I love to curse, to cuss, to swear, to use bad language. My mother told me when I was growing up that cursing was lazy, and showed the lack of imagination of the user. How gloriously wrong she was. The foulest language is the most colorful, unique, attention-getting, emotion-inspiring language of the lot. And I use it often, and I daresay well.
There’s a fine distinction between simply cursing and cursing well. I’ve known several people who feel that curse words should be used as commas, or used in place of “ums.” It becomes routine and ineffective. Eventually, it becomes silly, and finally stupid. What a crime, to take brilliantly powerful part of our language and render it toothless by wielding it incorrectly.
My history with the Almighty Swear started very early in life. My sainted father had a keychain made for him by a friend that was a small bronze circle with one word etched in the middle. As far as curse words go, it’s one of the most versatile, and applicable to practically everything, despite its humble beginnings as a noun. It is the slang term for feces. Just that one word. It was, much to my parents’ dismay, the first word I learned to spell. I recall returning home from kindergarten one day with a paper that my teacher had sent home with me. In my five-year-old opinion, it was art. I had drawn a stick figure man sitting at a table, and a stick figure woman standing nearby. The man was holding a newspaper, and in a large speech balloon over the man’s head was the word, the only other word besides my own name that I knew how to spell at that point.
Mind you, I don’t recall that tableau with my parents and the newspaper ever actually happening, so I don’t know why I chose to immortalize it on the back of a kindergarten worksheet, but there it was. I proudly showed my parents. My parents did not show pride in return. Instead, it was gently explained to me that the word was inappropriate for children. I was taught that phrase that has haunted children for generations : “Do as I say, not as I do.”
You see, my sainted father would, from time to time, and on appropriate occasions, swear. My mother didn’t swear in front of me until long after I graduated from high school (Just between you and me, it still tickles me to hear her swear. It’s a rare occurrence, and almost always a quote, but she’s such a sweet old lady that hearing foulness coming from her mouth leaves me slightly and quietly hysterical.) My sainted father is a wonderful cusser, definitely one of the best. He knows not to bandy swear words about just to swear, but rather to punctuate a point. And everything I learned about the craft of swearing I learned at his knee, or rather from the passenger seat. I not only inherited my father’s propensity towards the obscene, but his road rage as well, and we both loudly and happily voice our objections towards other drivers with every vulgarity at our disposal.
I didn’t begin cursing myself until I reached the ripe old age of 7. I remember the day. I was feeding the dog, and I quietly said that word to myself that I had used when in Kindergarten. I felt horrible for the rest of the day. I knew my parents would find out some way, and I would be punished. But nothing happened. I questioned my older brother, Brett, who was an expert at all things (as an older brother ought to be). He just laughed at me (like an older brother ought to do).
Later, Brett would dare me to say certain words when we were waiting in the car for my mother to return from some errand. At this point, I have to admit that I had a certain paranoia regarding my parents. I was convinced that my parents had taken our Thunderbird to the Ford garage to be fitted with listening devices, and that every word I said was being recorded. I was convinced that my brother, who was an expert, was also an agent of evil. Still, when your big brother tells you to swear, you swear, lest you feel the wrath of his scaly hands on your forearm administering a “Native American Rope Burn.”
As time went on, and I wasn’t caught, I became more and more daring with my cursing. I started cursing with friends at school. I was cavalier, but chivalrous. I typically wouldn’t use profane language in front of girls. Okay, maybe chivalrous was the wrong term. Guarded. Girls were more apt to tell on you than boys.
And life proceeded. I learned to use cursing to make others laugh, to emphasize a point, to gross others out. I still never cursed in front of my parents out of respect. Me and my filthy mouth left home and went to college, where I met a wonderful girl. Our second date was giving blood (romantic, eh?). I gave blood first. Before the nurse took her blood, I commented on the enormous gauge of the needle. The nurse told me to shut up. And this delightful girl said, “Man, that hurts like a . . . “ Well, you know the story of Oedipus? Think of the curse word that best describes him. That was the word. And I knew it was love.
Cursing as an adult is an interesting thing. I eventually became comfortable enough to curse in front of my parents, beginning with the master curser, my swearing sensei, my dad. I swore a few times around him and he didn’t say anything. And so it went. Never accept a car ride from my father and me at the same time. We turn the air blue.
With my mother, I was a little more hesitant. I was a man, dagnabbit, and should be able to say what I wanted. Still, I hid my swearing in nonsensical sentences, like “fart it to crap.” But in the end, the real me percolated to the surface. I try as much as possible to refrain from dropping f-bombs around my mother, mainly because my father does so as well. But she knows that despite all her efforts, I’m at heart a lover of language. Of dirty, dirty language.
Even now, as a full-fledged adult with full swearing rights, cursing seems to have its own patterns and etiquette. Generally, if an older male uses profanity in your company, you can feel free to use it in his. If he doesn’t, then typically one doesn’t use profanity in his presence as he may deem it “crude.” In this context, “crude” is apparently a bad thing. If a younger person uses profanity in your presence, then it really depends on the circumstances. If a woman uses profanity in my presence, then she inadvertently opened the flood gates for yours truly.
I love language. I love the sound of it. I love how words string together to make beautiful poetry, or even better, terrible poetry. I love the feel of language on my lips.
But my favorite part of language isn’t the noun or the verb or the adjective. It’s the profanity.
Oh, hell, yes.
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