Creative Cussing

When you grow up in a house where one-half of the lineage is German, there is going to be cussing. It's really almost a law.

Actually, it's probably closer to simple math: German + pulse = cursing.

Somewhere down the line, after arrival at Ellis Island, the Germans in my family settled in Upstate New York. Not long after that*, they installed a keg in the barn. I am not lying. Attached to a fridge, to keep that sucker cold 24/7.

Now, when you do the math here, you get: German + keg + conscious = extra cussing.

Then, along comes another generation of Germans. They marry a generation of much tamer Europeans, mostly of English heritage. The English are well-known for telling great stories after tanking up on a good ale.

That makes: German x bier + English x ale = more socially acceptable cussing.

Now I've laid the ground work for my childhood.

By the time I hit the scene, the heavy usage of bier/ale was down to a few well-executed beverages after work time. Cheese/crackers as a chaser.

This was, after all, the 70's, the decade of absolute crazy drug use, polyester pant suits, drinking, key parties**/***, and disco dancing****. Frankly, the 70's were UGLY. But the language, at least around our house, was pretty clean thanks to the new kids on the block. Yup, me and my little brother.

Not to brag, but there are few Scrabble players who can sit knee-to-knee with my Dad. And, in case you are thinking my transition from the last sentence is completely missing, let me guide you--to play Scrabble, you have to have an extensive vocabulary. In order to be really good at cussing, without REALLY cussing, you have to EXECUTE said vocabulary with ninja-like mastery.

So: Scrabble master + walking dictionary = creative cussing (the kind that can be done in front of kids.) Hence, the pretty clean language around our house.*****

What does creative cussing sound like? It's the "tapestry of obscenity" Ralphie's Dad weaves in "A Christmas Story". Only louder.

Take a typical Saturday repair. Culprit: faucet in the bathroom with annoying leak. Tools ready? Check. Kids looking on? Check. Pliers in hand, the painstaking dismantling of the faucet handle begins. Surgeons around the world only dream of performing the precision movements being exacted on this spigot. The air is rife with the excitement of avoiding the cost of a plumber.

The creativity begins innocently enough with "son of a biscuit eater" after the pliers slip and cut a knuckle. One band-aid and ten minutes later, once again the plumbing train pulls out of the station. All aboard!

When the handle proves too hard to unscrew, we ratchet up to "fudgemiesters"******. I'm too fixated on where I can find the fudge to realize he's practically dropped the "F" bomb.

We hit full-tilt with "frickinfrackinbabydiapers" after the entire contraption breaks in his hands and water starts spewing all over the bathroom. By the time he's at the third syllable and water has hit the mirror, bro and I have hit the door and run three blocks away. We only turn to look back when we are both winded. And we don't return until we see the plumber's truck pull up.

Once a professional is in the bathroom, we feel safe to return. Priceless tidbits learned from the plumber that day:

1. how to literally envision "butt crack"
2. how to properly use the phrase "son of a b^tch"*******
3. how to effectively use a credit card.

Takeaway: German + tools + creative cussing = expensive plumber with poor judgment of own hiney size and horrid verbiage use around kids.

Now, if you ever hear my kids say something odd like "bearhugalug" and you are wondering "What was THAT?", you'll know.

It's either homage to their German ancestors or the beginning of a beautiful relationship with wacky word problems.

I'll let you be the judge of that.



*I'm taking some time liberties here--I doubt they had a fridge until a few years after landing here. The keg? Bet that was there by noon on day one.

**Watch the movie "The Ice Storm" if you are confused. Better yet, skip the movie and Goggle the term. Buyer beware: you may not want to know.

***Disclaimer, lest I be yelled at by the parentage: to the best of my knowledge, this NEVER happened in our house or any house my parents frequented. It's just an ugly blotch on the decade. Disclaimer II: I only know what this is because I ante-upped money to see the critically-acclaimed "The Ice Storm". DEPRESSING.

****Which only looked good because of all the things that came before it in the sentence. I include the polyester pant suit in that statement. Really, what else WOULD you do The Hustle in?

*****Unless one of my German uncles was visiting. Then all bets were OFF.

******Note the nod to old German heritage. Nice.

*******As in "Well, this s.o.b. is really bent, ain't she?"