Vulgarian-ese 101

"You're a true vulgarian, aren't you?" asked John Cleese. (WARNING: The following bit of inspired wit contains numerous vulgar words, references, insinuations and outright expressions of colorful vernacular. So if you are offended by nasty words that start with the letter "F", or if you are my mother, or both, please hit the back arrow on your browser or that little red "X" in the upper right hand corner now.) Kevin Kline's answer was I believe, "You're the vulgarian you FUCK!!" I am of course quoting from "A Fish Called Wanda". It seems all I do is quote movies these days. And curse like a fucking truck driver.

Of course, my speech wasn't always so heavily laden with damns and hells and motherfucking this or that. I was a nice little boy. Once. Oh sure, there were moments. Like that frozen moment in time when that cute little red haired girl I had a crush on walked by my house, and my friend was all like "Here comes so-and-so," and I was all like "I don't give a shit," and my mom, standing within earshot was all like "Get in the bathroom, NOW!" Yes I do know what soap tastes like, it was imbedded in my teeth for hours. Dinner that night tasted like Ivory. But pre-teen bravado aside, I didn't swear all that much. Just enough to be cool with my friends, and not enough to be what I would later become: a true vulgarian.

It was my first real job after college where I learned to be so colorful. Mired in the battlefields of Chicago, the wasted expanse of concrete, degradation and excess, were my lost years on the trading floor of the Chicago Mercantile Exchange. I went in with a bachelors degree in "shit", and came out with a PHD in "God damn motherfucking piece of holy dog crap." Everyone fucking swears. A lot. The old men, the women, the bosses, the runners, the bosses bosses, the guys that sweep the floor, they all cuss like truck drivers too. Only, it should be said that truck drivers swear like trading floor people. It is also where I met the woman who would in one fell swoop, ruin my life and in turn give me song writing material for years to come. God was she a fucking bitch. 3am screaming matches tend to bring out the worst in me, especially when it's in some hotel room half a world away.

But today? I can't seem to escape my past. A calm, leisurely morning turns to obscenities the second I get in the car. I can't even get on the highway before I am muttering to nobody, "Stupid fucking asshole." Even phone conversations with my mother aren't immune to my indelible charms, of which I instantly see the err of my ways and apologize. But by the end of a typical day, I think I have uttered enough cuss words to make Joan Rivers blush. She could use a little color in her cheeks. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to exit a conversation without the person to which I was over-vernaclurising most likely thinking, "Jeez, who does this guy think he is, Samuel "Fucking" Jackson?" I suppose I know the answer. Swear less. Mmmm-hmmm. Like that's ever going to fucking happen. You can take the man out of the gutter, but you can't take the gutter out of the man. I already know what some of you are going to say: go to church. To coin an old expression, fuck that.