our stash from the third plot of a bunch of alphabetically labeled gardens, and he threatened it frequently, stating I CAN RUIN PATCH C, but we ignored him.
For one thing, we were caught up in our own pursuits. One poor fellow, obsessed with getting some sun before the winter set in, felt a TAN CRUNCH PANIC. Another, more happily, studied war songs from the past. Did you know that in a certain series of conflicts, one whole chariot was given over to such incantations? Experts refer to that chariot now as the PUNIC CHANT CAR.
For myself, I have had to come to terms with my limits. However much traffic annoys me, I have learned that if I want my doctors to CHART PAIN CUT, I CAN’T PUNCH CARs. Far better to spend my time at the Norse Festival, where they throw items of clothing embroidered with ancient alphabets, and where, if I am lucky, I may CATCH RUNIC CAP.
Well, I am becoming too excited again. Fortunately, I have a number of mantras in alphabetically indexed in various fonts, and all I need to do to calm myself is watch any one of them spool by on my screen. So if you will excuse me, I think I will now RUN PICA CHANT C.
You people have tough minds. I thought for sure this game would destroy you, but still you survive. Very well. Here’s another. Will not explain it, since once you get it, you get it. Hint: Use your ears. No scoring. Just for fun.
And if this doesn’t wreck your brains, I give up.
Apples edgy legions toothy flagons E. U. nigh Ted stasis am error can two eerie pub leak forage in stanza, an Asian underground, India whiz a bullwhip libber tea and just us enthrall.
A lot of people don’t know that the “underground” clause is a fairly recent addition, from the 1950s in fact.
Okay, this is a short one, and I’m not up to calculating the score right now, but I thought I’d take the Billy Graham challenge:
While Anita Hill may grab the spotlight with her revelations of high-level wrongdoing, Billy Graham was never one to lay glib harm even on his enemies. His broad popularity extended from presidents to common folk, from peaceniks to the military – from whom he never failed to receive a big army hail. Though personally socially conservative, he differed from current religious activists in his reluctance to speak out on legislation – readers may recall that he famously refused to either support or condemn the Gay Harm Bill. When his fellow religious leaders criticized this reticence, his sole response was a hearty, “Bah, grim ally!”
Sorry – forgot to capitalize the anagrams…
While Anita HILL MAY GRAB the spotlight with her revelations of high-level wrongdoing, Billy Graham was never one to LAY GLIB HARM even on his enemies. His broad popularity extended from presidents to common folk, from peaceniks to the military – from whom he never failed to receive a BIG ARMY HAIL. Though personally socially conservative, he differed from current religious activists in his reluctance to speak out on legislation – readers may recall that he famously refused to either support or condemn the GAY HARM BILL. When his fellow religious leaders criticized this reticence, his sole response was a hearty, “BAH, GRIM ALLY!”
Did you read the recent Salon article about how the story Bush was peddling about how Billy Graham led him to Christ was all a big fiction cooked up by his campaign? Bush was all like, “I knelt down with Billy Graham right there in MY HALL. I BRAG about this too much, is what Laura says, but it was a pretty memorizable experience.”
You are the gift that keeps on giving. I figure at this rate, you will have produced over 300 anagrams within a year.
Great one! And actually, I do read Salon, every day. Got to get my liberal fix somewhere in this neocon age. I saw the story on George Bush’s “conversion,” so know that you are being factual in spite of the anagram.
Today they have a story on Mailer (natch), which I could not resist commenting on.