Would you please clean up your nasty fucking mouth?

December 23, 2011 § Leave a comment

There are a lot of smart people out on George W. Bush’s Internets. Here’s what one of them has to say about people with potty mouth: “Your words matter. Cussing is a disgusting habit and one that can be hard to break.” You can read more about the evils of filth at Careful Little Mouth What You Say: Cussing and the Good News of Jesus. I hope it helps you.

Me, it didn’t. I had read the thing and said, “Self, what kind of person are you, anyway? A grown man and swearing like the vilest human being alive, and in print no less. What’s wrong with you?”

And Self would kind of hang his head in shame and draw circles in the dirt with his big toe, before answering like this: “Aw fuckit, I just grew up cussing. Everybody cussed. And the more you cussed the more you got whupped. And then when you was getting whupped you learned all kinds of new cusswords because whoever was dong the whupping was cussing up a blue streak calling you a little sonofabitch and a little fucker and so forth, so of course after the whupping you’d go out and practice what you’d learned and naturally some grown-up would hear you practicing and then there you’d be, getting whupped some more and picking up all kinds of new cusswords all over again. It was kind of like trying to cure your hangover with hard liquor.”

So then I’d kind of lecture Self a little more, kind of like “Self, what kind of shitass excuse is that? Just because all of your friends jumped off a high pier into shallow water, would you?”

And Self sort of said, “Well, there was the time me and Mike Martin jumped off the 25-foot high pier at the Flagship in Galveston into about five feet of water and almost killed ourselves, so I guess, yeah, I would, or I did, anyway.”

On it went until we both got exasperated and so I made Self promise that, since cussing is just nasty and a mark of ignorance, and offensive to normal people, and really doesn’t make anything better, and gets picked up by little kids, that I would just stop it once and for all. So I did.

Lead me not into temptation

Day before yesterday I went on a pedal ’round the Hill with Howard Hughes the Reclusive Rider of the South Bay. Riding bikes is a terrible place to start a resolution to quit cussing, because it seems like no matter where you turn there’s something cussworthy, and usually not just slightly cussworthy, but big ol’ cocksucker cussworthy. “Cocksucker” is the only cuss word I ever heard my old man say that made my momma gasp and say in shock, “Chandler!!!” Of course it was at the dinner table, and seeing momma all shocked and mad made us want to use that word so bad even before we’d had the chance to go out and find out what it meant, because any word ugly enough to make momma gasp was sure to be just filthy enough for a whole week’s worth of whuppings.

Mr. Schlumps's saggy ass.

Anyway, Howard and I were tooling through Portuguese Bend, and the road crews were hard at work trying to keep the rest of the road from falling off into the ocean, and we started down that last little dip before you hit the sharp little uphill before the false flat that leads to the entrance of the Portuguese Bend Beach Club, and there, at the bottom of the dip, was a stalled motorbike.

Howard Hughes was in front of me a ways so he slowed and asked the fellow did he have a problem and did he need any help and this poor old worn out fellow, worn out like a pair of salesman’s shoes, he nodded. So Howard stopped and laid his bike down on the side of the road, kind of in the soft dirt, and got to taking off his cleats.

Now then, in addition to cussing and generally taking everything’s name in vain, I do not believe in Good Samaritanship as the only time I’ve tried it it has ended badly. “What the –and there I almost said fuck but didn’t– heck are you doing?” I asked Howard.

“His battery died and he needs a push up to where it’s flat.”

“The —and there I caught that nasty word again just by the tail before it slipped out– heck he does,” I said, and was about to keep going until I saw old Howard was in earnest and I couldn’t leave him to do that nasty piece of work on his own.

Howard Hughes of the South Bay stripped to the socks.

Your motorbike is too fat

And a nasty piece of work it was going to be, too, because Mr. Schlumps had a fairly newish BMW behemoth, it was one of those big red 1200’s and looked like it weighed ten thousand pounds. Mr. Schlumps couldn’t believe his good luck. “Oh, you don’t know how much I appreciate this,” he moaned, kind of like you’d expect from someone who owns a BMW motorcycle once it breaks down.

Well we started pushing that fat bastard, the three of us, up that sorry fucking slope, and you know I was wearing my brand new Specialized Tarmac Uberpimpin cleats, but didn’t want to take them off because I was also wearing my brand new Capo Tall White Socks with Red Stripe that I’d gotten into a weeklong fight with the old lady over and I wasn’t about to get them covered with tar, and the harder I pushed the madder I got as those words started bubbling down around my ankles and then the hotter they got the higher they rose until the back of my throat was so tangled with goddamns and motherfuckers and cocksucking no good sonsabitches that I was pretty much crosseyed trying to hold them back as I thought about how undignified they were about to make me look and probably send me to hell in the bargain.

Mr. Schlumps you are a dumb bastard yes indeed you are.

Just as I thought I had the whole nasty pack contained, Mr. Schlumps, who was “guiding” by holding the left handlebar while Howard and I were at the butt-end of that fucking bike doing the grunting and groaning and slipping and wearing down the edges of those new goddamn cleats, just at the wrong moment he turns back and gives this crappy little smile and says, “Thanks, guys, I really mean it.”

“Mean what?” I snarled.

“Thanks,” said Mr. Schlumps, cheerily.

“Well you are a dumb bastard and I hope you feel as dumb as you look you stupid sonofabitch.”

His cheery mien withered a touch and he gave that uncomfortable laugh you would give if someone had your balls in a vise and was threatening to winch it on down, but on the other hand he didn’t want to say too much because for all he knew we’d just drop his old fatass motorbike in the road and let the thieves and CalTrans contractors part it and sell it in their off-hours chop shops. “Heh, heh,” he said, real nervously.

“Yeah, you’re one of those lamefucks who likes to whizz by us on your thirty thousand dollar krautmachine thinking how fine you look, and then the first blink of trouble who is it hauling your sorry ass and your overpriced candyass Hitlermobile over the hump but a pair of skinny fucks with shaved legs and leotards, while you’re all kitted out in some faux leather shit-kit and too fucking tired out hanging onto the handlebars to so much as push, you fucking fuckheaded fatassed skinnydicked fuckwad.”

Howard was laughing so hard he started to slip, and the fatbike started to wobble, and Mr. Schlumps saw his German investment fund tilt too far to the right, and then we all hove to and righted it and he gave that nervous laugh again, like it was all in good fun. “And I’m not funning you either you dumb sonofabitch,” I continued, just for good measure.

All’s well that cusses well

Once I had that big old clot of cuss off my tongue I felt spry and light and as happy as could be, and we fairly flew up the rest of that incline. Once we crested the hump, off to where there’s that big gravel wideout on the left, we told Mr. Schlumps that he’d best put down the kickstand and call for help. Howard even got to explaining to him the mechanics of a crapped out battery on a new bike, as Mr. Schlumps had put in an aftermarket battery and now it wasn’t holding a charge, but as soon as I heard the word “trickler battery” I told Howard that I had other things to do than listen to his discourse on battery maintenance, and he agreed, as Mr. Schlumps in addition to being kind of stupid was about to try and turn the bike around and “push start” it back down the hill.

“That ain’t no two-stroke Yamaha from 1978, Schlumps,” Howard told him. “You try and push start that bad boy back down the hill and it’s gonna take more than a couple of skinny bikers to put your ass back together again.”

Schlumps wrinkled his brow and nodded as he fumbled for his phone. “Let’s get —and there it came again– the fuck out of here,” I said.

Oh, well. I’ll just have to quit cussing…tomorrow.

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