“My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three.” — Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

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No matter how much I practice, I am terrible at alphabetization (picnic, lightning).

The letter “i” makes at least three distinct vowel sounds (picnic, lightning).

Any word or phrase is believable as a racehorse’s name (Picnic, Lightning).

I don’t know why they made it, but I am so excited for the first song off of this Yogi Bear/Grease mashup (“Picnic Lightning”).

What might a line of dialogue from an off-brand Pokemon series sound like? (“Pick Nic, Lightning!”).

I wish I had a better term for how my red-and-white checked gingham blanket has faded in the sun (picnic lightening).

You can sing almost anything to the tune of “Frere Jacques” (“pic-nic light-ning”).

Almost anything sounds like a cute old-timey term for booze if you wink when you say it (“picnic lightning”).

There are basically three things my weather-vane-wearing, finger-strumming band comprised of Nolte’s and Cage’s exes hate (pick, Nick, lightning).

What a day! For the life of me, I couldn’t think of the word “lantern” but I could recall the Chinese surname which literally means “peace”! (… Picnic Light? Ning!).

Hey baby, I don’t own a dining room table but I do love Pixar’s Cars franchise, so instead of Netflix and chill, whaddya say to some (picnic, Lightning).

Think ants don’t have a cool nickname for cocaine? Think again (“Picnic Lightning”).

I can spell almost any word except for: the name of a flaky-crusted dessert; what you would call a single member of New York’s Manhattan-homed basketball team; a strong alkaline solution of potassium hydroxide; and the sound an old-timey phone makes (pi, Cnic, ligh, tning).