Uplifting
Profanity
by Kevin Bennett
There was one
week during childhood where I learned enough new
words to out-cuss any jab on the playground.
Words like "Shih-Tzu", and "Brothel,"
and one that's got four letters and begins with
an 'f'—but not the one you think.
It started
like this:
Monday as I
got off the bus, I asked the driver about a word
that just kinda came to mind: "What's a Shih-Tzu?"
He snorted:
"A fecal emporium," and drove off.
That night I
asked Dad: "Dad, what's a fecal emporium?"
"…A
zoo full of crap?"
"That's a
Shih-Tzu?"
"Er…no,
but if the zoo only had that kind of dog, it
would be," he laughed. Mom slapped him. Mom
was always slapping people.
Dad's got
humor, that's for sure. I was playing with my
soup the next night, and had all the fixings to
one side and the broth to the other, and I
slapped my hands on the table and called out
proudly: "Dam!"
Mum's hand
goes on automatic for that kind of language, and
it nearly knocked my baby teeth out. I howled:
"A beaver dam! A beaver dam!"
Dad piped up:
"Y'know, honey, a brothel."
Before I could
ask what a brothel was, dad ducked so quick his
plate impersonated a catapult and the cats had a
head-on collision going for it, fighting over the
meat and rolling into a plant which hit Mum, who
made a sound like a goose that'd been goosed and
went for the frying pan while Dad beat it up the
steps.
Wednesday we
were at the China-King uptown, and while we
walked past the buffet Dad read from a dish:
"Peking Pork," then turned with a grin;
"They oughta' call that zipper-down, son."
I didn't get
the joke 'till I was fifteen.
But the
principal profanity came when I got home Friday
looking troubled. The folks could tell, and
thought they'd wait me out. Dad would shrug
his shoulders, Mum would squint at him. Finally
Dad asked: "Son, what's the—"
"I know
the f-word!"
Mum was
shocked: "Where did you hear it!?"
I played with
my peas. "Dad says it all the
time…"
She turned
very slowly, and I saw frying pans in her eyes. Dad
went pale and his Adam's-apple jiggled. The
cats got ready for catapulted meat—they
figured the word was built on them. Looking at
mom from the corner of his eye, Dad said: "Well…
what is it, son?"
"Are
you sure you want me to—"
"For
goodness-sake! Say it or I'm lasagna—you
won't get in trouble."
I leaned
forward conspiratorially, looked around the room
suspiciously, then whispered: "Fart."
The folks
leaned back. Mum put a hand to her mouth and
Dad mirrored her. I wondered why. When Mum spoke,
she sounded choked up: "That's certainly a
vulgar, nasty, horrible word."
"That's
right, don't you use it—now, eat your peas;
Mum and I will get desert."
I didn't know
the wailing sounds from the other room were
laughter 'till I was fifteen, either.
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