butchering the language

R: God, I’m knackered.

S: You’re naked?

R: I am kuh-nack-er-ed. A knacker is a horse butcher. I am drained to my sinews, like a horse’s carcase hanging on a hook. You Americans, there’s no colour in your language at all.

S: That’s because we don’t glorify horse slaugher.

R: One time I said to Jeremy: “I like horses! And French food!” And he said: “Sometimes they’re the same thing!”

S: Eeuw.

R: So anyway, how are you?

S: Knackered.

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