The Gift of Swearing

"You're a monkey fuck," I casually retorted to friend (I'll call her Happier)recently. I had a big smile on my face when I said it, and my tone contained no rancor, bile, meanness, or spite. And obviously, it isn't true. Or I'm fairly certain of that, but I can't be totally sure. Happier is very nice and has an unassuming demeanor, so I can rule out with reasonable confidence that I wasn't stating a fact when I called her a "monkey fucker". Happier was around when I threw out another favorite of mine; fuck-stick. Happier even said she wanted to work that into her own lexicon. I took that as the highest of praise. Happier thinks a I swear good. Or well, for you grammar ass-lickers out there.

Perhaps my gift for artful language construction is a product of a strict upbringing. When I was a kid growing up in the 70's, I would get grounded for saying "suck", even if I was helping my Mom vacuum. So "suck nut" just feels liberating to me now. I was a generally nice and happy kid, so it wasn't like I had a lot to swear about, but if I said "shit", I just started running for my life. We were so square (quadrangle?), that I remember the first time my Dad said "shit" in my presence. Dallas Cowboys on t.v., in the basement, Dad sitting in a highback lounge chair. It was maroon. Not my Dad, the chair, you fuck-stick.

One great irony was I ran around, as a kid, yelling with glee that my bike was the "balls!", and my new dog was the "balls!", and Mr. B. my English teacher was the "balls!" That is, until a kid who grew up in Manhattan embarrassingly asked me if I knew that "balls" was a synonym for testicles. My parents loved that things were the "balls!" but if I uttered "crap" I was grounded for two weeks before I could say "Sorry, sorry!"

It was the 70's, so it was fine to call my brother a "retard", but if I called him "stupid" I got ... well, grounded, of course. My sister, who was a bitch -- and can still channel her inner-bitch like a pro -- could not be called a "bitch." Jerk was fine. Bitch, grounded. Terd, dung, scat, poop, "B.M." (short for bowel movement I learned years later) all on the approved list. But "shit" was verboten. Go figure.

So here's my tip for swearing like a mad sailor. Take any general-use curse word (fuck, shit, ass, dick, etc.) and add it to a totally benign term. For example, "fuck" plus "wad" makes "fuckwad." Dick plus the verb dangle plus -er becomes "dick dangler." I don't know what it means, but it sounds good. "Ass" plus "rope" plus -ing? "What, are you ass-roping?" Again, I don't know what it means, but it sounds better than plain "You ass." Go practice with a loved-one and let me know how it works out, would you?

When you are ready for the next level, add two nice words to make a new swear that makes people go, "Ewwww!" The advantages here are many-fold, not least of which is you gain plausible deniability for later, especially if you rip one at work or when fighting with your spouse. Or if the kids hear it, heaven forbid. An example would be mixing "pillow" with "pounder" for the very gross "pillow pounder." (Not mine originally) Hair and glue? "She's got hairglue!" It implies bad things, so don't use it if you don't want the responsibility. These aren't safe for rookies, so don't blame me if you get dumped, punched, slapped or sued, you fucktard.

Actually, the best use of forbidden words / inappropriate phrasing I've ever heard came from my wife's grandmother, of all people. I'd like to think she knew what she was doing, but I'll never be sure, as she passed away a few years back. At ninety-four, she had been picked up from her retirement community for a visit with the kids, grand kids, great-grand kids, and our very large, friendly dog. As our house-cow nuzzled her and laid his monster-sized head in her lap, she gently petted his head and scratched his ears. The room grew quiet as she travelled back in time to her youth. She spoke lovingly of her time on the family farm, and how she used to drive a horse and buggy. But her favorite pet was her cat. Oh, how she loved her cat. She came back to present and looked lovingly at her many family members gathered around, and said, "Oh, how I used to love rubbing my pussy."

Boy, did she HAVE the gift.

Almost Brilliant

You know how mayonnaise and ketchup and all sorts of condiments now come in bottles that rest on their lids so the good stuff is always right where you need it? I thought that up. No shit, for real. I was walking up and down the aisles of a Price Chopper in Vermont like 14 years ago and the idea just came to me. We were there just because it was the first grocery in our area open 24 hours. Life was pretty boring, so much so that we thought going to the grocery store at midnight was actually entertainment. We were wilder once.

Somebody stole my idea though. Because it wasn't a month later that I saw Hines ketchup in the now ever-present inverted containers. Bastards. Sneaky damn bastards. How did they steal my idea and get it to market so fast?

Voice recognition. Yep, thought that up, too. Perhaps you are familiar with Dragon Natural Speaking and Ford's Sync? They owe their thanks to me, although some may claim otherwise. But I know what I know. In fact, I'm only typing this entry to spite the "stealers" out there.

It's not just commercial endeavors, either. When it comes to world events, I'm like a modern day Nostradamus. I had the US invasion of North Korea pegged, except George "W" Bush wrecked my prediction with the whole Afghanistan and Iraq wars thing. Technically speaking, both Afghanistan and Iraq are in Asia, so I think I'm still good on that call. Or close enough, anyway.

So folks, ride my coattails to the next big thing. Here's my latest prediction; a public option for health care reform. Bank on it. It's a lock.

Is it Just Cramps or CANCER?

So let me figure this one out. One can mix up cramps for cancer? That sounds wicked fucking scary. So if I eat a pair of egg, cheese, and sausage sandwiches for breakfast, leftover steak for pre-lunch, two grilled roast beef sandwiches for real lunch, a pound of pistachios for a tweener, and top off my daily intake with a full dinner of Polo Marsala, two beers, and two diet cokes, it's not cramps. I had cancer Saturday night? Huh, I thought it was overeating.

...or...

Flat belly
Slim legs
Amazing butt
Get them in one amazing workout!

Really? One work out. Fuckin' A. One? I'm in, sign me up. It almost sounds too good to be true. I can workout once. I can do this.

...or...

Gorgeous for less; 67 best buys for your skin, hair, body and more! To get gorgeous for less, I should buy...67 products. Not counting toothpaste and deodorant, I'm gonna say, in my lifetime, I won't buy 67 total products. Skin, okay, requires lotion I suppose. Hair; shampoo. And okay, fine, conditioner. Body? If you count feet, Desenex for crud that grows between my toes. But what's the 'more' here? Elbows? Eyebrows? The taint? Is there a product that treats elbows and the taint? That would be novel.

...or...

Alicia Silverstone's Diet Makeover? Alright, can we agree on something? Alicia Silverstone's diet needed a make-over? I throw the flag on that one. She was hot ten years ago, remains hot today, and will die someday, but it will be a hot death. Did she blow up like a Sumo wrestler? Steak and cheese diet not work out for her? I guess I missed the day she was fat. But I feel pretty good stating her diet probably wasn't made over. Tweaked, maybe. But she looks to be pushing 100 lbs. now, so I bet we'd all be happy with either of her diets. And her genes. Can I have her genes, please?

For the record, I'm a dude. I am sitting next to a recent issue of Health Magazine, and I am going to go for broke here. I'm not the target audience the editors of Health had in mind for this issue. I'm pretty sad that my daughter and wife might be.

My tips for gorgeous for less, amazing ass, and cramps vs. cancer:
*get rid of your mirrors (free - can't get less than free)
*wear baggier pants (okay, not an amazing ass, just a well-hidden one)
*talk to your doctor for cancer diagnosis ($20 co-pay)

Who needs a magazine? I give this advice for free. Do you feel better yet? I do.

Forty is the New Black

A hundred years ago, forty was worth a big party. Hell, if you survived measles, polio, infections, pneumonia, and childbirth, you were something special. Nowadays, turning forty is as remarkable as turning, well, thirty-nine. So why do people get all nutty about forty?

My wife turns forty today. She's hotter now than she was ten years ago, and she was really cute then. She's more accomplished now. Wiser. Funnier. Deeper, reflective, patient, stronger... Who wouldn't want to turn forty, I gotta ask? At least if you could do it with her grace & style. She has done stuff that anyone would see as admirable, like raise two beautiful kids, be cast in a musical production, work full time, and all while putting up with me. Puh-lease. I know a lot of people that could never handle what she does, ever - at forty, or at any age. And frosting - she fits in clothes that she could have worn fifteen years, for Christ's sake.

She's not really special today. She is special everyday. For forty years, fifteen with me. I don't think a cake and a card really would be a fair reward, and since we just rebuilt our kitchen, we can't afford a treasure to match her. She just caught me staring at her. I acted dumb, as I was thinking mildly lewd thoughts and was distracted from my writing. A bit of blond hair is spilling out from her baseball cap, and it's sexy as hell. She is cleaning our new kitchen with 409 while I stare.

See, that's my point. I like her more and more. I find her more and more attractive. She's formidable, unpredictable and reliable, powerful and gentle. If she was sexy and funny at thirty-five, just imagine how incredible she is now? So everyday is worth a celebration. Today, it just comes with cake.

Dear Mom & Dad,

I wrote God a few weeks ago, but he's a lousy pen-pal. No response, not even an e-mail. Sheeesh. Guess he's busy. Maybe I have the wrong address. Would you check for me? I haven't written you in a long while, so please excuse my poor manners.

I had a poignant memory of you today and wish your were closer, so we could have shared it together. I'm sure you feel the same way. It's silly really, but I got home from work today and our kitchen is totally finished. And I thought of you immediately. Instead of sitting in the new kitchen, I went outside and listened to the wind howl and watch the neighborhood trees contort. I remembered when you remodeled your kitchen and the pride you shared with us when you finished the project. You were so happy and felt so good about what you accomplished. We feel the same way, and I know some our success and accomplishment is due to you. So thanks for showing us the way. I just wish you could come over and have a cup a coffee and a long chat. A chat about anything. But you can't come over and I totally understand. But I can still wish it, right?

"C" is sitting at the peninsula doing her homework. The light is so good, it makes even doing homework feel nice. So you can imagine how cooking makes us feel. Mom, I can see you helping make the turkey at Thanksgiving. It makes a great mental picture, even if it won't happen this year. Mom, you would absolutely drop dead (sorry, awkward wording...) to see how much she's grown since you last saw her. She's starting to be a young woman, although most of the time she's still just a girl. She's so gentle, I wonder how I could be her dad, given that I'm an ox. But wondering aside, I'm really glad I am. Dad, she'd melt you in a minute, you softy. So far, were doing pretty good with her.

And "W"? He's great. Dad, he can throw a ball like no one's business. And he can draw! At seven, he puts pencil to paper and ideas just take shape. Is it wrong to be jealous of your kid's talent? And origami... he folds paper into shapes so graceful, intricate, and delicate. I'm in awe of his care and craft. Both kids miss each of you. Almost as much as I do.

So, that's about it. For today, anyway. I think of you far more often than I write. And I know you can't write as often as you wish, so don't feel bad. You would if you could. I hope you are happy and well. Say 'hi' to my brother, but I'm still mad at him. Love him, yes. Like him? Not yet. And if you see God, would you tell him I'm not writing until he does!

Love,

Odds

Just Listen to Yourself

Uh-oh. This is going to be a rant. I may sound like an OF, Republican, Angry White Guy, or Lou Dobbs. I'm channeling Dennis Leary. Hear me out.

Years back when I lived in Vermont, I was listening to the radio and heard a report (now infamous) about a women who successfully sued McDonalds because she burned the skin of her nether-parts with hot coffee. She stuck a Styrofoam cup of steaming hot Joe between her legs and drove away. Or started to, until through the normal operation of her motor vehicle, her thighs squished the cup and the molten coffee boiled her... well, parts.

For the record, I think McDonalds is in league with Satan. And styrofoam has a half-life that makes uranium look like a mayfly and will be in landfills until Hell freezes over, thaws out, and freezes again. But...

What kind of moron puts hot anything in their crotch? A stupid moron. Sort of like gettin' mad when you drip hot glue from a hot glue gun on your hand. It's called hot glue 'cause it is...hot fucking glue, numb-nuts. So, hot coffee parked in your special place?!? Well, duh.

When did needing someone else to pay for one's own stupidity, ineptitude, tom-foolery, natural ability, height, heart condition, or whatever else ails you become normal? If not "pay for", then replace it with "fix" or "solve" or any synonym for solve without the complaintant taking any responsibility for the alleged affront. And this is when I really sound like an OF, (Old Fucker for those not in the know), so get ready.

No, Kentucky Fried Chicken didn't make you fat. You made you fat. Or you and the genes your parents handed down. So sue yourself, fatass. No, pot holes don't get fixed in a timely fashion 'cause most towns and cities are broke, so vote for higher taxes, dumb-ass. That tar shit is pricey. No, you should pay $3.00 a gallon for gas. It's called supply and demand. They have oil, you want oil. So, sell your S.U.V. and buy a hybrid. Or walk, which - surprise, surprise - might help with your KFC issue, by the way.

Screwed up kids? No, it is probably not your school's fault. It is probably yours. No, really. Your teen is smokin' dope? Um, put down the scotch-rocks? You think your kid's teacher doesn't like your kid? Um, do you like your kid? If you won't raise your kid 'cause it is unrewarding, don't complain when the school tries -- and fails -- to do the job the way you want it done. If you want schools to do all the work, vote for higher taxes. And be prepared to not agree with everything that happens.

In favor of the war in Afghanistan? Vote for higher taxes. Them Predator drones? Nope, not free. Not free at all. Like the state of the VA nowadays? Who does? Do the math, friends. Two active wars, defense projects like the F-35, robotic weapon systems, and medical costs for head injuries suffered by the brave soldiers standing up to do the work we (...yes, we...) asked them to do. So, to quote from Good Fellas, "Fuck you, pay me." You want security and want it for free? Hey, that's funny.

Not in favor of the war? Exactly who, then, is gonna protect us from those who really do think America is fat, lazy, and arrogant? Or those who think of women as good for breeding and nothing else? Remember this - the Taliban killed the ideal of pluralistic schools in their homeland, as well as eradicating ancient, historically significant religious shrines that weren't their religious shrines. Pro or con war, we are going to pay. Pick your poison. But it is going to hurt.

See, this rant is about us. We want stuff, but we don't want to pay for it. We want to be taken seriously but act like children. Actually, most children act better than a lot of so-called grown-ups, but you know what I mean. We want good government but don't want to -- or can't -- understand making hard, compromising choices. Pundits mock universal health care in Canada or the U.K., but most of us couldn't tell anyone else thing one about universal health care. We want to be thinner, but our exercise regimen consists of walking to our car twice a day.

Schools don't teach values? Then you teach values. Politicians are all crooked? The run for fucking office! Want erectile function instead of dysfunction? Take Viagra but for the love of all things good, don't complain about your health care costs rising. At least something is rising that makes you happy, right? Gas too expensive? Drive less. Don't like you kid's soccer coach, volunteer to coach. Got a gut, do sit-ups. Boss an asshole? So what? Takes one to know one.

See, we all have complaints. Too often, we also seem to think someone else should take responsibility for them. We want our cake. But we don't want to pay for it and we want it nut & gluten free, too. Take a minute and stop yammering. Shhhhh. The problem, my friends, might not be "them" but "us". Just listen to yourself. I just don't want to.