I don’t swear. In church. I know, I don’t go to church, but if I did, I would not stand up in the middle of a sermon and say, Motherfucker, that’s a load of bullshit. I wouldn’t do that. I may think it. And I may say something like that under my breath or very mumbled so as to be literally impossible to tell apart from, Amen, preach it brother Bob.
I don’t go to church. Just clearing that up.
But I should swear less offensively around the house. Probably. Sometimes I just can’t help myself. Okay, hardly ever. Like when I’m washing up the dishes and a million fucking flies — okay, maybe two or three — keep buzzing around me and my attempts at swatting them out the window fail more than GW Bush at world leadership and J Zuma at monogamy. At that moment dropping the F-bomb is an involuntary reaction. I hate flies. Come on, they lap dance on dog turds and then attempt to spread the love. Fuck them.
Maybe I should start swearing in French. After all, it ought to be my home language, not English, what with my French surname and all. Or at least a second language. And because it’s not even a remotely understood language among my family members (except for my dad who lives far away), I reckon it would solve all the bad vibes that fly around when I get dive-bombed by fucking shitty lapdancers.
If my kids start saying merde and merde alors I’ll just move over to Spanish. Or Latin.
Note: Swearing in foreign will work just as well at the office, especially if it’s frowned upon to use four-letter words or their bastard children (motherfucker, asshole, gigantic-fucking-moron) when your boss keeps giving you more work and eating away at your funtime on the internets.