What Did You #%&*@* Say?

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So, I was reminded not too long ago that my predilection for profanity was especially evident lately. Lately? Where hath these innocents been?

Yes, OK, I have a mouth and it’s pretty potty at times, but I believe I’ve earned it honestly. I’m sorry, but I cannot apologize for it.  According to even more recent studies than the ones that said swearing helps with pain, they now say my kind of swearing indicates genius level intelligence too.  I wouldn’t lie about that…. I’d swear to it….

So, in that vein, I (re)present an updated story I published a few years ago about passing the gift down…

For about a millennium now it’s been said that kids say the damnedest darnedest things. I know this truth first-hand and I’ve kept a journal to capture a good number of eyebrow raising, head scratching and -are you for real- statements that my son has spouted since he started spouting.

I always encouraged free and open speech with him and I’ve always adored hearing what comes out of that new and unfettered brain.  The only thing I’ve forbidden is swearing.  It’s not that I’ve pretended that swearing doesn’t happen; we’re all aware of its worldwide domination, thus he’s heard such a word or two in the homeland.

He had attempted to copy those words, but only once, (that I know of), OK, technically twice, but the second time was just a noun change.  It happened when he was two and a half.  We were on holiday and his dad was desperately searching our vehicle for the camera before the beautiful tall ships we were watching passed by.  While he was frantically throwing items left and right, he yelped, “Where’s my f*#kin’ camera”?

A couple of hours later, on our way home, I noticed my son frantically looking left and right.  I asked him what was wrong and he plaintively asked, “Where’s my f*#kin’ camera”? To be fair, his toy camera did, in fact, appear to be a missing casualty of his father’s earlier desperation.

About two weeks later we were playing tea party and he came out of his room with most of his supplies except one.  With hand on hip and grave consternation, he spoke. “Where’s my f*#kin’ teapot”?  We had a little chat and I have to say he’s been pretty good at finding alternative words of satisfaction ever since.

Actually, he would eventually become a little too efficiently aware; he grew into the Soup Nazi of potty-mouth alternatives. Our self-proclaimed lord of language decency worked his moral indignance to a level that drove me to drink. He deployed a ‘swear jar’, a wretched vessel of confiscated loonies for every swear word he caught, thereby generously cutting into my own happy hour funding. Which also had me questioning my study-confirmed intelligence for having agreed to this insanity.

So, yes,  I can swear like a drunken sailor.  Actually, I feel that analogy is an insult; I’m certain my stupendous ability could teach a sailor a thing or two.  Lest you accuse me of hypocrisy, I look at it like being an artist of abstract art who had to first prove that she can paint a real-life landscape before delving into free-flow style. My swearing is not a replacement for regular speaking skill, just occasional, as required, colorful enhancement.  Certainly some days need more color than others.

Also, as a public service announcement, there have been recent studies that state hollering four letter words helps to alleviate pain. Think about that the next time you hammer your finger.  No really, look it up.

swearing hammer guy

OK, back to my son.  What I’ve always told him is profanity is adult language; he’s free to swear when he is 18 or paying the bills, whichever comes first, (not gonna lie – secretly hoping it’s paying the bills).

No, I don’t really believe he will never swear again before he turns 18, but I’m pretty sure he’ll have learned to speak several appropriate adjectives first. After that, if he wants to add a little color now and then, fine, but more importantly, maybe then I can earn some #*@kin’ coins back.

RL

Originally posted on August 24, 2013 by

15 thoughts on “What Did You #%&*@* Say?”

  1. I think there’s good profanity and bad profanity, meaning that some cussing is just not very creative, because it’s probably been said before. When one can be creatively profane, well then, you’ve really got something!

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  2. Robyn, this is #%@*ing hilarious! It reminded me of a similar situation with my then, 3 yr old son. My husband had been wallpapering & dealing with a particularly difficult piece on our stair landing. When he finally managed to get the piece up, he realized it was a different dye lot. You can imagine the profanity that ensued. A few days later as I was helping my son down the stairs, he stopped dead on the landing, placed his hands on his hips & said, ” this #*%&ing hall🙀 We still laugh about it today. He & his wife are expecting their first child in October. I am sure it will all come back to him😂

    Thank you for the smile this morning!

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  4. Ha! kids are neat like that aren’t they? I don’t know how true the following story is because I got it from a colleague, but I can certainly see it happening – no suspension of disbelief necessary. I worked for a large Eastern Canadian trucking company. They had about 2,000 pieces of equipment and 5,000 drivers. About 1/2 their equipment and personnel worked out of their main terminal in Moncton. They used a hub and spoke system of organizing the flow of freight in their system – and Moncton was the largest hub and head office. All company owners in general enjoy seeing people busy so it was a default that any freight passing even close to Moncton was routed through the terminal – ostensibly to see if another shipment (and hence revenue) could be added or maintenance could be done or drivers switched, etc. They had a cross dock operation – meaning the building was long with doors on both sides (about 50 transport doors per side) and inbound trailers were unloaded on one side with outbound trailers loading on the other side. Inside forklifts sprinted from side to side in a byzantine dance that never repeated, taking freight off an assigned trailer and then depositing it in any one of fifty trailers destined for one city each.

    The big challenge with a cross dock (as opposed to an express which was loaded in one city for direct delivery to another city )is that it often takes hours to unload and reload so the trailers are left without their tractors attached and shunt drivers moved trailers in and out constantly. In fact for a terminal that size, there were 4 or 5 shunters employed on each 12 hour shift. They carried either a radio or a data transfer system and they got their marching orders from the dock supervisor inside. There were separate storage parking lots for loaded and ready trailers, for empty trailers, for trailers waiting to unload, for trailers destined for repairs, etc. Then there was a short term lot for trailers whose next move was uncertain or that were just pulled temporarily to facilitate dock operations – but were going back in. These trailers had to have a home by the end of the shift.

    Anyway, I did a night highway run 6 nights a week and shared a tractor with a shunt driver who worked the yard days. He and I spoke at least twice w eek to discuss maintenance, issues, schedules, etc. He had a couple of kids and one was a precocious 5 year old boy who absolutely adored trucks. He told me that he was in big trouble with his wife. Apparently one evening his son was playing with his toy trucks on the living room floor when bed time came. His wife told the young man to pick up his trucks and put them away and then go upstairs to brush his teeth and get ready for bed. After a bit of foot dragging the young guy got up and headed up the stairs – leaving the toy trucks all over the living room floor. His wife called out to the boy and pointed out that he had not put his trucks away. The young man stopped on the stairs and looking directly at his Mom drawled: ” F*ck it. Let the F*cking night shunters get their thumbs out of their F*cking asses, and put the F*cking trucks away.They don’t do F*ck all anyway.” And he proceeded up the stairs. ha!

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