This past weekend my girlfriend’s 11-year-old daughter blurted out “sugar honey ice tea” when she saw how long the line was at Captain Frosty’s. I thought this was cute and well put; after all, we had just come off the beach and she had held out patiently for her Frosty Flurry. Waiting in line was simply something she didn’t anticipate on a 90 degree day on Cape Cod.
This got me thinking of my own use of profanity. Growing up it was made very clear to me that bad language is unattractive and not socially acceptable. To take it a step further, I was taught that the use of bad language is a sign of moral degeneracy and low education. But I must admit, I find a great deal of comfort in my four letter friends.
For the most part, I swear because I care. My potty mouth tends to be most colourful when I am trying to express deep emotion, physical pain, frustration or honesty. Sometimes I’ll see the look of horror in my husband’s face after I have blurted out obscenities and I’ll think, good, I’m speaking a language that he understands. I am not particularly proud of how I sound when I am letting off steam but it does feel better momentarily to think that I may have grabbed someone’s attention to get my point across.
I admire when someone can “swear it well”. I crack up every time when Betty White is saying something vulgar; it’s unexpected and she is first class on delivering the goods. If only I could keep my expressions on a squeaky clean level. Incorporating catch phrases like fiddle sticks, rubbish and jiminy crickets should satisfy my meaning plenty. At least it would be worth a try, and try I will. I’ll swear to it.
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