What is another word for the clink?

Pronunciation: [ðə klˈɪŋk] (IPA)

"The Clink" is a term commonly used to refer to a prison or jail. However, there are many other synonyms that can be used in its place. One popular option is "the big house," which is often used as a euphemism for prison. "The slammer" is another well-known synonym, as is "the joint." Some people might also refer to prison as "the can," "the pen," or "the hoosegow." In addition, regional slang terms for prison exist as well, such as "the pokey" or "the cooler." No matter how you prefer to refer to it, prison remains a place that few people want to ever experience firsthand.

What are the hypernyms for The clink?

A hypernym is a word with a broad meaning that encompasses more specific words called hyponyms.

Famous quotes with The clink

  • Gilt-tooled on yard-square panels of green leather—imitation, of course—the zodiacal signs looked down from the walls of the executive lunch-room. The air was full of the chatter of voices and the clink of ice-cubes. Waiting to be attacked when the president of the company joined them (he had promised to show at one sharp) was a table laden with expensive food: hard-boiled eggs, shells intact so that it could be seen they were brown, free-range, rich in carotene; lettuces whose outer leaves had been rasped by slugs; apples and pears wearing their maggot-marks like dueling scars, in this case presumably genuine ones though it had been known for fruit growers to fake them with red-hot wires in areas where insects were no longer found; whole hams, very lean, proud of their immunity from antibiotics and copper sulphate; scrawny chickens; bread as coarse as sandstone, dark as mud and nubbled with wheat grains . . .
    John Brunner
  • “But your own vegetarianism, Mrs. Costello,” says President Garrard, pouring oil on troubled waters: “it comes out of moral conviction, does it not?” “No, I don't think so,” says his mother. “It comes out of a desire to save my soul.” Now there truly is a silence, broken only by the clink of plates as the waitresses set baked Alaskas before them. “Well, I have a great respect for it,” says Garrard. “As a way of life.” “I'm wearing leather shoes,” says his mother. “I'm carrying a leather purse. I wouldn't have overmuch respect if I were you.” “Consistency,” murmurs Garrard. “Consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds. Surely one can draw a distinction between eating meat and wearing leather.” “Degrees of obscenity,” she replies.
    J. M. Coetzee

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