14 August 2007


The above post title is actually the nickname given to me by fellow scuba instructor, Joel. He bestowed this name upon me when I "shockingly" used the F-word at an instructor meeting. My close friends and family know that I have quite the potty mouth. These people did not. So, whenever Joel talks to me, I'm referred to as "Sailor."

Cussing is, I feel, an art form. Granted, it is a rather base form of communication and one that should only be used in the most strenuous of circumstances (i.e., you just smashed your thumb with a hammer OR your least-favorite political party just took Congress and the White House by a landslide vote), but I frequently find myself using at least four of George Carlin's seven words on a daily basis. If you don't know about comedian George Carlin's seven words that aren't to be used on TV, do a Google search and you'll find them. For the sake of those family and friends who don't want to see those seven words published here, I'll refer to them in the number order in which Mr. Carlin says them.

Number 1 refers to fecal matter and is a pretty good explicative to be used when either something goes pear-shaped or when you're changing a dirty diaper. Number 2 is good for referencing someone's mood (and again can be used to talk about dirty diapers that are milder in form). Number 3 is a doozy and I use it when I'm really angry or when I refer to the cable company (just add -ers to the end). Number 4 is NEVER used in this household and is completely off limits, even to a sailor-mouth like me. I've never had a use for numbers 5 or 7, but number 6 can come quite in handy when talking about a numb skull idiot who has just number 2'ed you off.

So, there you have it. Except for my first post entry where I referred to a fatherless boy and a structure to hold back water, I will try to keep this place clean (there are some family and friends who, understandably don't appreciate my colorful vocabulary). On the sometimes frequent occasion that I let one or more of the above fly, I do apologize profusely in advance, but I will probably use it only in the defamation of an idiotic politician or Holly-weird starlet who can't keep her panties on. Just take solace in the fact that in another 100 years or so, those seven words may be off the cuss radar and a new seven will have taken their place. Can you imagine late-19th century Britons who blushed at the word "belly?" They wouldn't make it here in my house.

Of course, the hardest thing about cussing is having to give it up when your kids are repeating EVERYTHING you say. For the last couple of weeks, there's been a lot of "What the...?" and quite a bit of "Son-of-a...?" and a couple of "Mother-puss-bucket"s dropped here and there. I'm lamenting my now-shortened and less-colorful vocabulary, but it's better than having one of my kids drop the F-bomb in Babies-R-Us!

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I've given all of my parents and even some friends a warning that mine is an r-rated site and that you must be at least THIS tall to ride the ride. I don't blog about too much real family crap outside my own house, but I tell everyone to wear their big pants, because you never know when I might out them all!