Pedantry. And peasantry.

There are some things that cannot go unremarked, even if the Archdruid doesn't like it. In fact, _particularly_ if the Archdruid doesn't like it.

I don't have a problem with ignorance, but I cannot countenance _intentional_ irrectitude. And I use that word advisedly.  No, I take it all back: I can't abide ignorance either. But it's more excusable than deliberate irrectitude. That smacks of peasantry. And the only excuse for that is ill-breeding. And that's not really much of an excuse, either.

Let me explain.  I was barbecuing today, and Charlii came past.  "What are you barbecuing?" she asked.  "Oh, it looks like chorizo."

Only she pronounced it "choreetzo".

I kept my cool, and my temper.  She's new.  And, I suspect, an Arminian.

"No, no," I said, hardly condescendingly, "it's Spanish.  So the z is pronounced 'th': cho-reetho."

"I'm sure it's choreetzo," she responded.

I was just drawing breath when the Archdruid came by.  "Ah, choreetzo," she commented.

It is lucky for the Archdruid that she was carrying her Slazenger cricket bat, as I was equipped with a fairly long pair of barbecue tongs.  It was lucky for me that I got the first attack in, and even luckier that I caught her off-guard and that her parry only caught me a glancing blow to the head.

The Archdruid _knows_ how to pronounce chorizo correctly.  She knows because I've told her.  Repeatedly.  And posted notes under her office door.  And displayed it with on a laser display board (borrowed from "I'm Sorry I Haven't a Clue") during several services in several instantiations of the Moot House.