I was probably seven years old, with a Kool-Aid mustache and a shirt that looked to have lost a battle with a ketchup bottle, when some adult, you know, one of those people with comfortable shoes and thought liver and onions was a delight, stoops and whispered a pearl of wisdom that “only those with vocabularies smaller than a walnut would use profanity.”
Fast forward to today, I am sixty, equivalent to being a national monument, and I’m sitting here scratching my head thinking, “Wait a minute,” as I’ve observed I avoid using foul language in my writing.
Like I am having tea with the Queen, my writing is tidy and respectable. Not like when I’m driving. That’s a Shakespearean tragedy just with more middle fingers and no iambic pentameter. Occasionally, the man who almost invented half of the English language, Shakespeare, used an unusual vulgar quip.
Therefore, case closed.
You want to debate with Shakespeare? Be my guest. Start charging to conduct seances and, if you can pull that off, remember to cut me in. It is my idea.
This notion that rude words add up to a sluggish brain has more holes than a golf course. Circumstances occasionally require a particular sort of word with some kick. Some feelings demand a phrase with, let’s say, a bit of zing. And let’s be honest, we all have experienced those feelings. From the saintly kind who bake cookies for orphans to the sinners who have somewhat less healthy hobbies. So I’ve heard.
Speaking of saints and sinners, the sinner will just let go with the harsh language whenever they feel like it. Stub their toe? BAM, F-bomb. Owe taxes? Double bam.
Most likely the saint shouts, “Heck, darn,” as he’s dropped into a cauldron of boiling oil. Though offensive words at times escape like trying to hold a greased pig at a county fair, they strive to keep them contained.
Moreover, avoid starting with the language police, those purists who consider saying, “Jeez”, as a one-way ticket to the Lake of Fire.
These are the people who wish to so desperately improve language that you can’t even say, “Babe Ruth was a dang excellent hitter”. Dang is just damn in a cheap wig. While these people want language so clean they could eat off it, I’m over here saying pass the hot sauce.
Context is therefore crucial, like the difference between a wedding and a funeral.
Locker room slang is appropriate for a locker room. In a sophisticated novel, it’s not particularly good using it. Like showing up for a corporate meeting dressed as a clown. Though it could help you stand out, it is not the best idea. Incorrect mood, buddy. Read the room.
Then, when I write, I consider the word s**t, and all hell breaks loose. The Puritan posse in my brain descends upon me. Sounds like something from a low budget sci-fi movie.
I try to convince them that the word s**t is useful and has several definitions, including nonsense or drivel, but they are not persuaded. They sharpen their pitchforks and want my head on a platter or at least wish to send me a tersely worded email.
Want the truth? Like a great chili, it’s all about balance, some spice, some sweet. Otherwise, language becomes boring, like having oatmeal or listening to someone describe the history of shoelaces. No one really wants that.
Our ideal language zings, pops, sometimes causes elderly ladies to clutch their pearls and exclaim, “Whoa, what did he say!?!”
Shall we settle for a stalemate? A language DMZ that allows us to be both polite yet also as erratic and unexpected as a roller coaster constructed by a madman? That sounds f*****g good to me!
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