The Joy of Cussing

WARNING: For the politically correct or the milquetoast enabled, the following journal entry may contain “challenging language” and/or “colorful rustic expletives” that require mature linguistic discretion. DO NOT read if you are easily compromised by letters arranged in certain combinations or you are offended by references to words we have all agreed upon that are naughty. Also, if you are in Junior High School, please resist the urge to snicker like Butthead and twitter this to your slack-jawed pals.

So. I get a couple of emails from folks here in our ethereal Sarcoidosis community asking why I have stopped posting. To clarify, if you are reading this, I have not stopped posting. Regardless, I appreciate the concern and thank everyone for their thoughts and prayers. I am quite well and fit, aside from my Sarc, thank you, and continue to enjoy a life full of cussing.

Yes. f!@%$#%@ cussing.

Cussing. Cursing. Profanity. Expletives. Four letter words. FIVE letter words… perhaps SIX or MORE, even. Filth, corruption, and all sorts of blasphemous bits that give the phrase “salty talk” its spice. I try to be good, but alas, in the end, I am a vulgar man. Albeit a foul-mouthed, well-meaning, vulgar man. And as often as I take to scrubbing Bartender’s Friend all over my brass halo, I must begrudgingly admit, I do so love to cuss. Its liberating… even if the devil done made me do it. Hope my gummed pad of I.O.U’s with the Lord never runs short.

I’m at a disadvantage to start with. Genetically speaking, that is. I am a native New Yorker, specifically, New York New York: the Big Apple. Born, two steps out of a cab ride in the middle of @#$%&! Manhattan. And while not everyone in New York City is born already knowing how to curse like a sailor, those two people would agree that most city dwellers know how to artfully weave the word f@#& in and out of polite conversation without turning a head or at least, call upon the blue language cult when necessary (See: Hailing a Cab or Visiting Relatives.)

Now, I am not speaking about being rude or insensitive to other people with words and phrases that they can recognize as shockingly disturbing as they were taught. No. I am speaking about good old fashioned, fist shaking at the air, unapologetic, spittle spewing, purple faced, Personal Vocal Defilement. You know. The kind of cussing in private that makes you feel really good, if not relieved and refreshed. No, I am not going to try and convince the prudish that this is acceptable behavior, and it is not, even if Miss Manners would bend the rules on stammering the word f!@%$#%@ through clenched teeth into a closet after stubbing one’s toe on the way to serve one’s mid-soiree sorbet.

Most of my personal mastery of the uncouth areas of the English language comes from observing my father whilst a lad. And, as if the art of A Christmas Story truly imitated my life, my education of the art of spontaneous foul-mouthed poetry came from the “old man” as we sat in snarled Belt Parkway traffic in a 1959 Ford Galaxy. My father weaving multi-syllabic tapestries of horn-blowing, fist-shaking filth for the entire ride; much to my mother’s blushing embarrassment, and my back-seat–bouncing delight. Dad was a Michelangelo of malediction.

But what Mother did not (or chose not) to realize is that cussing is a man’s prerogative and he does not often cuss because of any deep seated reason, but more often it is merely a reflexive function as he is not truly angry at everyone living in the immediate airspace, and he truly does not require counseling. It’s a guy thing. Kind of the same way its a woman’s prerogative to engage you in the detailed problems of her day… but does not want, nor requires, you to actually comment on how to fix the matter… she just wants someone to wag their head in agreement. Took me years to learn that one.

So I make no apologies when I fuss and cuss and profane and complain when my Sarcoidosis gets the better of my patience. And my big weakness… the flaw in the steely fabric of my stony resolve is… head sweating. Yes I said it. f!@%$#%@ sweat pouring off my head in great torrents of eye-stinging, hair-sopping, endocrine-system-gone-wild abandon. I hate it. I f!@%$#%@ hate it.

Why? Ohhhhhh… it won’t occur in the shower, or if there is a towel nearby, or even if I am in my play-clothes. No. It waits until I am in my most vulnerable positions: freshly, smartly dressed and just about to step out… flush! Drench! Or if my arms are full, say, a stack of teetering wine bottles. f!@%$#%@ flush! Drench! Sting! And, of course, the most important of business or social engagements…

“Well hello there Mr. theGardener, we can come back after you get out of your wet suit.”

“I’m really sorry… it happens.”

“We understand. The aquarium is two blocks that way.”

You would think after 20 years of this Sarc sweating in perfectly acceptable ambient temperatures I’d have an emotional handle on it. But no, I must confess, even in the privacy of my own home with only the dog bearing witness to my sweaty fits, I can peel the paint of the walls with my visceral vivifications… and get an approving thumbs-up from my smiling Jack Nicholson autographed limited edition black velvet painting. The dog hides.

And this lyrical brand of auto-erotic execration is entirely relative. Meaning one need not utter a string of f-bombs (as my parrot does) to thoroughly indulge one’s self in self-soothing profane joy. Depending on who you are, the most select word can have a most devastating effect, and profound satisfaction. For example, a friend of mine’s father who was a reserved and stately gentleman, a stoic banker by trade and used to the halls of stifled quiet desperation, in his case, the word “Fiddlesticks” was the epitome of indiscretion. This profanity was often preceded by the visceral warning: “Ugh!”
Shocking, I know. But cussing is cussing, regardless of the words used; it’s the thought that counts.

My wife will often pick-up on a session before it ever happens, like how a dog can sense an earthquake hours before. She will enter the room and catch me standing and staring at something. Then she’ll say “You have that look again… you’re gonna start a project aren’t you?” And I’ll say something to the effect, “We’ll you know… the gutter really needs fixing.”

“Oh no…. when?” She bemoans.

“Tomorrow. I’ll just step out to the Home Depot and…”

“Good. I’ll make it a point to be gone all day. There’s going to be a lot of cursing involved. I know it.”

And she’s right. For me (and most of the men I grew up with) cussing whilst working on things go hand in hand. A little literal lubricant for the task. Kinda like getting Sarc sweat in your eye at the most inopportune moment and burning your nose with a soldering iron while wiping your face with your sleeve. f!@%$#%@

But as I’ve said. Cussing means nothing. And it means everything… but only for a moment.

F@©# Sarcoidosis.

— My name is theGardener; I have two dogs, a cat, and sarcoidosis.

"Don't just complain... Be a Snarky Sarkie!" Click Here!

Read More of TheGardener's Journal Here.

By exultant
Posted June 4, 2009 at 2:53 pm
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TeeGee,

Great to see you posting. As the daughter of a "sailor", I have to agree that sometimes a little $@$#&^@! can be just what you need... especially when it comes to dealing with sarc.

After my adventures in the last few weeks, I think I'll go peel some paint off the walls. :)

By Blkjewelz8960
Posted June 4, 2009 at 3:05 pm
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Well, I work for the Navy and must admit my vocabulary became quite colorful 20 years ago when I began working for the Navy. The tone has died down somewhat, but the Sarc highs and lows can make even the most Christian person reach for a curse word or two.....

By seaokie
Posted June 4, 2009 at 6:14 pm
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Welcome the f#$% back! Its about f#$%ing time. The f#$%$ing wait was F@#$^worth it. #$%^#$%^ing brilliant post.
I think the point of the cuss is that it is cathartic and it feels good. Slamming your little toe into the coffee table hurts a lot less when there's a full round of cursing involved.
Just getting through traffic requires it. I don't think I'm capable of driving without doing it.
It also helps when paying bills, forgetting things, tripping over a running cat, venting about loud neighbors, getting a biopsy, looking in the mirror, and numerous other super special occasions.
Lets hear it for cathartic cussing #$%^%^it to h#$%!
You're my $%&#$%s09709-09458.!@$$%ing hero.

sea@#$^#$%!okie

By Pat-y
Posted June 4, 2009 at 7:06 pm
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Tee Gee,
My mom was a prude and my father took his colorful language to the steel mill everyday. Therefore, other than the occasional stubbed toe I behaved myself as well. Enter sarcoidosis and prednisone. I can now hold my own with the best of the best truck drivers. My 16 year old daughter has reprimanded me several times because it just comes out and I'm not even mad. I must admit it feels great to take the "filter" off. To be honest I can't control this disease but I can control my language. I choose not to...maybe it's my way of showing my anger at this F#@**!! disease. By the way the t-shirts are great!
Pat-y

By Teacherteacher
Posted June 4, 2009 at 8:30 pm
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TeeGee,
Gee it's good to see you posting. I was never one to do a lot of swearing until....
I was transferred from a 1st grade position at one school during layoffs to an alternative high school of 14 year olds to teach for a year.

I knew I wasn't in Kansas anymore when I started swearing in my dreams.

By Nemomom4
Posted June 5, 2009 at 9:15 am
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While I've been a member here more than a year, I am a newbie to your posts...THANK YOU for the best belly laugh I've had in SUCH a long time! I grew up in a house full of colorful metaphors, and have carried them with me too...as a woman I've had more than a few odd looks, even verbal bashing by some little freak in public who would have never reprimanded a man like he chose to attack me for something simple as the word "pansy a#@". HE has issues, not me! LOL

Anyway, I have mellowed a lot over the years and through developing my faith, but God help me I have those moments when it comes flying out and while I cringe on the outside, inside it feels *so good*!! Of course that means I spend a little more time in confession on Sundays, but that's ok. The good Lord knows my heart.

Thank you for so eloquently expressing what i've known and felt in my heart for my adult life regarding the use of cursing. As a survivor of stage IIb cancer, the numerous surgeries, chemo, and radiation that went with that diagnosis...7 other unrelated surgeries, severe arthritis in both knees and a hip, and not to mention a mother to 4 children ages 15-5 who seem to think it's their life goal to make mom crazy, my closet expletives save my sanity on sooo many days. If people would only realize that they're just words!

God bless you, and keep those posts coming!
Nemomom

By snappykappy
Posted June 5, 2009 at 12:04 pm
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now we know where u have been hiding

it has been from hanging that &*(%#@!+) gutter

tg

just wanted u to know that i am still working on the story boards now but awaiting my phone call from the va hospital in madison wisconsin to come on up to meet the transplant team for my double lung transplant

wishing u a omg-ridiculously-improbable-can't-f'n-
believe-it-actually-happened
super duper fantabulous awesome day
thomas michael kappler
just a simple wish

i have sarcoidosis it does not have me
i will kick its ass
i refuse to lose

thomas michael kappler

By angiekay
Posted June 5, 2009 at 1:32 pm
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LOL!!!!! I can relate. I grew up in a very restrained home and try very hard to keep my cussing to myself... but I find if I hold it back, it builds slowly, the pressure, almost orgasmic in nature and then explosion - out the word comes in a loud scream- ahhhh what a f*()#ing relief. Sometimes I wish my lungs weren't so scarred up so I could have a cigarette after:)

Angie

By Sarasota
Posted June 5, 2009 at 3:37 pm
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Hey TG!! Well stated!!! There are certain words, sometimes in certain order that just makes the point; more to the point!! I do think the gnome for cussing is dominant, particularly on the Y chromosome. Ha. Most definitely after returning from The Home Depot or Lowes!! My rants are more often than not when I 'm desperately trying to remember where in the *!%* I put something!!! Take care my good man! SarasotaSandy

By smormac
Posted June 10, 2009 at 8:25 am
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While I don't condone cussing around small children, sometimes s@&# happens. I dropped the f bomb in front of my 4 year old grandson, and he didn't even notice, but his mother, my daughter in law, raised holy hell. You would think that I shot him with a fiery hot poison dart or something. He's going to hear it in kindergarten next year anyway, if he hasn't heard it all ready. I did raise his father........

By rachelca
Posted June 10, 2009 at 11:25 am
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Howdy Gardener:
I am the daughter of a Vietnam era Marine and a Junior High Special Education Teacher and I'm here to tell you, it's not the words, it's the intricate combination of words.

You can create small haikus when getting test results or digging up your foundation to reseal it after a particularly wet winter. And when you use combinations reflective of the 8 parts of speech correctly, you won't get extra credit from your English teacher, but will get a wonderful sense of satisfaction.

By Kennarina
Posted July 18, 2009 at 12:12 pm
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Hello again from the wonderful world of Women & Heart Disease topics! Love this post...

My daughter has recently lent me the complete six-season boxed set of The Sopranos. Oh !#@$#^!!~! A couple of shows into the set, and I find myself slipping the odd naughty word into normal chatty conversation or even simple muttering at the grocery store. Warning Warning Warning! Do not watch back-to-back episodes of The Sopranos before attending, oh let's say, your next family reunion....

Another thing that can set me off is the "You Look Great!" comment from those who have not seen me since before my heart attack. I wrote more about this ("You Look Great!" - And other things you should never say to heart patients") at 'Heart Sisters', my blog at http://myheartsisters.org/2009/06/01/you-look-great-and-other-things-never- to-say-to-heart-patients/

cheers,
Carolyn

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