I don’t have anything coherent for you guys today, I’m afraid. I’m flipping through my notebook here and it’s going to be mighty difficult to build something useful out of this sad collection of scraps. But I’ll do what I can…
Last weekend I underwent emergency hair reduction surgery at a local Supercuts, or whatever the hell. The guy who performed the procedure glided around the place, barely touching the floor as he walked. It wouldn’t surprise me to learn he had a tattoo on his right shoulder that said: Born to Style Hair! Wotta poof.
Anyway, he asked a question that always confuses me. At the very beginning he sprayed me down with water, and started combing my Bobby Brady ‘do. Then he said, “How long’s it been since your last haircut?”
Why do they need to know this? It’s a question commonly asked, but I don’t understand the relevance. How is that information going to help them in their work? If it’s been five weeks, as opposed to six, does that make a difference somehow?
When I go to Subway and order a BMT, the sandwich engineer doesn’t stop, tap his chin and say, “How long since your last hoagie?” Same goes for the post office. The clerks never ask about my stamp-buying habits, they just hand the damn things over.
Next time I think I’m going to refuse to answer the haircut question. Because it’s starting to piss me off.
Toney and I sent my parents a selection of Omaha Steaks for Christmas, and now they keep calling here. Not my parents (they never call), but Omaha Steaks.
They’re aggressive sumbitches… I use caller ID to avoid them, as best as I can. But I’m starting to worry they’ll get frustrated and dispatch a “closer,” a person skilled in “changing minds.”
They call literally five or six times a day. It’s insane, like something out of a Bentley Little novel. I’m afraid we’ve been assigned to an unbalanced, possibly deranged telemarketer of meat.
Is that paranoid? ‘Cause I’m sometimes accused of paranoia…
While driving to work earlier in the week I performed an analysis of the cursing I do in front of our kids. And it seems most of the words I now use are at least loosely associated with the ass.
I frequently shout ASSHOLE! while driving, for instance, and use many custom-built phrases, such as “get out of my way, you turd-juggling piece of shit!!” You know, that sort of thing.
It wasn’t a conscious decision, but it seems like my cussing has taken a definite assy turn since kids entered our lives. Ass, and ass-products.
In the old days I used the f-word quite a bit, but almost never say it anymore. I had no problem with it in 2000, but in 2009 it sounds kinda trashy to me. Neither of our boys have ever heard me use the word, even though I’m frequently ranting about something or other.
If you have kids, how do you calibrate the profanity-flow around them? Or do you bother? I know people who let it all hang out, and also a few who claim to never use “bad words” around their kids. I’m somewhere in the middle, a-shouting about turds and whatnot.
What are your feelings on this one? Have you done an analysis? Tell us about it, won’t you?
Before I call it a week, I have several new Smoking Fish sightings to share with you. Right here. Thanks folks! Keep ’em coming, because our logo, man, he gets around.
And since we’re on the subject… If you’ve sent pics and I never posted them, please re-send. I’m not exactly organized when it comes to email, and things sometimes get lost. Ahem. So, please re-send to jeff [at] thewvsr.com
And about the t-shirts: I’ve decided to continue taking orders until 4 o’clock. A couple of last-minute transactions took place at 11:58, or whatever, so I’m going to extend it a bit. But after 4 it’s over. Only pre-ordered shirts will be shipped, I’ll have no extras.
Here’s the order page, for the last time.
Finally, I have something extra-special for you guys. It’s a story written by a man in South Charleston, WV, which is very near Dunbar, where I grew up.
He apparently posted a version of it to his Facebook page, and a reader sent it to me and suggested I reprint it. I read it, liked it, and exchanged a few emails with the author.
Chuck Gentry is his name, and he’s given me permission to share it with you folks. And here it is. Check it out, I think you’ll enjoy it.
And that’s going to close out the category. I hope everyone has a great weekend.
I’ll be back on Monday.
We have three secrets: 13, 3 and 1. The 13 year old has a wonderfully vulgar vocabulary and his younger brother is learning well. The missus and I try to keep our cussing to a minimum, but driving gets the profanity flowing in both of us pretty well. I live in a fairly small town and once flipped a driver off before realizing it was the wife of a co-worker, who hasn’t spoken to me since…
Here’s a very true story from when I was a kid: My family and some friends are sitting in a crowded restaurant. There is a lull in the general noise level and my 11 year old sister decides, in a very loud voice, to tell a joke she had recently heard: “What are the three biggest lies in the world? 1) I love you, 2) the check is in the mail, and 3) I won’t come in your mouth.”
You could hear a mouse jerking off for at least two minutes after this – she had no clue what she had said and no one dared ‘splain it to her at the table. She got a talking to (and I believe a rudimentary sex ed lesson) from my mom when we got home. Good times.
One more thang: Omaha Steaks will make me swear a blue streak – they had my work number for some reason and called two or three times a week for months. I rudeboy-ed their asses back to Omaha.
Northerner on Holiday says
There is only one word that I will not say in front of my kids and it starts with a c…and ends with nt and it’s cunt.
Other than that those cock sucking fucksticks can handle it.
As an expat Brit who grew up in a household where I would have a bar of soap shoved in my mouth for saying damn! I was greatly amused the first time my mom visited from the U.K. I was out of town on business for the first week & had left my blushing new bride to show her mother in law the town! when they picked me up from the airport a cab cut us off “You Mother!” my mom yelled enthusiastically! Uh mom? do you know what that means? “no but Christine (The wife!) says it all the time!” I never had the heart (or courage) to explain!
“Mad cow, Mad cow disease” See if that stops Omaha from calling. Didn’t they used to sell insurance?
No kids around. Harriette (doggie) seems to know when I say FUCK!…things are not going well. Jane The Cat could really care less. I’m pretty laid back with an occasional damn or shit or hell. I am quite the polite fellow in public conversation but usualy in my mind I’m saying “shut the fuck up you fucking shit bag” or something of that nature. Ms. DTO is another story. She’ll motherfuck a hairbrush, a drawer, a spoon and even a colander.