Rassin Frackin Consarn Dad Gummit to Heck

Know what I’m not doing as much as I used to?  Swearing.  What’s up with that?

I remember being younger, when kids were just learning how to curse and all the naughty words were alphabetized. Son of a B!  The S word! The dreaded F word!  I was always confused what the C word was, but I did know they all were good for a spanking.  Only once did I get my actual mouth washed out with actual soap:  I said the felony-grade “F You” to my little brother.  But he deserved it, because he said to me, “Get out of my life,” for no reason at all.  I’m sure I had done nothing to merit such heartbreaking treatment from my closest kin.

Swearing starts as a guilty pleasure.  Kids I knew would curse with this gleefully shifty look in their eyes and a daredevil tone in their voice.  Like they were getting away with something, akin to shoplifting or running a stop sign.  For some people, that candy-stealing vibe never quite leaves them when they, say, take the Lord’s name in vain.  I developed a respect for the people who incorporated swear words into their vocabulary as naturally as “velcro” or “Happy Meal” or “hello.”  It became my goal to be as comfortable with swearing as a sailor, and I’m pleased to say I was successful.

And if I hadn’t been a natural before moving to New York, that city burned dirty words into my tongue for real.  Good friends would greet each other with “Hey, s**thead, how the f**k are you?  Kick a$$!” and then give each other a hug.  Sweet old ladies flip you the bird at the least provocation.  Baby’s first word may well be inappropriate for prime time TV.  (Reason 43 why we left the city before the baby gets borned.)

So I don’t know whether it’s because I live in the much-more-conservative South – a small, religious community at that – or my daddy-instinct is cleaning up my act before our baby-girl arrives, but the metaphorical soap has made its rounds in my metaphorical mouth.  I think it’s both those reasons.  I can definitely say I would NOT want the first words my baby hears, on entering the world, to be “Holy S!  Sweetheart, that baby’s F-in’ adorable!  Effin’ A, way to go!”  Even if she doesn’t understand them.

Language is generally much more proper here in northern Alabama than it is in Manhattan.  Maybe I don’t mean ‘proper’ – there’s a heapin’ helpin’ of local color, down-South slang, and y’all-ism.  I think the word I mean is ‘polite.’  When we produced a 1940′s comedy here in Winfield – a play where the bluest word is “Hell” and God is only mentioned in connection with the church – we still had one or two negative comments about the language.  When someone is reading from a script in auditions and substitutes “Dang” for “Damn” – you know you shouldn’t go dropping F-bombs.

I let a curse word slip the other day, and I actually blushed about it, looking around to see if anyone heard.  Not that I’m complaining, really, but what’s going on?  What the he… the heck is going on with me?

The only time I really allow real swear words to escape my lips, any more, is when I’m playing video games.  Proving that video games will be the death of our society, no doubt.  Goll-dang it.

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~ by joshkauffman on September 21, 2010.