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In real life, I'm cusstastic.
I mean, I can put a swear word into anything. But somehow on my blog, it just seems wrong to swear. I mean, my mom reads it. There are thirteen year olds out there trolling the interwebs. What if when they're not trying to find XXX sites, they Stumble Upon my blog and find I've used a bad word? The horror.
But today, I'm letting go. So let me just say: Jackhole. Potlicker. Bunsmoker.
Ahhhhh, much better. Now that we've gotten that out of the way, let me tell you a story. Actually, let's tie it all together and I'll tell you some stories about swearing.
When I was little we used to play the rhyming game. It was educational. My little three year old self even had an awesome strategy for this game. Once I'd run out of words I knew, I'd start going through the alphabet to find a new one. So, say the word was at. I'd use that sound and add letters to it in alphabetical order. Like this: Aat, not a word. Bat, a word but has been used. Cat, ah ha!, that one I can use. You see?
As this method had served me well time and again, I continued to put it into full effect every chance I got. And it almost got my whole family killed.
For you see, we were playing while my dad drove. And the word we were rhyming was truck.
So, when the three year old in the backseat proudly screamed "F*ck!" (I had really thought they were going to knock me out that round and I am competitive) my father slammed on the brakes and stopped dead in the middle of a busy, busy street. As you do.
Fast forward a few years. My mom is still trying to get my dad to quit swearing. I mean, where do YOU think I learned that word at three? To curb his cussing, my mother instituted the age-old quarter jar. Every time he swore, he had to put a quarter in, and one whole dollar for the big F. The best part? When it gets to a certain amount we get ice cream. Or....something else children like, I don't remember what. Let's say ice cream.
By this time I've got a little sister to scheme with. We decide that a few days have gone by and we have not had nearly enough ice cream. So we hatch a plan. We tiptoe out to where my dad is working in the garage. Working in the garage = Swear-A-Palooza.
Now, my dad must have been pretty engrossed in this project because we were not particularly stealthy children. I'm still not sure how he failed to notice us. We hide - get this - in front of the car to spy on him. We tally down every time he swears. And whooo boy, are we giddy. We will have ice cream to swim in at this rate. As an added bonus, we will also learn enough swear words to last us the rest of our lives without ever repeating.
When my dad starts to head towards us we go flying down the driveway giggling. Again, not stealthy. How he did not cotton on to what was happening is beyond me.
Breathless, we arrived in the kitchen. When he entered the house, we quickly crowed over how much money he owed us. Again, I think this move almost cost us our lives. He turned a peculiar shade of magenta while reviewing our sophisticated tally system. In my memory, which is always perfectly accurate, he left the room without speaking to us.
And never paid up.
KLZ
