Fluent in the Language of Foul


If you’ve clicked on this post because the title led you to believe that I am Susannah: The Chicken Whisperer, then I’m sorry to inform you that you’ve confused me with some other chicken whisperer named Susannah.

I fluently speak the language of Foul. Not Fowl.

Although, the thought of standing knee high in chicken shit, trying to work Henrietta through her abandonment issues so she can successfully spit protein (eggs) out her ass, the only version of the word that comes to mind does not contain a “w”.

Anyway.

By noon yesterday, I realized that I had dropped more F bombs than George Carlin. I felt somewhat embarrassed and ashamed by this, but within 5 minutes, I had dropped another one.

I NEVER curse in front of my children.

I NEVER intentionally curse in front of my children.

I NEVER EVER intentionally curse in front of my children on Tuesdays.

And when I curse around my kids, I do NOT EVER drop the big words. It is something harmless, like an occasional ass or damn.

Oh, what? You think its wrong to discuss donkeys or barriers that impound water around my children?

I would toy around with bad words as a kid and all I could barely get away with was “H-E-Double Hockey Sticks” and “Son of a Biscuit Eater”.

I can vividly remember when I decided to start cussing-like real deal, enough of this hockey stick biscuit bull crap-cussing.

I was in the 7th grade and at a friend’s slumber party. I remember exactly where I was sitting on her living room floor when my friend, with her skinny chicken legs and “bowl” haircut dropped the mother of all cuss words. She spit out the MF bomb and then sat back with an accomplished look on her face.

I was envious. It was STUPID that I was envious of such a ridiculous thing, but I thought it was awesome that she could produce such a big, bad, terrible word and get away with it. That peer pressure is a son of a biscuit eater, isn’t it?

I started plotting when I would drop a bad word at this slumber party. I know my fat butt sat on the couch for at least an hour, my hand in the chip bowl, humming along to Green Days “Dookie” album, contemplating what word I was going to say. I was cool enough to say a bad word…..maybe not the MF word, but I could slip in a little hell or damn somewhere during this shindig.

I remember when I executed my plan. We were playing “Heavy as Gold.” I don’t know if you have ever partaken of this game, but you lie down on the floor and someone else massages your temples. They spout off some lame shit story about filling your head with gold, and then they tell you to lift your head. All the temple massaging makes your head feel heavy and weird, hence, “your head is heavy as gold.” It’s extremely stupid and probably somewhat dangerous, but that’s what dumb ass white girls did back in the 90s.

I lifted my head, and I proudly stated, “That hell was weird.”

Ouch.

I had totally meant to say, “Hell, that was weird”.

I was mortified, as if the slumber party was going to stop dead in its tracks, the chirping of crickets would ensue, and then everyone would point at me and laugh.

Turns out, no one really gave a shit.

But, I finally got the hang of that cussing thing.

What do you think of when you reminiscence about your wedding day?

Aw, do you think of your first dance, the excitement looking into your soul mates’ eyes, Karen Carpenter’s voice, the releasing of doves, butterflies, and Oompa Loompas?

Insert record scratching sound here.

Screeech.

I think of cussing. Mostly at my husband.

“You’re eating mo@#%f**%!# Arby’s in your tux? You smell like s#!* now!”

“Get your f&?*$@ a$$ over here and smile, d@**%*. And look happy!”

“If you don’t cry when I walk down the aisle, I will slit your *@#* throat on our honeymoon.”

He cried alright. Probably not at my beauty, but at fear.

I know this makes me sound lovely, but I didn’t spend the entire day cussing. Only about 37 percent of the day. That isn’t too bad, is it?

And believe it or not, my husband really loves me. And, he isn’t a pushover, either. He just cusses me back, I hit him in the chin, and we go eat Mexican.

Cursing really shouldn’t have such an impact in my life. I know it is trashy. I know it is crude. I know it is sin. I know it is totally unlady like. I’m not proud of this nasty habit by any means.

Wait. I am realizing this post does, in fact, make me sound crude and trashy.

Let me make it clear that I didn’t walk into the little Lowenstein boys’ bar mitzvah, a fifth of crown in one hand, and shout “Hell, let’s get this motha-effing party started, Lowensteins!”

No, I know there is a time for cussing, and a time to refrain.

However, if I drop all of the macaroni and cheese on the floor, you can bet your ass I will not be saying “Oh, golly gee!” I will be saying, “Oh,shit.”

That’s a fact.

Check out my favorite $#*$* joke ever!

A 6 year old and a 4 year old are upstairs in their bedroom.
“You know what?” says the 6 year old. “I think it’s about time we started cussing.”
The 4 year old nods his head in approval. The 6 year old continues, “When we go downstairs for breakfast, I’m gonna say something with ‘hell’ and you say something with ‘ass.'” The 4 year old agrees with enthusiasm.
When their mother walks into the kitchen and asks the 6 year old what he wants for breakfast, he replies, “Aw, hell, Mom, I guess I’ll have some Cheerios.”
WHACK! He flies out of his chair, tumbles across the kitchen floor, gets up, and runs upstairs crying his eyes out with his mother in hot pursuit, slapping his rear with every step. His mom locks him in his room and shouts, “You can just stay there until I let you out!”
She then comes back downstairs, looks at the 4 year old and asks with a stern voice, “And what do YOU want for breakfast, young man?”
“Well, you can bet your ass it won’t be Cheerios.”

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About Susannah

I'm a freelance writer, blogger, aspiring best-selling author, wife of one and stay-at-home mother of two. I was chosen for the Top 13 in Blogger Idol and contribute pieces to The Huffington Post and Hahas for Hoohas. My work has also been featured in several humorous e-books, "Southern Writers’ Magazine", "The Humor Daily", "The Funny Times" and on the Erma Bombeck website. When I'm not putting pen to paper, bandaging boo-boos or spraying Shout on unidentifiable stains, I enjoy reading, playing the piano and teaching my children all about Southern charm. God has blessed me beyond measure and to Him be the glory forever.


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