A plaintive cry from neo-neocon on the so-called “fiscal cliff”: “[C]an somebody please suggest a good alternative way to refer to that topic?”
On the other hand, I’ve found it useful in at least one instance:
Usually he didn’t venture into the bar on the ground floor, but that night he felt the need for something in convenient liquid form to unjangle his nerves. To his delight, the place was relatively empty when he arrived; to his dismay, it filled up rather quickly.
“Hey, buddy,” said a voice behind him. A grey pegasus with a shiny, somewhat oily black mane, whom he didn’t recognize. Out of force of habit, the old pony introduced himself: “Broken Spoke, Baltimare Carriages.”
“Fiscal Cliff, certified public accountant. What brings you to this part of the world?”
“A little unfinished business to take care of down in Ponyville.”
“Ponyville? Really? I’ve heard some really strange stories about that town.”
“Only been there once, so I can’t confirm them for you.”
Cliff took a swig of whatever brackish stuff he was drinking. “Probably a load of horsefeathers anyway. I’ve been in this business long enough to know that anypony will pull your leg if you give ’em half a chance.”
“You’re probably right about that,” said the old pony, wishing he’d stayed in his room.
Perhaps I should have resisted, but I didn’t.