????uuuu....nerd alert!! (en samt fyndið;))

Many people take for granite the gneiss job we geologists do, and it’s
tuff, considering the schist we have to walk over every day. Must we
bear the brunton our shoulders of a whole melange of responsibilities,
as we mountain our horsts and strike out across dips and plunge where
angles fear to tread? Is it the geologist’s fault if, to blende work
with fun, he is graben joints and getting stoned just for fun? He may
phonalite dike with good cleavage for a quick date in his kar, and if
she’s cummingtonite, he takes a batholith and a short nappe, dreaming
of subduction. In his dreams, he is lost on waves of love, anticipating
megathrusts and sheet intrusions, and how she will puts kinks in, or
even overturn, his bedding. Awakening, he puts on his best cambric
chert, albites into an olivine to whet his apatite, and then leaves the
house, humming, "staurolite, hartzburgite, first star that’s
bytownite…" Next morning, his attitude has changed. After spending the
whole night perched precariously on her water table, he is felsic, and
now she is boudin him out on his ear. He offers her the standard phi,
but she says his nicols will never cross her palm. Taking stock of the
situation, he decides the girl is out of wacke and wants to avoid her
like the plag. Hitching up his diapirs, he says, "I’m going flysching."
But he can’t forget her. Shear love has fractured his heart. He cries
of apache tears. Finally, finding no solid solution to his problems, he
terminates himself with a capsule of syenite.

If you can’t live right, diorite.

http://www.geneseo.edu/~gsci/pages/alumni/rock/rock_1987.htm