That's the Q, by Jeff

My "pobby" is making fun of life. And that includes making fun of people who coin new words like "pobby." Sorry, Kristy, you're the one who started this!

First off, it sounds like some poor child trying to say "mommy" when they have a cold.

"Pobby! Pobby! By nobe id stuft ub!"

Second, it combines two words ("passion" and "hobby") that shouldn't even necessarily be together. I'm passionate about Rieko -- but if I ever told her she was my hobby, I'd probably wake up three days later with no limbs, buried alive in a Staten Island landfill. Conversely, I would estimate that about 99.5318008% (you guys see what I did there?) of hobbies don't exactly inspire passion. Train model building? Scrapbooking? Stamp collecting? BLOGGING? These surely comprise the lowest tier of human activity; one pictures some sort of mystical, wand-wielding, verb-creating mage, lush blue robes around his ankles, taking a large dump, from which have sprung most of humankind's hobbies. No one is ever passionate about their hobby; one is only passionate (a.k.a. "desperate") about the need to distract their ever-active mind from the rising spectre of their own mortality and ultimate purposelessness on this earth.

But third, and vastly more important, "pobby" sets English down on the slippery slope to oblivion, and gives it a Radio Flyer wagon. To better illustrate the depths to which English has to sink in order to consider "pobby" a legitimate word, I give you the famous Hamlet soliloquy, in this fashionable "nuspeak" English. (Original here, for comparison.)

2 B, or not 2 B: that’s the Q:
Wheth 'tis nobler in the mind 2 suff
The slarrows of ‘rageous 4tune,
Or 2 take armz ‘gainst a C of troubs,
And byposing end ‘em? 2 die: 2 sleep;
No more; and by a sleep 2 say we end
The h-ache and the thousand natshocks
That flesh is heir 2, 'tis a consmation
‘voutly 2 be wish'd. 2 die, 2 sleep;
2 sleep: perch 2 dream: ay, there's th'rub;
4 in that sleepdeath what dreamz may come
When we’ve shuft off this m-coil,
Must give us P: there's the respect
That makes cal-M-T of so liiiiiife;
4 who would bear the scorps of time,
The opp-sor's wrong, the proman's C-tumely,
The pangs of D-spis'd luv, the law's D-lay,
The slence of office and the spurnz
That patmerit of the unworthy takes,
When hehim might his Q-tus make
With a baredkin? who would fardelz bear,
2 grusweat under a wearlife,
Buthat the dread of some-T after death,
The undisc'd country from whose bourn
No travler returns, puzzes the will
And makes us rath bear th’illz we have
Than fly 2 others that we known’t of?
Thus contch does make cowds of ‘sall;
And thus the nate hue of rezloosh
Is sicklied o'er wi’the palcast of thought,
And entprises of great pitchoment
Wi’this regard their curntz turn awry,
And lose th’name of action.-- Soft U now!
Da fair Ophie! Nimf, in thy orisons
B’all my sinz rember'd.

(And of course, Kristy, I'm just kidding on all of this.)