Oh, this one's going to come back and bite me in the ass, no question. While the view from my glass house is spectacular, I am disinclined to dwell on the subject of correcting other people's mistakes. My mother was aggressively articulate and a real diction Nazi. Don't say cow, she'd cry, giving the word a hyper-nasal, Fran Drescher quality. Americans say cow. Say cohhhhwwww. I've never heard another human voice, American or otherwise, come close to either pronunciation, but whenever I hear Tuvan throat-singers I think of my mother.
Apropos of absolutely nothing, I'd like to say how utterly fascinating I find Japanese culture. Knowing this exists, can you be 100% sure that this is not a real ad for Kikkoman soy sauce? I submit that you cannot.
Finally, I apologize to our American readers if my mother's abuse of your vowel-sounds has caused any offense. If it's any consolation, I find this funnier than I do terrifying. By a slight margin.
Nice to see Graham isn't blog-humping Chris Eaton this week.
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