Musings: Cussin’ Makes Me Giggle
Cracked.com is on my daily “to do” list.
There’s something about profanity that makes me giggle. It’s probably because I never progressed mentally past 12 years old. I was going to say boobs have the same effect on me . . .
. . . but not really. Boobs don’t make me giggle. Boobs make me lose all thought processes. I don’t think it’s a coincidence “boob” and “boot” are one letter off — boobs boot my brain.
Well, now that we’ve gotten the talk about boobs out of the way; profanity makes me laugh. Cracked articles usually have a bunch of cussin’. I’m ok with that as I usually learn things while reading the posts. The cussin’ just adds some spice.
This morning’s content features The 5 Most Badass Medics in the History of War. I started off giggling about the description of Hospital Apprentice First Class Robert Bush’s duties at Okinawa:
Hospital Apprentice First Class Bush held his blood bag with one hand, drew his pistol with the other, and, after presumably snapping off some cool one-liner like, “The doctor will see you NOW, BITCHES!” began mowing down the charging Japanese.
I must be like Beavis and Butthead. “Heh heh. Bitches. Heh heh.”
Biggest giggle came from the entry about Green Beret Gary Beikrich:
When Gary Beikirch joined the Green Berets in the mid-’60s, he knew exactly what he was getting into. Joining the military in 1967 was like walking into a Porta-Potty on the second day of a music festival — you know you’re going to see some shit.
I’m going to have to remember that analogy.
Speaking of cussin’ . . . I was a US Navy Chief Petty Officer.
When we go to Navy boot camp, they hand us a book: “Official Navy Swear Words.” Throughout our entire career we’re encouraged to add to, manipulate, and become masters of the art of cussin’. It’s true. You’re reading this on the Internet, right? Must be true.
Similar to the dad in Christmas Story who “. . . wove a tapestry of obscenities that as far as we know is still hanging in space over Lake Michigan,” . . .
. . . my father was also a master of profanity. One of his favorite phrase was, “Shit fire and save matches.” Just writing that makes me laugh.
All right. Story setup is done. Now for the story:
When I was 16, in possession of a brand spanking new driver’s license, I was probably giggling at profanity and boobs. My dad’s old car had saved a bunch of matches by shitting fire and then shitting the bed. (How’s that for mixed metaphors?)
For the first time in the man’s life, he was going to have a Brand. New. Car. My dad was 41. To that point he’d only owned clunkers. He was a master self-taught tinkerer / backyard mechanic. We (he) didn’t have a choice. Four hungry kids. One income. (His.) Couldn’t afford a real mechanic.
But now in the late summer of 1974 my dad was getting a Brand. New. Car. My dad had been driving a rental car since the demise of Ole’ Betsy. I was tasked with coming along with my dad to drive His. New. Car. back from the car dealer while my dad returned the rental.
We left the car dealer, my dad in the rental car leading our two car parade. I was “caboose-ing” with His. New. Car.
We approached an intersection to turn onto Brooks Road in Memphis. Brooks Road was the busiest street in all of Memphis. My dad hadn’t bothered to tell me where the rental car place was. Why would he? I wouldn’t have been able to easily find it on my own . . . and besides, all I had to do was follow him. My 16 year old brain is already over-taxed thinking about profanity and boobs. Why add to the load?
Since I had no idea where he was going, I was really tamping down the cussin’ / tits thoughts and concentrating on not losing sight of my dad as he made the right turn onto Brooks. I was swiveling my head 180 degrees, from left to right. To the left to find an opening to turn right onto Brooks; right to keep an eye on my dad as he tried to determine the same thing.
My dad took off. That panicked me. Couldn’t lose him. Whipped my head to the left. “Ah! An opening!” Floored the accelerator to catch up with my dad.
Except he hadn’t gone anywhere. He’d simply moved far enough that he was out my peripheral vision.
I smashed — yeah, that’s an appropriate word — smashed into the back of the rental car.
With. His. New. Car.
Not only did I destroy the rear of the rental car, I destroyed the front end of His. New. Car. Destroyed is the appropriate word there, too.
Through the very-cracked windshields of both cars, I could see my dad slamming his fists into the roof of the rental car. I imagine I could hear him, too.
I could definitely hear him when he got out of the car, walked around to the back, surveyed the damage to both cars, and then came to my window.
Wouldn’t have blamed the man if he’d hauled my skinny ass out of the car and tossed me in front of a semi-truck barreling down Brooks.
Some folks find profanity offensive. Each to his own. I do my best to determine the situation I’m in and speak accordingly. “Nice fuckin’ sermon, Reverend. Real Bitchin’.”
My good friend John has a saying which, of course, makes me giggle: “Profanity is the crutch of the inarticulate motherfucker.”