My brother has become really irritated with me lately. It bothers him that I've become nearly saint-like when it comes to my language. What really bugs him is when I groan at him, roll my eyes or flat out chastise him for commenting that "She was f*cking fire hot," or yelling "F*ck Mel Gibson, that NAZI *sshole."
It's not that I'm pious or priggish. It's that he does that in front of the goddamned kids. He doesn't have the presence of mind that censors one's choice expletives because there are kids in the back seat, the kitchen or the lobby of the Greater Buffalo International Airport.
I, on the other hand, have grown quite accustomed to spelling sh*t out in front of the lads. I'm not that good, though.
Mrs. P: You're a jerk, you know that.
Prego: Eff - you, man. I'm sick of your S-H-I-crap.
My brother, in the meantime, doesn't let me forget that I once referred to babies as "c*nt turkeys," and that I used the "F" word like a mathematician uses parentheses. Those f*cking days are long gone - at least when speaking. Writing is another story altogether.
Suzanne perfects the fine art of procastination by hosting this week's from Seattle f*cking WA. She wants to know what some of your favourite 'choice' words are.
Some in my daily personal repertoire include (besides S-H-I-crap):
What the fudgescicles!
Jesus, Mary and Curtis Joseph.
Mother pus bucket.
(I don't give a) flying rat's ass.
Shut the H-E f*cking hell up!
That's just the printable tip of the iceberg. Pay her a friendly f*cking visit...