15 Phrases True Grammar Nerds Would Never Confuse

An eggcorn is a mistaken word or phrase that makes almost as much sense as the correct version. The term eggcorn was coined by linguist Geoff Pullum in 2003 as a nod to people’s habit of mistaking the word acorn for eggcorn. You could feasibly argue that acorns evoke eggs and corn kernels.

Feasible arguments are a big element of eggcorns: There’s no overlord deciding which language errors are logical enough to be official eggcorns and which ones are just plain mistakes. If you can kinda see how it happened, feel free to call it an eggcorn.

We’re diving deep into all our favorite phrasal gaffes, from death nails and tenderhooks to bold-faced lies and beyond, as adapted from the above episode of The List Show on YouTube.

1. For All Intents and Purposes vs. For All Intensive Purposes
2. Coleslaw vs. Cold Slaw
3. Bald-Faced Lie vs. Bold-Faced Lie
4. Hunger Pangs vs. Hunger Pains
5. On Tenterhooks vs. On Tenderhooks
6. Death Knell vs. Death Nail
7. Chalk It Up vs. Chock It Up
8. Happy as a Clam vs. Happy as a Clown
9. Deep-Seated vs. Deep-Seeded
10. Hurtle Along vs. Hurdle Along
11. Last-Ditch Effort vs. Last-Stitch Effort
12. Bad Rap vs. Bad Rep
13. Coming Down the Pike vs. Coming Down the Pipe
14. Hair’s Breadth vs. Hare’s Breath
15. Make Ends Meet vs. Make Ends Meat

For All Intents and Purposes vs. For All Intensive Purposes

If you’ve been saying for all intensive purposes, you’ve been saying it wrong. It’s for all intents and purposes. The expression has roots in a 16th-century Act of Parliament that mentioned “to all intents, constructions, and purposes.” It’s part of a long tradition of lawmakers and legal professionals trying to cover all angles of the matter at hand: null and void, aiding and abetting, etc. 

Constructions didn’t have staying power—but the rest of the phrase got lodged in the general lexicon. For all intents and purposes essentially means “essentially.” You use it to make the point that a given thing is effectively the same as something else, even if it’s not literally so. You might consider your mom’s favorite cousin to be, for all intents and purposes, your aunt. 

The expression doesn’t mean much if you separate it word by word. Intents, for all intents and purposes, are purposes. And since the expression is more than the sum of its parts, it’s easy to get the parts a little wrong. Hence for all intensive purposes.

The word intensive means “marked by intensity” or “tending to strengthen or increase.” So for all intensive purposes doesn’t really make sense. But it doesn’t … not make sense. You could argue that intensive purposes are the most important purposes—they’re marked by intensity, ever strengthening. Your mom’s cousin who serves the most intensive purposes of an aunt is, for all intensive purposes, an aunt. 

Coleslaw vs. Cold Slaw

Coleslaw derives from the Dutch word koolsla, a truncated version of kool-salade—“cabbage salad” in English. Since coleslaw, like most salads, is traditionally served cold, calling it “cold slaw” seems a little redundant. But it’s not inaccurate, nor is it a new mistake. Cold slaw was already in print by the late 18th century. Not to mention that it might occasionally help to clarify “cold”: Hot slaw is also a thing.

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Bald-Faced Lie vs. Bold-Faced Lie

The bald-faced in bald-faced lie is a variant of barefaced, which was first coined by Shakespeare in 1590 to describe a young man without a beard in Midsummer Night’s Dream. In other words, the lie is as plain to see as a clean-shaven, maskless face. But bold-faced has existed since around the same time as Shakespeare used it in Henry VI, Part 1. And if you’re telling an obvious lie, chances are good that you’re doing it with a pretty bold face. It’s also possible that people these days assume the bold face in question is a typeface: A lie printed in bold would be especially apparent. So while bald-faced is considered “correct,” it’s hard to say that bold-faced isn’t just as apt.

Hunger Pangs vs. Hunger Pains

And hunger pains is an apt description for the cramps you get when you’re ravenous. Technically, they’re called “hunger pangs.” But the word pang, per the Oxford English Dictionary, describes “a sudden sharp spasm of pain which grips the body or part of it.” So using hunger pains shouldn’t get you into too much trouble with the word police.

On Tenterhooks vs. On Tenderhooks

But saying “tenderhooks” might. What you mean is tenterhooks. In the late medieval period and beyond, you’d stretch your freshly milled cloth over a wooden frame called a “tenter” so it wouldn’t shrink as it dried. Tenterhooks were the hooks or bent nails that held the cloth in place. A piece of cloth on tenterhooks is in a state of tension, which explains why we say we’re “on tenterhooks” when we’re experiencing tense anticipation or suspense. Since people these days are generally more familiar with the word tender than tenter, tenterhooks sometimes gets mistaken for tenderhooks, which isn’t a word at all. If it were, though, it might describe hooks made to hold tender cuts of meat—and you’d probably feel pretty tense if you were stuck on one of those.

Death Knell vs. Death Nail

Tenterhooks is a fossil word—a word only preserved in an idiom or some other very specific instance. If not for being on tenterhooks, we might never utter the word tenterhooks again.

Another fossil word is the knell of death knell. Originally, a knell could be the sound of any bell, but the word often referred to the solemn bell ringing after a death or funeral. A death knell specifically marked a person’s death, and the phrase eventually caught on to describe a figurative marker of any end. A business can have a death knell, a relationship can have a death knell, and so on.

But people sometimes say “death nail” instead. We can probably chalk this up to knell’s fossil status: These days, the general public doesn’t know what a knell is, so they unwittingly swap it out for something they do know. A nail is a natural fit for two reasons. One, nail sounds a lot like knell. And two, it features in the final nail in the coffin—another death-related expression about the end of something.

Chalk It Up vs. Chock It Up

Long before the digital age, establishments like stores and bars often kept track of customers’ tabs by writing them in chalk. To chalk it up was to charge via chalk tally. By the mid-20th century, people had started using the expression figuratively: Say, for example, someone hits the bullseye the first time they ever throw a dart, and you chalk it up to beginner’s luck. Picture a big chalkboard with beginner’s luck written on it, and you’re adding a line to its tally.

Chock has nothing to do with it. A chock is a wedge used to prevent something, like the wheel of a car, from moving. The chock of chock-full, meanwhile, is believed to be a variant of choke. To be chock-full, in the Oxford English Dictionary’s words, is to be “full to the point of choking.” 

Happy as a Clam vs. Happy as a Clown

Happy as a clam is another expression that probably gets botched because nobody remembers its original context. It’s thought to be short for happy as a clam at high tide. At low tide, the mollusks are much more likely to get plucked from the sand by clam harvesters. But the short version makes no sense if you never knew the long version, which may explain why some people say “happy as a clown” instead. After all, clowns are known for being jolly, even if their antics don’t always spark joy.

Deep-Seated vs. Deep-Seeded

You might describe a longstanding fear of clowns as “deep-seated”—meaning it’s tough to get rid of because its seat, a.k.a. its central power, is deep below the surface. It’s easy to see why so many people mistake the term for deep-seeded … which also implies that something is tough to get rid of because its seeds were planted deep below the surface. But since seated and seeded sound the same aloud, you can really only tell if someone’s using the correct word in print.

Hurtle Along vs. Hurdle Along

It’s the same story with hurtle along and hurdle along. Hurtle—with a t—means “to move rapidly or forcefully,” in Merriam-Webster’s words. Hurdle—with a d—means “to leap over especially while running.” Hurdle is a transitive verb, which means it needs a direct object. In other words, you can’t just hurdle along—you have to hurdle something, like an obstacle or a barrier. So if you’re hurtling along, you’re doing it with a t.

Last-Ditch Effort vs. Last-Stitch Effort

And if you’re making a last-ditch effort to hurdle an obstacle, you’re doing both with a d. The phrase last-ditch effort is a reference to the military tradition of defending your territory to the death, even when invaders have reached your very last trenches; the similar expression die in the last ditch has been around since the early 18th century. Last-stitch effort, though technically incorrect, evokes a similar sense of 11th-hour determination and futility: If there’s only a single stitch holding your pant legs together, it’s probably working quite hard to keep them from separating.

Bad Rap vs. Bad Rep

When the word rap arrived on the scene in the 14th century, it described a physical blow—as in a rap across the knuckles, a later phrase that sheds light on how rap became associated with punishment and then a prison sentence (think rap sheet). But rap came to accommodate verbal blows, too. And if people are constantly talking negatively about you (especially unfairly), you’re said to have a bad rap. You also probably have a bad reputation, which explains why so many people say “bad rep” when what they really mean is “bad rap.”

Coming Down the Pike vs. Coming Down the Pipe

The pike in coming down the pike refers to a turnpike—a central road or expressway. If something’s coming down the pike, it’s en route and moving fast. In other words, it’ll arrive soon. Mistaking pike for pipe in this phrase is totally understandable: The words sound similar, and something coming down the pipe seems like it’ll arrive soon. Not to mention that the phrase in the pipeline also refers to stuff in the works.

Hair’s Breadth vs. Hare’s Breath

Hair’s breadth—as in the width of a piece of hair—has been mistaken for hare’s breath—as in the exhale of a rabbit-like animal. Hair’s breadth is a metaphor for a barely perceptible amount, and a little woodland creature’s breath is probably pretty hard to discern, too.

Make Ends Meet vs. Make Ends Meat

Some people may think the meet of make ends meet was spelled M-E-A-T. As in, you’re so poor that you can only buy the butcher’s last scraps, a.k.a. the “ends meat.” It’s unclear what ends were originally meeting in the correct version of the phrase, which means you’re meeting your basic needs with whatever scant resources you have.

One popular theory involves bookkeeping: If the number at the end of the income column matches the one in the expense column, you’re making ends meet in more ways than one. Other people think it’s a tailoring reference: You can only afford enough material for a garment to just make its ends meet around the wearer. Both good theories … but neither is quite as fun as “ends meat.”