I Swear

Where did I pick up such a potty mouth? Phew. Some of the expletives I release make even me blush. Naturally, I attract ladies with impeccable vocabulary and they’re none to impressed by my creative cussing.

Here’s my justification: I need to swear in order to release stress. If I hold it in, I’m going to get a sour belly.

The most fearful Christians employ the interesting method of changing an obvious curse into a pardon granted due to technicality. You know the type—something awful happens like, say, Tim’s reading glasses plop into the public john when he bends over to re-tuck his willy and he lets it fly: “God bless it.”

He must be joking. There’s no way Tim wants God to bless the fact that he’s going fishing in his own puddle of urine, spit, and discarded chewing gum to retrieve some cheaters, which cost under $10 at Costco for three. If there were a God, he should peel back the mall roof and do as he was asked, thereby making Tim’s next commode trip culminate in a Blackberry splashdown.

When I was ten-ish on the Little League mound, I often missed my target and occasionally attempted to recalibrate by exclaiming, “Fuck!” It was ill advised indeed, as my Sicilian father (who cursed like Richard Pryor on fire) didn’t have the hearing problems I have and threatened to feed me Ivory cakes until I repented.

Roll forward forty years and I still can’t throw a goddamn (sorry) strike. I foolishly invited my latest dating-disaster-in-training to the game before realizing she is very, very Christian and is bruised by words I find therapeutic. I gave up hit number five in a row and yelled, “Fuck me! I suck. If I hit another goddamn bat like that I’m retiring.” I saw her nun’s habit fray and ignite. After the inning finally ended, I visited Sister Mary of the Silver-Tongued.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“Well, that wasn’t very nice.”

“I know. That fucking guy can’t even bat his weight and he hit a double.”

“I was referring to your cursing.”

“Huh?”

“I’m sorry, I just don’t approve of taking the Lord’s name in vain.”

“Oh. I apologize. Can I say ‘fuck’?”

“That’s even worse.”

“Jesus … oops, sorry.”

“That’s OK. Better luck next inning. Aren’t you up next?”

“Ah, yes. Be right back.” I took a few steps, stopped, and pleaded, “Say, how about ‘shit’?”

“Really?”

“Fine.”

I grabbed my helmet, took some practice swings, and stepped into the box. Both the ump and the catcher remarked that my woman in the stands must have a complete lack of self-esteem or serious vision problems to be dating me. I held in the naughty word and watched strike one go by—a cock (not the swear-word type) shot. I fouled off strike two and then was called out on a breaking pitch I should have crushed. I had to say something.

“Fart bubbles.”

“What did you just say?” the ump asked while removing his mask. I think the catcher went into convulsions.

“Fart bubbles,” I repeated as I glanced toward my saintly guest, who did not nod the approval I expected.

“I should toss your sorry ass for that. What the fuck’s wrong with you, son?”

“That pitch was doo-doo,” I said as I sulked back to the bench and took another well-deserved beating from my teammates.

Gosh darn it.

Taking Offense

There’s a good reason why that term isn’t “giving offense.” It’s up to the subject to decide how to react. Perhaps I’ve numbed myself or maybe I just don’t care, but I rarely take offense. I find it healthier. As soon as my left index finger hovers over the F key, I can hear an old woman somewhere gasp. Oh, lighten up, you crusty old curmudgeon.

Some reviewers—whom I won’t mention by name, but would like to boot in their pretentious booties—react to my words by telling the world my humor is foul and crude. I stare at the review and wonder, Why did you subject yourself to 300 pages of it in the first place?

I don’t like Tommy Bahama shirts so, when shopping at Nordy’s, I don’t go near the rack covered in shades of beige and ferns. I don’t pick up one of these obnoxious old-man labels, try it on, and then tell every other shopper how repulsive I find them.

Why are people who take offense to curse words the same people who can’t miss the news showing blood smears, rape victims, and casualties of war (not to mention Geraldo Rivera’s porn-stache)?

Fuck.

Ooh, did that hurt? No, it didn’t. Stop. It was not crude. It’s a word, you silly goose. In fact, it’s the most versatile word in our language. Taking offense to it is akin to taking offense to air in the form of a breeze.

Don’t be such a pussy.

Oh … my … gawd: He said the p-word! Yes, I did. I love pussy. There, I said it again. Pussy, pussy, pussy. Hairless, glistening, pinkish pussy with lusciously puffy lips. Does that sting? Tough beans. It makes me feel good to say it and, in fact, enter it. It’s also versatile (referring to the word here). Imagine the world without pussy. I’d have to use the politically correct version: va-jay-jay. Yu-uck-uck! I can’t call one of my baseball teammates a va-jay-jay when he squeaks after being hit by pitch. He is absolutely a pussy—an embarrassingly brittle pussy.

What’s crude about the word “shit,” shithead?

I’d rather be called a shithead than a poop-head. I am more highly offended by poop. When women say poop, it gives me agita. I don’t want to think about it. I just got the chills. Women can say shit, crap, and turd, but never poop. Add fart to that. No woman should say or do fart, especially on national TV, Kendra. Women also should never “take a …” They can pee, tinkle, and wiz. Even better, they can powder their noses.

How do dickheads and douchebags find my books anyway?

Oh, sorry. Should I have used the more politically correct version, d-bag? Here’s a solution: Stop taking things so literally. When I say a reviewer is a douchebag, I do not mean that she’s full of piss and vinegar (although she could be). I mean she’s a clueless retard. Uh oh, I said retard and that’s totally vulgar and unacceptable. Wait a minute. Aren’t most retards clueless and thus unaware of the offense? At least I didn’t say she was a fat retard. It is not insensitive to retards when I say somebody is retarded just as it is not insensitive to me when somebody is called hairy-assed.

Lighten up and laugh a little, will ya? I’m going to go wax my hiney now.