Therapists will tell you that to overcome trauma you have to be able to talk about it. This is my retelling of how I traumatized my son last February.
I said it. In the words of Ralphie, “I said THE word, the big one, the queen-mother of dirty words, the “F-dash-dash-dash” word!” It’s not news that I said it. It’s noteworthy because my son heard me say it for the first time in his life. He’s 17, so he wasn’t traumatized, but he was so surprised that he immediately went and told Mrs. Phil.
Hi. My name is Phil and I’m an effing swearer. It’s been my dirty little secret for years. I’m a fecking secret curser. Not cursor like on your computer, but curser like in a Quentin Tarantino film. I do it, and I’m not going to be ashamed anymore. (BTW, “fecking” was not a typo. In Ireland it’s a perfectly acceptable form of exclammation, so I’ll fecking use it whenever I want. You can just go feck off if you don’t like it!)
Me saying the F— word isn’t all that unusual for me, though most people who know me would probably be as surprised as my son. I’m a secret swearer. I say it when frustrated with effing traffic, but when I do I’m in my car alone. Heck, when I’m in my car and another driver does something so unfathomably stupid that it slows me down by four tenths of a second I will “work in profanity the way that other artists work in oils or clay.” I will enunciate so clearly and obviously that there is no doubt when the other driver looks in his rearview at me that he understands how displeased I am. Another time I effing swear is when I get frustrated assembling something that came with instructions that make no effing sense. That was the case this past weekend.
I said it when assembling an effing IKEA-like shelving unit. I’m fairly certain that IKEA is Latin for Satan. Needless to say, the holes didn’t line up and I couldn’t get the screws to go in right and I ended up being the one that was fecking screwed, and not in the good way. So I used the F— word. I’m not even sure how many times I used it or how creatively. I was completely not self-conscious because I wasn’t aware anyone was within earshot.
Like I said, my son is 17 years old and I actually heard him use the F— word in a song he wrote, long before he ever heard me use it, so as far as parenting goes, I’m pretty sure I deserve some sort of gold medal. But there never is that parenting gold medal is there?
What about swearing? Have you noticed that in our society, in the U.S., it’s becoming much more acceptable to the point that sometimes you will now hear the word “asshole” in a prime time show? Is it good that we’re becoming more effing liberal, or relaxed when it comes that s—t? Will the relaxation of the standards of what is acceptable have a deleterious effect on law and order in our effing society? I don’t know the answers to any of these questions. I’m just an effing humor blogger. What do you think, and would you like to see more effing swearing on my fecking blog?
As always, if you enjoy The Fecking Phil Factor, (that’s great alliteration, maybe I should make that a permanent part of the effing title) please share this sh-t by hitting the Facebook, Twitter, or re-blog buttons below. Have a great effing weekend! ~Phil