I Swear I've Given Up Swearing

 

 

 

I don’t make New Year or Lent resolutions. My reflective period comes around Thanksgiving. It seems a better time to take stock and see if I can work on attitude adjustment. I did something last year that worked pretty darn well. The word “darn” is a hint. Give up? I vowed to quit swearing.

 

I’ve never had a serious potty mouth, but I’m guilty of invectives when angered or frustrated. Before I retired, I had occasional bad teaching days and mind-numbing stupidity has always gotten under my skin. I never cussed out a student; I waited until I was out of earshot and let loose. Stupidity was another matter, especially politics, rip-off artists, and Massachusetts motorists. I’ll be understatedly charitable and say that we deserve every dime we pony up for auto insurance. Quite a few Bay State drivers are candidates for the psych ward.  

 

I’ve done well in my quest to stop swearing–not 100% but good enough to be in the A/A- range. That’s a shocker. Those who know me can attest that I’ll never be confused with a New Age crystal hugger. My academic philosophy is rooted in conflict theory, the belief that social change comes through opposition rather than consensus. Metaphorically (and sometimes literally), I doubt those in charge ever give up anything unless they’re forced to do so. I still call out miscreants and work myself into a righteous lather, so how on earth did I manage to can foul outbursts?

 

First, I’ve never used religious swears. I know enough to know what I don’t know, so I find it pointless to get into debates over the supernatural. My gut tells me it’s weird to postulate the existence of an omnipotent, omniscient power in one breath and insist in the next that any principality can be completely contained in a book or single faith. I try to respect the best of all religions, though I’m tempted to swear at those who insist they hold a monopoly on truth, use religion to gain wealth, or employ violence and claim they are commanded to use it. But even when I feel utter contempt and express it, I try not to be profane.

 

Weariness was another motivator. I became so sick of hearing f-bombs that I opted out of adding to air pollution. F-bombs have become the domain of boorish hipsters, the poorly educated, MAGA hat-wearing clods, teenagers trying to sound tough, hip-hoppers too unimaginative to find a decent rhyme, and legions of others who reflexively let loose whenever they are unhappy. Hipster f-bombs are especially irksome; they’ve managed to make all things f-related boring. When I hear a hipster swear I think, “Stuff it in your knitted cap. Nobody but you thinks you’re cool.”

 

Another word I refuse to use starts with B and slanders women. I find it so offensive that when women use it to discuss themselves or other women, I want to e-mail them applications for the National Organization of Women. That’s not a bad idea; I often wonder if feminism ever happened. When it comes to other demeaning terms for women’s bodies (or a person’s sexual preferences)–the kind you hear from Trump and bad boy rappers–I advocate mandatory pig snout transplants.

 

I find the lesser swears the hardest to avoid, though there is a long tradition of invented substitutes. W. C. Fields is credited with coining drat and Godfrey Daniels, Robin Williams (as Mork) used shazbot, and the movie version of Room Service gave us jumping butterballs. I’ve heard people use son of a monkey, frick, frak, and the ever-popular freakin.’ I invented my own faux curse: “I don’t give a sqwanker’s farley.”

 

But the main reason I curbed my cussing is that I cope better when I refrain. Maybe it’s that short pause when my brain is processing a suitable alternative–an adult timeout that gets me centered. I often shake my head at things that used to set me off. Plus, there are a lot of unhinged people in the world, so it’s not the best idea to flip the bird or fulminate around someone nuttier than a Snicker’s.

 

This holiday season I vow to cleanse my tongue further. I figure what’s the point of learning lots of vocab and confine myself to a few 4-letter terms? Wish me luck.

 

If you’d like to pursue a similar path but can’t go cold turkey, try impolite jargon few others will understand. The English, Irish, and Scots lexicons contain gems such as bauchule, berk, bloody eejit, bollocks, filthy cow, glakit, and sodding buggeration. I’d translate for you but, you know.

 

Rob Weir