Girl Incognito

I like being a potty mouth.

An indulgent tendency that increases exponentially in relation to my boozing. Nevertheless, even in my most ladylike state (a laughable attempt at best), I still love dropping a few F bombs to spice up the words coming out of my mouth.

When precisely did my passion for dirty words begin?

Childhood. For sure. Ma and Pa were the most formal, strict and class minded parents you could ever meet. In the 1980s and 1990s they were at their peak Grey Poupon smoking, every event overdressing, Simpsons denying motherfuckery.

That last one hurt the most. Just picture it…..Back in the 90s, The Simpsons were more wholesome than they are now, but for the time…conservative families classified them rude. And I wasn’t ‘allowed’ to watch it until I was 16. IMAGINE THAT.

Doesn’t mean I didn’t sneak an episode here or there incognito…

“Don’t have a cow man!” The origin of foul language…(for me). So damn cute and so damn innocent. But remember, even the biggest weeds start with seeds.

Then I went off to Uni. I wrote academic essays and made presentations showcasing my ability to express my thoughts with elevated language. I mean, if you’re going to spend stupid money to feel accomplished, well then, the fancy pants lingo automatically comes as a receipt. So there I was, feeling like a real smart ass, sounding like a complete pansy-ass.

Thank god that working at pubs and blue collar restaurants toned my new found snobbery right down. Somewhere in between serving up Jägerbombs to schmoes with frosted tips and getting that 9th rack of ribs for the dude with stretchy pants on all-you-can-eat rib night…I levelled out and began to appreciate the value of colloquial speech. The more I spoke the common tongue, the more my tips increased. The more punch lines I delivered with choice colourful language, the louder the laughs I received.

It was then that I realized I’d rather use accessible language than try to impress with unnecessary vocabulary. Why? Because the praise you receive, when using those extra big words that often necessitate the use of a dictionary, is somewhat superficial. Its a ‘you sound smart so you must be smart’ kinda thing. People might consider you well read and impressive…but your message can be lost with all the ribbons and bows. This is not to say that elevated academic and decorative language lacks purpose or audience. I just think its not for everyday use. I’m also a Hemingway patriot. And that dude ain’t got time to waste on frills.

So where does my love for swearing fit into all of this?

Well, when your go-to selection of words are simple, the style with which you use them becomes significant. Its no longer about dropping vocab like you’re winning scrabble points and more about creative sequencing for effect. And nothing delivers a punch quite the same as a perfectly selected bit of profanity. I am in no way condoning the littering of sentences with excessive expletives…but every now and again, throwing in a foul word can wake up your audience. But if you run in the circles I do, swearing won’t phase em much. It just amplifies the humour.

For example, I used to have an Aussie roommate and if you know the story behind the nick name, you’ll probably crack a smile reading this… When he was late for rent because he didn’t realize it was the first of the month (again)….we’d call him Neville Fucking Bartos. He’s an Aussie character from the movie Chopper (highly recommended) who doesn’t have the cash….Now tell me, does ‘Neville Bartos’ sound as funny on its own?

Exactly. I’m sure there are better examples to give, but I do my best work in real time banter.

So how do I manage my affections for blasphemy as a school teacher?

The secret’s in the clothes. Truly. When I dress like a fucking tool, I speak like one. I call it a special hypnosis, that I did on myself. Kinda like Batman and Bruce Wayne…except my talents consist of chugging beers and making sailors blush. But when I don the dressy pants, the more pleats the more proper I get. The starched collar, buttoned cardigan and ‘look at me I’m an adult’ blazer finishes me right off. Its a subconscious change I undergo at 6 in the morning. Somehow the physical discomfort reminds me to restrain my foul mouth. And I behave.

But on Giselle time, the naughty words come out to play. And I don’t care for your approval or recognition of my ability to sound smart.

Just know that after 5pm, I’m choosing not to.