I lanced that boil with precision. “Lance” is a funny word, though, I guess. You might just as well say “slice,” and you might as well (if you are in something of an allegorical mood) say “slit.” I lanced that boil with precision.
It was not so much precision, on second thought, as it was “zeal” or perhaps “gusto.” As my froth-flecked lips quivered in anticipation of the lancing, I waved the carving knife in a circle about my head and hollered “what spake I?” What the hell you sayin' I said?” I wanted to lance it in the worst way, but everyone kept talking about me, and talking about how I was going to lance that boil with precision – I certainly did not want to disappoint anyone, but when they started saying things that I had said, I started feeling like I had heard enough. I think everyone knows how it is – people start saying you said something and you didn't really say it, or if you did say it (but you really didn't mean it) it seems almost impossible to take the words back. My friend Conrad did that once – he managed to take some words back after he had said them, but I never figured out exactly how he did it.
So I lanced that boil with precision. Or I sliced it with zeal. Or I slit it with gusto. The action became my gusto slit. Gusto slit. Gusto slit. Conrad would have liked that phrase, on account of how he was always doing things with great gusto (or so he said) and he had a great love of the word “slit”.
I ferociously plunged that carving knife into the boil, and I do believe that in the ensuing effluvia that poured forth, there was a greater proportion of leg-blood (or more correctly buttock-blood, but I intend this for a familial audience). There was more leg-blood than that awful and retched-smelling matter that will often come out of a boil. In fact, the boil-filling was drowned out by the blood, but I still thought of the entire issuance as “boil-filling.” When I think of filling, I will often allow my thoughts to drift over to and, indeed, settle upon the wonderful concoctions that are used to lend body to the most delicate and delectable fried pastries known to the civilized world as “doughnuts.” Often these fried pastries are known as “donuts” in their alternate spelling, but perhaps I am getting pedantic.
Oh! The glory of the Bavarian crème! The raspberry jelly! The chocolate custard! Even that nefarious filling known as the “Boston creme” is of potential worth when prepared correctly. These are the fillings upon which my thoughts settle when I think of filling. I presume that your own thoughts might settle in the same place, rather than on the foul-smelling effluvia that issues forth from a boil.
Back to earth we have come, sweet-pea. My gusto slit. I lanced that boil with precision.