Oh, wait—a third less-than-optimal choice. I don’t have a dilemma; I have a quandary.

Or so the specious advice I’m about to quote would have it:

The words quandary and dilemma can be confused. A quandary is a difficult decision between many things. “She found herself in a quandary when all three of her boyfriends proposed marriage in the same week.” A dilemma is a difficult choice between two things. For example, “Caught in a major dilemma, she couldn’t decide if she should marry one of them or skip town.”

The only justifiable statement in that quote is “The words quandary and dilemma can be confused.” As demonstrated by how the author has confused them.

Yes, the di- in dilemma communicates “two.” From the Greek, a lemma is a proposition, and a dilemma two propositions. But because we don’t speak Greek and because language changes (it does! honest!) the word can now take broader meaning. In rhetoric, says the OED, a dilemma is “A form of argument involving an adversary in the choice of two (or, loosely, more) alternatives, either of which is (or appears) equally unfavourable to him.” If we’re going to insist that dilemma be used unchanged, then let’s apply the law of Xtreme Etymological Stasis (Xes) and insist that three difficult choices should be a trilemma. Try that one in everyday conversation sometime.

I wonder if the idea of the etymologically unrelated word quandary meaning “more than two” doesn’t come from extispic etymology (divination by examination of the entrails of a dissected word) and assuming that quan- means, um, “four.” Actually, no one’s sure how quandary originated, but none of the suggested etymologies involve numbers.

Such persnickitorial edicts—even when they are grounded in history or logic, which many persnickitorial edicts simply are not—elevate process over communication. Dilemma and quandary are simply synonyms with distinct implications. They impart subtle shifts in meaning and intensity; they speak with different sound. If dilemma properly evokes the level of severity of deciding among three options, then, simply, dilemma is the right word.

Also lost and/or confused in the example is that both these words suggest that the options are unpleasant. In the example, the three boyfriends must have been jerks if deciding which to marry induced quandary. (Then again, the woman was contemplating skipping town rather than marrying any of them, which would affirm that assumption).

So, back to my dilemma (yes, dilemma) about which of three choices to make: I’ve opted for the first. This is advice adapted from Vocabulary for Dummies. Make of it what you will.

Fud. According to the Oxford English dictionary, this is the proper term for a rabbits [sic] anus [sick]. This gives added zest to the word befuddle.

I tend to wonder how any term for a rabbit’s anus might be considered “proper” (perhaps one extends one’s pinky when using the term in proper social situations—”I would venture that said reference was, indubitably, a fud, my queen”), and that perhaps the author meant “the technical term,” but that’s beside the point.

I looked up fud over at the OED, and found no references to anuses, leporine or otherwise, though the word does refer to the human behind, and to an animal’s scut—that is, the kind of tail that rabbits and deer have, but that’s beside the point.

I also checked befuddle to see if that word would deserve any zest by association with fud. No, it turns out, since befuddle is an intensified version of fuddle, meaning “to drink alcohol, to binge” or “to get drunk.” OK, maybe fud has some punnish resonance with the slang “on your ass” for “drunk,” but other than that, it’s beside the point.

Then what the hell is the point, Mr. Brohaugh?, you’re likely fuming by now. Naught but my being amused that one of the biggest pains in ass for Bugs Bunny is, of course . . . Elmer Fudd.

The point, therefore, is not a loony thought, but a Looney Tunes thought.

And just for the hell of it: