Every so often, some poor sap will use the phrase ‘very unique’ in conversation. And every self-appointed grammatician within a two hundred foot radius will pounce. “You can’t say that,” they whine. “You can’t use unique with an adverbial modifier.”

I hate these people. They’re smarmy, irritating, and self-righteous. And, most importantly, they’re wrong. They need to pick up a copy of the venerable Oxford English Dictionary, to peruse the listing for ‘unique.’ They’d note that ‘unique’ is a word with several possible meanings. One meaning, ‘being the sole example of something,’ probably can’t be modified. A second, ‘unusual or esoteric,’ certainly can be. (By substituting the second meaning, we arrive at ‘very unusual,’ an uncontestedly grammatic phrase.)

Further, even if ‘unique’ didn’t have the second meaning, ‘very’ and other adverbial modifiers wouldn’t necessarily be ruled out. Consider the similar case of ‘perfect:’ while most people consider the word unmodifiable, few would object to the preamble of the US Constitution, which begins ‘We the People of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union.’

So, in short, next time you hear someone objecting to ‘very unique,’ punch them in the mouth. The Founding Fathers have your back.

A similar approach to junk mail: I return pre-paid return envelopes filled with junk mail from other companies. I’ll take the credit card ad from Citibank, the special offer from the local rug cleaner and the discount coupon from Pizza Hut, then send it all out to American Express. After all, the USPS is always complaining that email has cut into their mail volume. And, if nothing else, it probably brightens the day of American Express’s $4.50/hour mailroom sorter.

For the first few months I lived in New York, my evenings at home were remarkably quiet. I didn’t realize why until mid October, when the telemarketers first wised to my new East Coast location. Suddenly, all evening long, I was besieged by unbeatable opportunities; the litany of deals, for credit cards, newspaper subscriptions, time-shares and vacation packages, all simply too good to miss, rolled in. At first, I was nice about it. After all, I reasoned, these people were just doing their job. Hoping to build good karma, I’d wait until the caller’s need to breathe put a gap in the constant outpouring of sales-speak, then interject a polite ‘thanks, but I don’t think I’m interested.’ Over time, however, the constancy of the calls began to grate at me, until I could fully understand my fathers motivation when he once told a telemarketer, ‘perhaps you’d like to speak with my dog.’

In the last couple of months, however, I’ve discovered an exceedingly therapeutic and highly productive way to deal with unwanted calls. As soon as I realize it’s a telemarketer, I say ‘please hold’ and put down the handset. I don’t mean I hang up; I mean I just put the handset on the counter, then go back to doing whatever I had been doing before. Usually it takes the caller several minutes to realize I’m not coming back. And during that time, I figure I’m saving at least five or six other citizens from telephonic harassment.