It was his fault that Cory spontaneously generated puns and anagrams and portmanteaus and spoonerisms and mondegreens. It had started twelve years ago, at a Burmese restaurant in the Richmond; when Deedee offered Cory the rest of her platha bread, Cory said, I couldn’t plathably, and Barr had laughed so hard that Cory kept doing it to please him—Indian food had her naanplussed, the plural of lox was loxen, the superlative of toilet was toilest, Jane Doe was married to John Deere.
