|Don’t read this post if you are offended by cursing.|
I’ve been thinking about cursing lately.
I have to say I sort of like it. I know that’s not what you expected to hear. I’ve heard Bryon tell people before that I don’t curse very much. He is not, however, inside my head. I curse. A lot.
Often, I set those curses free upon the atmosphere in a blue cloud. I try to keep them low so no one actually hears them but occasionally, they just demand to be freed. I do try to refrain from cursing inappropriately at work, or church or in front of Grace, but Man, there are times when I’d just like to let loose a tirade like Yosemite Sam only bluer.
If feels good to curse and purge out whatever frustration is poisoning my mind or troubling me at the moment. I know a lot of words and yes, I could substitute more socially acceptable synonyms. They just wouldn’t and do not provide the same level of satisfaction as a good F-bomb.
Dang and Gee Whiz just don’t cut the mustard.
Bryon and I told all our friends and family that the first person to teach Grace a curse word had to pay for her college education. I blame it on our previously demonic and untamable dog Ruger. One day out in the yard Bryon was supremely frustrated with Ruger and threatened to beat his ass. Grace asked him what “beat his ass” meant.
Just this past week Bryon was at Walmart with Grace shopping, and Grace pointed at something on the shelf and asked “What the hell is that?” Bryon said it was so funny he had to laugh but then explained that hell was in fact a curse word. Guess we are on the hook for the college education. I was really hoping that it would be Grandpa Rice.
My go to curse when I’m at the absolute end of my rope is GD. You know what it is. Of course that is probably even less socially acceptable than the F-bomb. I await annihilation from a lightening strike every time I utter it. That particular curse is completely automatic. I blame that one on my dad.
My dad didn’t curse very often at all as I remember, but when he did, that was his go to curse. I haven’t heard him use it in a long time. Of course, I’ve been out of the house for twenty five years now so he may not have as much occasion to NEED to use it. Kids are infuriating.
I don’t remember my mom cursing. Ever.
So where did this habit emerge from? I guess, I’ll never know.
It is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.