Just a warning – this post has A LOT of cursing and creative swears in it. If you’re easily offended, act as if you never saw this post and move on to the next. However, if you continue on, you’ll come to have a greater understanding of the cesspool that is my personality.
Ya’ know the country song Pound Sign by Kevin Fowler—wherein he sings about feeling “like pound-sign, question mark, star, exclamation point”? Obviously, Kevin Fowler didn’t want to write a song with the lyric “I feel like a pile of hippo shit that someone dick-tossed into a writhing, burning pile of motherfuckers”. The tune would have had to change, and I doubt country stations would want to play that song on repeat at any time of day. Country music is generally family friendly, even when it’s risqué, so writing such an obscene song would probably not work out great for this man’s career. Not to mention the fact that I think I’m the only person that says “dick-tossed” as if it’s a real thing.
Regardless of Mr. Fowler’s intentions in writing this song, you can’t not congratulate him on cussing without really cussing. That’s a skill of which I’m supremely jealous. I mean, look at the way I threw “hippo shit”, “dick-tossed”, and “motherfuckers” into a single sentence without even trying! I’m the type of person that drops an F-bomb or any other creative expletive for any occasion. Just got engaged, you say? Well that’s fan-fucking-tastic! Your meemaw just made it through her first round of dialysis? She’s a tough old whorebag! You won the lottery and are going car shopping? God love you, you total waste of fuckjuice! Yeah. That’s who I am as a person. And it’s contagious and airborne. A common phrase that Jodi and I shout at each other around the house is “YOU FAT BITCH!” Then we giggle and feel great about our marriage.
Weekly, maybe even daily, it crosses my mind that my language is abrasive and obnoxious and has, on one occasion, gotten me banned from a church.* But it’s not on purpose. Somehow, when I’m around small children (now, not so much in the past), I can control my cursing. I rarely, if ever, say a curse word around my three-year-old nephew. Surrounded by adults, though, I turn into a one man pride parade for foul mouths. I honestly cannot have a conversation with another adult human being without at least the word “fuck”, or some variation thereof, escaping my lips. It’s totally earnest, though! I’m not cursing because I think it’s cool, or shocking, or just fun. Honestly, I just don’t know how to not curse when speaking. “Fuck” is a flourish, a spice, that I add to my daily conversations and don’t even realize I’ve done it until it’s done.
Not that I ever expect a need to write (or expect others to want to read) my autobiography, but if I ever write one, I imagine that I, too, will have to get creative with the title. A white book jacket with my smiling face and the word “fuck” in big, black, bold letters will probably not be placed in a very conspicuous places in a bookstore. Maybe the progressive cancer (that I constantly theorize about having) won’t kill me before I can figure out something more creative—and acceptable. If worse comes to worse, I’ll go with my original title that mentions my wife’s vagina and my step-daughter’s love of Jesus.
Until next time…
* Ok. I didn’t get banned by a church. But my grandmother said I could never return. And it wasn’t for cussing. It was for laughing at inappropriate times. Watch for my post about “church giggles”.