He’s not the first kid who did, but I can’t figure out why. I try not to swear, really I do, but I’ve always considered myself more a pioneer in linguistics than profane. When I swear, it moves out of the realm of profanity and filth and into the realm of artwork. Just like painted nudes or hentai, it’s art, not pornography.
Still, it’s probably not a good thing to make such strides in weaving clever, colorful terms together in front of my children. I’ve made strides in this area, but I’ve a lot of ground to cover. After all, I’ve been perfecting my craft for quite some time, and it’s taken a lot of practice to be as good at it as I am. Setting down those skills now is a new challenge in and of itself.
Anyway, he likes this one particular thing I do, which doesn’t really involve cursing, per se, but does involve shooting myself the bird. Flipping myself off makes my son roll into peals of uncontrollable laughter for some reason, and when I’m feeling particularly feisty, I do that to get him going. When he’s down and out or blue, it’s sure to turn his mood around.
But I haven’t done it in a while. And like I said, I’m doing my best to try and clean up this town and make sure they have at least a half-a$$ed chance of hearing clean air spoken for some years.
But on Saturday, my boy asked me to do it. He asked me to. So I did it. Per usual, he burst into tear-squeezing laughter, and when he got control of himself, he wiped his cheek and the corner of his eye and said, “Man, it’s so funny when you swear.”
I huffed. “I didn’t swear.”
“That’s a swear,” he insisted.
“No it’s not,” I countered, wondering if he’d come to “gesture” or something similar on his own.
“It’s not a swear word,” he said, considering, “but it’s a swear finger.”
Then it was mine turn to roll into tear-squeezing peals of laughter. My ribs are still sore.