...even "a bastard" is bad
It's frustrating sometimes in my parents' home. Certain things just won't be allowed.
Growing up, my Uncle/Tio Danny would call my siblings and me The Shut Up Kids. "Shut up" was one of the bad words in my house, one of the many we could not say. Apparently basic counting skills took a backseat to respectful speech. (Yelling "Be quiet!" at the top of your lungs doesn't have the same emphasis, just ask Period 5.)
And due to our Catholic upbringing and Sunday School, number 3 in the decalogue was just as bad as one of those "Pulp Fiction words." "D#rn" was definitely not allowed; it still sembled the word "D*mn." Another word we could not use was the word "S*." Yeah! "S@." Especially when used in the disrespectful, back talkin' "S# what?!" S~ I was one of those kids who grew up saying "Gosh" and "Jeez." Unfortunately, this has all stuck with me, and some of my students, unaware of these expressions, think I'm requesting a cheddar product of some sort.
I will admit my naughty vocabulary grew in 4th grade. I was as fascinated by these unmentionables than my spelling words. Now I can compare myself from that time to the boys from South Park, which is one of the reasons I love that show s# much. Kids do talk like that.
My eldest brother, Greg, was five when he learned five of these words of curse. One included the excrement of a male cow, another a sphincter. He had learned them from a friend at the YMCA day care. After that he simply recited them at the park, was caught, and ordered to write them down (yes, the day care supervisor instructed him on the correct spelling). The list was handed over to my parents and my parents handed Greg a handful of Softsoap when he got home. The Dove bar was too sweet. Andrew, my little brother, was probably the first to get caught using the mother of all four-letter words. And his babysitter ratted him out. I knew then that I had to watch myself.
Years, of course, go by. I use expletives now for emphasis or when I'm just scr*#ing around with one of my roommates. But I use them wisely. When I go to my parents house, however, I must switch back to my "educated" diction.
Since the kids moved out, my parents have become more lax on certain issues and topics (abortion, fart jokes at the dinner table). I have recently been asking my mom to tell me what the one English word is for female dog. She knows, but won't tell. Apparently the neighbors won't tell me either. However, the rules are still strictly in place. Let me just tell you, a brawl could still break out if you say the words, "I'm not going to take the f*cking V#lvo!!!"
S^ my older brother had just poured water on my face and shirt. Slightly childish for my doctor brother. My mother shakes her head at him, saying sternly, "Greg."
I respond to Greg's action with a laugh and a hearty: "You're such a b#*tard."
My mom's jaw drops, eyes go wide. And I get my name called, followed by two exclamation points. I get swatted with a towel, which is all she can do, now that I'm not living there. She then gives me that disappointed look, given to her when she converted to Catholicism. She clearly failed to pick up on my sarcasm. Everyone knows my parents waited until they were married to have sex four times, so their lives could be blessed with four potty-mouthed children.
Growing up, my Uncle/Tio Danny would call my siblings and me The Shut Up Kids. "Shut up" was one of the bad words in my house, one of the many we could not say. Apparently basic counting skills took a backseat to respectful speech. (Yelling "Be quiet!" at the top of your lungs doesn't have the same emphasis, just ask Period 5.)
And due to our Catholic upbringing and Sunday School, number 3 in the decalogue was just as bad as one of those "Pulp Fiction words." "D#rn" was definitely not allowed; it still sembled the word "D*mn." Another word we could not use was the word "S*." Yeah! "S@." Especially when used in the disrespectful, back talkin' "S# what?!" S~ I was one of those kids who grew up saying "Gosh" and "Jeez." Unfortunately, this has all stuck with me, and some of my students, unaware of these expressions, think I'm requesting a cheddar product of some sort.
I will admit my naughty vocabulary grew in 4th grade. I was as fascinated by these unmentionables than my spelling words. Now I can compare myself from that time to the boys from South Park, which is one of the reasons I love that show s# much. Kids do talk like that.
My eldest brother, Greg, was five when he learned five of these words of curse. One included the excrement of a male cow, another a sphincter. He had learned them from a friend at the YMCA day care. After that he simply recited them at the park, was caught, and ordered to write them down (yes, the day care supervisor instructed him on the correct spelling). The list was handed over to my parents and my parents handed Greg a handful of Softsoap when he got home. The Dove bar was too sweet. Andrew, my little brother, was probably the first to get caught using the mother of all four-letter words. And his babysitter ratted him out. I knew then that I had to watch myself.
Years, of course, go by. I use expletives now for emphasis or when I'm just scr*#ing around with one of my roommates. But I use them wisely. When I go to my parents house, however, I must switch back to my "educated" diction.
Since the kids moved out, my parents have become more lax on certain issues and topics (abortion, fart jokes at the dinner table). I have recently been asking my mom to tell me what the one English word is for female dog. She knows, but won't tell. Apparently the neighbors won't tell me either. However, the rules are still strictly in place. Let me just tell you, a brawl could still break out if you say the words, "I'm not going to take the f*cking V#lvo!!!"
S^ my older brother had just poured water on my face and shirt. Slightly childish for my doctor brother. My mother shakes her head at him, saying sternly, "Greg."
I respond to Greg's action with a laugh and a hearty: "You're such a b#*tard."
My mom's jaw drops, eyes go wide. And I get my name called, followed by two exclamation points. I get swatted with a towel, which is all she can do, now that I'm not living there. She then gives me that disappointed look, given to her when she converted to Catholicism. She clearly failed to pick up on my sarcasm. Everyone knows my parents waited until they were married to have sex four times, so their lives could be blessed with four potty-mouthed children.
posted by matty at 4:32 PM
4 Comments:
H*ly sh!t, that's f^ckin' hilarious!
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
Matt... Youre a fucking dick. How could you call your own brother that?
I feel for you, man. I wonder what your parents must think of me...? My parents were way more lax than darn and shut up! and i still somehow managed to get soap in my mouth more often than I care to admit. But, there is hope... just wait until lil Greg comes along and then it will be a group effort and decision to be mindful of what comes out of your mouths. Take it from me, who would now probably call you a poopy-butt if you pissed me off.
Derek
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