Oh my god that's some funky shit! Oh my god that's some funky shit! How! How! How... Oh my god that's some funky shit! How! How! How... Oh
Monday is the day that the trash goes out I can’t forget, Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God But at Monday I’ll wake up as the truck
The crystal Oh my God, this is embarrassing Oh my God, this is embarrassing Oh Oh my God, this is embarrassing Oh my God, this is embarrassing Oh my God
Spike Miller Voiture d'loc', tu finis en cloque Et j’allume ma clope, j’ai sali ta robe Oh my God, oh my God Oh my God, oh my God T’es trop
YEAH! Bwa-hah-hah! Oh, my God . . . EC: Beautiful! God! It's God! I see God!
Oh my I got that drip, ay Yeah Going down, it's going down, huh Going down, it's going down Oh my God, shawty thick she Oh my God, yeah, yeah
eat it up Oh My God, this shit different Oh My God, Gucci slippers Oh My God, my wrist vicious Oh My God, might hurt yo feelings Oh My God, this
Next is the E Next is the E Oh my god, I want to be with you Oh my god, I want to be with you Next is the E I feel it yeah I feel it I
can see there is no land Oh my God, the water's all around us Oh my God, it's all around Who could heed the words of Charlie Darwin The lords
She wants to sit beside you In your big chair In your big chair The devil has the power to assume a appleasing shape She wants Oh my God
chosen as an extra in the movie adaptation Of the sequel to your life A shady lane Everybody wants one A shady lane Everybody needs one Oh my God, oh my
Many are those that rise up against me And many are saying of me God will not deliver him Arise oh Lord and deliver me Oh my God Oh
Dear God, Dear God, Oh My, Oh My, Oh My God Dear God, Dear God, Oh My, Oh My, Oh My God Dear God, Dear God, Oh My, Oh My, Oh My God Dear God, Oh
Next is the E Next is the E Oh my god, I want to be with you Oh my god, I want to be with you Next is the E I feel it yeah I feel it I
Oh my God in blood soaked silhouette Oh my God on the end of a bayonet Oh my God put wings on the rhetoric Oh my God, I'm alright No pity,
girl! Like Uh uh uh, ah ah Uh uh uh, ah ah Like uh uh uh, ah ah Uh uh uh, ah ah Hey girl, I like to do it, but when I do it, oh oh my God Hey girl, I
Look at this I'm a coward too You don't need to hide, my friend For I'm just like you Yes, oh my god Look at this I'm a coward too You
Look at this I'm a coward too You don't need to hide, my friend For I'm just like you Yes, oh my god Look at this I'm a coward too You
the end of my life This is the feeling that won't be amassed Oh my God what have I done this time Oh my God what have I done this time The things that
the end of my life This is the feeling that won't be amassed Oh my God what have I done this time Oh my God what have I done this time The things that
Oh my god Oh my god, o-oh my god Club is packed, I rap the rap Ladies are in here from front to back And they love my soul, I reply Baby girl,
distraction to escape it all My God, oh, my God, what have I become? The self-addicted one My God, oh, my God, You never failed me You're what I need So often
パニクってあせっても 知らないぞ火がついて 意味もなくなんとなく 興奮するのよ Oh! My God! きのうのバカな出来事が 暗い気分にさせるのだが もいちどタマに声かけて あったとたんに 意気投合 悪気はないのよ いつでも気まぐれ遊んでね ヘラヘラしても 反省は忘れないでね パニクって あせっても 知らないぞ
Oh my God I need a painkiller I'm in pain now Don't show me no step Ay 'til we get to the disco Oh my God I need a painkiller I'm in pain now
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Giles Coren: ‘Oh my God, I’m turning into my father’
Maybe it’s because my wife is pregnant with our first child. Maybe it’s because a nursery has been built in what used to be the attic and I’ve started thinking about schools.
Or possibly it’s because in sympathy with my wife’s expansion over the past few months, I have swelled to 13st and taken to wearing V-neck jumpers over a shirt and tie.
But whatever it is, the moment has finally come when I have started turning into my father.
Father and son: Humorist Alan Coren with a baby Giles, who is now expecting his first child
Traditionally, it is a realisation that men voice aloud in horror and despair when they find themselves becoming grumpy or tired in the afternoons, or being uncharacteristically irritated by the hysterics of modern footballers, or exasperated by buttercups in an otherwise perfect back lawn, or simply sighing ‘ooufff!’ as they lower themselves into a chair.
‘Oh my God!’ they cry. ‘I’m turning into my father!’
But for me, it is not a negative experience at all. It is just a sense that comes upon me from time to time and is something more like the apprehension of a friendly ghost.
I got it only a couple of days ago, for example, when I drove into town for lunch with my wife. It was a bright, cold, autumnal Wednesday in London, my father’s favourite sort of day.
And because it was a smartish restaurant I put on a jacket and, instead of the trainers I usually wear, a pair of brown suede shoes.
We took the BMW (my father always drove a convertible 3 series and last year I sort of bought one by mistake, not realising what I had done until weeks later) and because it was dry, although cold, I put the roof down. Just like the old man always did, any day of the year, as long as it wasn’t actually raining.
As we parked in Belgravia and I got out of the car to go round and open the passenger door for my wife (as my father did without fail throughout the 44 years of his own marriage), I gradually began to feel it come upon me, like a monstrous déjà vu that you cannot shake: in my suede shoes, with my jacket on, slightly nervous about a posh restaurant, helping my pregnant wife out of the convertible, defiantly bourgeois, feeling faintly caddish for being at play in the middle of a weekday, enjoying the condensation of my breath in front of me and looking forward to a glass of wine… that wasn’t me. That was my dad.
A hard act to follow: Giles and Alan (‘The Sage of Cricklewood’) in later life
And it was my dad, not me, who paused at the window of an antiques shop on the way from car to restaurant and then touched my wife on the arm to point out an interesting occasional table that might go nicely in the telly room. I’m not interested in antiques. He is. Was.
Not that my wife noticed. She thought it was me. She didn’t know he was there, directing my every move with his DNA — that old posthumous puppet master. And so I think ‘turning into my father’ is possibly not right. I think what I am unconsciously doing, to use a modern phrase, is ‘channelling’ him.
Apart from anything else, I feel I must not claim to be turning into my father because he, unlike most fathers, was a National Treasure — and one of the very first of that kind.
In my suede shoes, with my jacket on, slightly nervous about a posh restaurant, helping my pregnant wife out of the convertible and looking forward to a glass of wine… that wasn’t me. That was my dad
For if you were under the impression Stephen Fry invented the lower-middle-class boy of Jewish ancestry who becomes a great star at Oxbridge and goes on to be Britain’s funniest man, the epitome of avuncular English intellectualism and the star of pretty much every television panel show you turn to, then you are clearly too young to remember Alan Coren.
Yup. That was my dad. The Sage of Cricklewood. Editor of Punch. Star of Through The Keyhole and Call My Bluff. And a very hard act to follow.
The proverbial father into whom most men fear turning is a taciturn, unfeeling man in high-waisted trousers, with horn-rimmed spectacles, an Alvis in the garage and dark secrets from the war.
And the horror of turning into him is the horror of accepting that we are eternally and inescapably in the grip of our genes. That our lives are mapped out for us in the intricacies of the DNA double helix and that we can never truly own our destiny.
And in this age of endless progression, endless modernisation and forward movement, ‘turning into one’s father’ is seen as a retrogressive thing. A backward step towards a time when men were stern and broad and short-haired and smelt of carbolic soap and brilliantine, and went to work on the train.
You are supposed to want to move on from your dad. To live somewhere far away from him, and better. To have a better job, to be richer, more sophisticated, more widely travelled, more liberal and free-thinking. To be seen to be merely turning into him is presented as a failure.
But as I start that same metamorphosis — which has been happening since I passed 40 last year — I find it is an almost wholly positive thing.
Parenthood beckons: Giles with his wife, Esther Walker
Suddenly, I want the house to be tidy, just like him. I mow stripes in the lawn. If my car suffers the tiniest nick to the bodywork I take it in for a touch-up. I read The Times, the Daily Mail and the Telegraph — I am no longer interested in what the Guardian has to say. And I live in the suburbs, just like him, and I love it there.
I am consoled, I think, by this triumph of genetics despite everything. Despite iPods and Xboxes and global warming and Afghanistan and text messages and Twitter and I’m A Celebrity, my father is there in the biological code, and his father, and his father… and they are coming to claim me.
I am gradually surrendering my youthful, hubristic sense of self to a greater calling: I am grasping that I am just another human and that my job is to pass on my genes and move on.
And the genes in this case are not as strong as they might be, physically. My sister, Victoria, has more of him than I do: his fair complexion, his blue eyes, his dainty feet, his heart-shaped face, his Polishness, his serious, ferocious intellect.
I am darker, beadier, hairier, stupider. But I do write for a living (newspaper columns, just like him) and when I write a decent piece, with good jokes in it, I know it is mostly him.
And when I go on television and make a prat of myself in front of millions of people I know that, for the same pay cheque, he would have done the same.
Indeed it was while pratting about on television in The Supersizers Go Seventies, for which I grew a pair of bushy sideburns, that I started to think I did look a bit like him after all. At least as he looked in the Seventies, when he was the age I am now.
I want the house to be tidy, just like him. I mow stripes in the lawn. If my car suffers the tiniest nick to the bodywork, I take it in for a touch-up. And I live in the suburbs, just like him, and I love it there
And I see the resemblance whenever I wear anything even vaguely of that period: a polo neck or a denim shirt, for example, or anything brown. And especially when I wear his old corduroy jacket from Dandy on the King’s Road, or the checked Wrangler coat he wore for walks in the park to make himself feel butch and American and Marlboro-mannish.
And there are other things he did that I have started to do.
For example, if I unload the dishwasher or do a bit of Hoovering I will always announce the fact to my wife and expect praise. And I make a big fuss if I’ve cooked something, even if it’s just a soup or a fry-up.
I used to be a very competent cook, but since I got married my wife has taken over the kitchen and I have all but forgotten what it was I used to do there. So now, like him, my job at meal times is to open a bottle and say: ‘Oh, wow, terrific!’ when my wife puts something hot down in front of me.
I have bad table manners like him. People watch my food shows and complain I eat noisily — but it’s only because he did. In life, I found his manners appalling, but since he died, three years ago, my own have gone that way. And now if anybody is going to throw peanuts into his mouth at elegant soirees like a stoker loading a steam engine then, by God, it is going to be me.
And I feel him there when I look at my wedding ring (as I am now, watching it twinkle as I type, as he must have done). Not everybody wears one, by any means. But he always did, and so I do.
He was married at 25 in 1963, and never changed that little yellow gold ring as his fingers fattened around it, making it impossible to remove. So when I got married earlier this year I bought a similar ring, not a more modern platinum or white gold one.
Double act: Giles, with co-presenter Sue Perkins, on TV series The Supersizers Go…
Showtime: Alan on Call My Bluff (pictured with Fiona Bruce and Rod Liddle)
Fiddling with its unfamiliar edges as I made my wedding speech and looking at my own finger chafing in it, I could feel him there, and me being him, even as I was talking about my sadness that my wife would never meet him and wondering if she could get a sense of how he was from me.
And she could get that sense, if she only knew, from the way I sing when I am drunk, or curse the air blue if I so much as stub my toe. Or moan in the mornings that I have nothing left to say and never want to write another word.
And then I do think of an idea — a parody of some Bible story or a rip-off of Ernest Hemingway — but then I think: ‘No, I’ve written that piece before.’ And then I remember it wasn’t me who wrote it. It was him.
I am certain that all this is in my mind because I am about to become a father myself, which will make me more like him than anything (because from my point of view that is really all he was — none of the other stuff is relevant). And as my daughter is never going to know him, it means I can rip off all his qualities as a father and pass them off as my own.
I will take her and any subsequent daughters and with a bit of luck sons, too, boating on Regent’s Park lake, like he did. I’ll buy her a boomerang to throw in the park and we’ll laugh about how it never comes back, and when it hits an old lady on the head we’ll pretend it wasn’t us and run away and hide in the bushes. I’ll drive her around in my car with the roof down and let her sit in my lap while I’m driving.
I’ll read her stories from the books he read to me. The very copies: The Wizard Of Wallaby Wallow, the Richard Scarry books and The Laughing Dragon by Ken Mahood, who inscribed a copy to me when I was a week old, with the words: ‘For Giles, who will one day, perhaps, explain it to his father.’
And I’ll read her Theodore And The Talking Mushroom about a mushroom who learns to speak but can only say: ‘Quirp!’ And I’ll do the ‘quirp’ in 100 different voices if she wants me to, because that is what he did for me.
And when she gets older I’ll take her side in rows with the teachers, because they’re fools and don’t know anything.
I will try to be exactly like him in so many ways. I’ll just modernise the model a bit. I’ll be there more, because I can be. I’ll be gentler. I won’t do smacking. I’ll even try not to do angry — but I gather that’s not as easy as it sounds.
And the first time I go into her room and she looks up and says: ‘Daddy!’ I will no doubt turn around and expect him to be there.
www.dailymail.co.uk
Life is full of surprises and shocks, and being able to show your surprise is very important! One way to show your surprise is to say ‘oh my god’ or some variant of that phrase such as ‘oh my gosh’.
This article will show you how to say ‘oh my god’ in Korean. Like in English, there are several ways to say it. We’ll show you how!
‘Oh My God!’ in Korean
The most common way of saying ‘oh my god’ in Korean is
1. 세상에 (sesange)
This comes from the word 세상 (sesang), which means ‘world’ (another, more common word for ‘world’ is세계 ). 세상에 can be interpreted more literally as something like ‘never in the whole world would I have expected that’.
Another expression sometimes used to say ‘oh my god’ is
맙소사! (mapsosa)
You may see this often in Korean subtitles in movies.
The word 이런 (ireon), which usually means ‘this’, can also be used to mean ‘oh my god’ in Korean. Its more literal meaning would be something like ‘how can this happen?’ or ‘how did it come to this?’
The English phrase ‘Oh my god’ is well known in Korean, and often it is used instead of a Korean word. When it is written in Korean, it becomes 오 마이 갓 (o mai gat) and it is pronounced in such a way by Koreans. This expression is also the basis of several Korean puns due to its similarity in sound to the word ‘mother’s’ (엄마의 – eommaui). One example is the pun ‘엄마의 가스 레인지’ (eommaui gaseu reinji).
The sounds 어머 (eomeo) and 헐 (heol) can also sometimes be translated to ‘oh my god’ in some situations, often when there is some slight disappointment or concern due to something going wrong.
Sample Sentences
You should use this phrase when speaking to people you don’t know well or who are older than you.
Example (Standard):
맙소사! 전 몰라요. (mapsosa jeon mollayo)
Oh my god! I don’t know!
오 이런, 제게 이러지 마요. (o ireon, jege ireoji mayo)
Oh my God, don’t do this to me.
Example (Informal):
You can use this phrase with those younger than you or the same age who you are on familiar terms with.
세상에 내가 사람을 죽였어 (sesange naega sarameul jungnyeosseo)
Oh my god, I just killed a man.
오 이런, 내가 방금 너의 칫솔을 사용했어. (o ireon, naega banggeum neoui chitsoreul sayonghaesseo)
Oh my god, I just used your toothbrush.
맙소사, 난 이 일이 싫어 (mapsosa, nan i iri sileo)
Oh my god, I hate this job.
오 이런, 너 진지한 거야? (o ireon, neo jinjihan geoya)
Oh my god, are you serious?
A Word of Caution About Using Romanization
As you can see from the example of ‘oh my god’ when written in Korean, the sounds of the Korean language are different from the English language. The best way to be able to sound like a Korean is to learn the Korean Alphabet (Hangeul). That way, you can notice the different sounds used in Korean and get used to how Korean sounds. Learning Hangeul is very easy; it can be done in just a couple of hours!
If you want to learn some more essential phrases, check out this article or try our full Korean course.
Wrap Up
Now that you know how to say ‘oh my god’ in Korean, let us know what things shock you and make you want to say ‘oh my god’ in Korean.
www.90daykorean.com
One of the most empty headed and grossly overused cliche terms in history. It’s a phrase used way to much by dull
ignoramuses
and lunkheaded
dummies
who have very limited vocabularies and don’t know any other terms to express surprise, amusement, wonder, outrage or other emotions. Too much use of this term can make one look like a big time
dumbbutt
. On Internet blogs and in writing it’s often shortened to the abbreviation “OMG”. OMG is also overused tremendously.
1.
Moon Unit
Zappa: “It’s like oh my God!
Grody to the max
!”
2. Mr. “Higgie Baby” Higgins on “Magnum P.I.” often yelled, “Oh-my-GOD!” for many things. This is obviously a comic effect device.
3. Jennifer Aniston got paid $1,000,000 per 20-25 minute episode during the last few seasons of “Friends” to show her nice hair and nice legs, whine a lot and say “Oh my God” many many times. The other members of the show also got a million dead Presidents per episode and they also said “Oh my God” repeatedly.
That ain’t working!” – Dire Straits.
4. Tim: Oh my God! Oh my God!
Trent: Oh my God!
Beth: He’s my God too!
www.urbandictionary.com
