Swearing Solidarity

I don’t know how things went down at your home growing up, but in the Brown home, cursing was as routine as our spaghetti Sundays.

You come in after curfew, and it was… “Where the #%?@ have you been?”

Television too loud?: “#@&%, turn that $#!% down - can’t even hear myself think!”

Boyfriend called after midnight?: “You better tell that @!&^?% $!&?*# not to call our #*%! house this @$&* late. $#!@, I was having a good *$&?@% dream, too.”

That was the norm as far as I knew. So, operating in the “civilized” world initially proved difficult for me.

For the most part now, however, I have my potty mouth in check, using cuss words solely as terms of endearment (come give me a hug, you skinny-ass bitch) or when singing along to my beloved West Coast rap (have you ever heard the radio-edit version of NWA’s “Gansta Gangsta?” – pathetic!).

But this week - in Buena Beach - an incident occurred that took me back to my vulgar past. We’d had a staff meeting on Monday morning of the usual, unexciting variety. I was the last one in and, an hour later, the first one out. So the whole crew was right behind me when, three steps down the hallway, I stepped wrong in my 3-inch high platforms, causing my right heel to buckle and twist, which was excruciating at best. So, I did what any ordinary, sane member of the Brown family would do in the same situation, screaming “F%?#. F%?#, f%?#, f%?#, f%?#, f%?#! Mother f%?#er!” I might have even added a few “F%?#ing b!&?#”s had it not been for the looks of horror (rather than sympathy or concern for my injury) on the face of my boss.

I have to admit, I was a tad bit embarrassed as I continued down the hall to my desk. But ten minutes later, an e-mail from Danny made me feel so much more shameful, I was tempted to shut down my computer and take the first flight out of the country. Being the process-oriented guy he is, Danny’s e-mail asked staff to vote either in favor