K is for Klingon

My husband is an accomplished, if somewhat mercenary, scholar of classical languages: he has learned enough Latin, ancient Egyptian, ancient Sumerian, and Anglo-Saxon to create objets d'art for sale in his CafePress shop, Cicero's Soapbox. To be fair, he does actually enjoy the learning process. You haven't lived until you've been regaled with the peculiarities of ancient Egyptian verb forms during your morning commute.

Though their study sharpens the brain and reminds us that some things never change (as Cicero himself said, parvi enim sunt foris arma nisi est consilium domi: for arms are of little value in the field unless there is wise counsel at home), admittedly ancient languages won't help you much in daily life. The same cannot be said of Klingon, which the modern galactic traveler will find indispensable.


A Klingon visiting our planet might not be impressed. Beam me up, Maltz! There's no intelligent life down here.


Cross a Klingon at your dire peril. Do not meddle in the affairs of Klingons, for they are prepared to kill you where you stand.


So how do you make friends with a Klingon? The same way you do with a knitter. Drop the chocolate and nobody gets hurt.