I Swear

I’d like to talk about swearing.  I don’t mean the kind of swearing that involves taking an oath.  Perhaps the word I am looking for is cursing, though that can also mean uttering “a prayer or invocation for harm or injury to come upon one,” according to Merriam-Webster online.  Believe me; no one would mistake what came out of my mouth a few evenings ago as any kind of “prayer.”  It’s kind of interesting that we don’t have a good English word that the dictionary defines as, “shouting a blue streak of obscene, blasphemous and otherwise profane and offensive words, because something (or someone) has made you extremely frustrated or angry.”  For an example, I’d say, “see, Sergeant Snorkel in Beetle Bailey.”

Actually, I don’t swear very often.  My wife thinks it was a character flaw that I never swore in front of my mother.  “I never had reason to,” I offer, but she’s not buying it.  She thinks it was some kind of Catholic-boy-Madonna complex.  I actually never swore that much growing up.  I suppose it was that Catholic thing again.  I didn’t want to have to confess to our priest – an imposing man with a booming voice – that I’d done something that merited more than the three Hail Marys he usually doled out as penance for my sins. 

Then came high school when a very smart, very moral guy entered my circle of friends.  George swore early and often, and knew more curse words than a Longshoreman.  He didn’t have to be angry.  He cursed in normal conversation.  I figured that if a guy like George could swear like he did, it was high time that I jumped into this game.  Of course, learning to golf helped immensely.  After a few muffed shots, there’s nothing better to accompany some thrown clubs than a bit of projectile cursing.  By the time I was in college and had joined a fraternity, I had learned the art of the casual swear.  All you need to do is add a choice curse word or two in place of any adjective during the course of a conversation. 

Upon entering the professional workforce after college, I had to tone down the swearing.  Sure, there were occasions when a boss or client decided to toss some profanity into the conversation to prove he was a regular, macho guy.  On those occasions I could bring in just enough to make the other guy feel he could trust me, but would dial it back a few notches to let him know he’s the man.

As the years went by I found myself swearing less and less.  I think that when you don’t swear very often, it kind of backs up like a river behind a logjam.  Then something or someone will really frustrate you, which is like throwing a stick of dynamite into the logjam.  The resulting explosion lets loose a torrent of expletives that continue to stream out until the backed up river has run its course.  That happens sometimes when I get cut off by another driver. Then I find that I can go on for five minutes or more with some pretty salty words and phrases.  

The other night I was making coffee and had filled the basket with fresh grounds and set it on the kitchen table.  Then inexplicably my hand bumped the basket and the grounds went flying everywhere.  Dynamite lit, tossed into the logjam and, boom, we have detonation!  After hearing me rant for 5 or 10 minutes, my wife and adult son came into the kitchen to see what was going on.  By then, equilibrium had been restored and I smiled sheepishly.  “Maybe I’m coming down with Tourette’s,” I offered.  “Well,” I thought to myself, “thank goodness I’m Episcopalian now and won’t have to explain this to a priest!”