Potty mouth? Moi?!?
Yesterday an anonymous commentor on The Gowanus Lounge had the gall to take issue with my colorful language, among other things:
Nice potty mouth, Miss Heather, way to go. Talk about upbringing! And you are offended by the sight of a toddler peeing? Get a life.
Is it me, or someone taking issue with profanity— much less calling me a “potty mouth”— sort of ironic given that the topic I was passionately commenting about was public urination? More specifically, I was taking issue with a 30-ish year old man who elected to hold his 3-4 year old child’s penis as he tinkled on the street. Speaking for myself, public parental penis wrangling is much more objectionable than the odd f-bomb (or two). It’s enough to make me wonder about this dude’s upbringing. Maybe Michael Jackson was his nanny?
Come to think of it, I learned just about every nasty epithet I know from my dad. Time-tested classics such as:
- Fuck (in all its many forms and applications)
- Jesus Christ
- Judas Priest
- Cocksucker (a big favorite of my old man)
- Son of a bitch
This is why my mother never punished me for using profanity; she knew I learned all the above words from her own husband. She felt disciplining me for using words I heard 4,5,6+ times a day at home would be hypocritical. Only the word “cunt” was picked up by yours truly elsewhere. I learned that one in high school. God bless public education.
Who is this mysterious man known only as Heather’s dad? Well, to give you a clearer picture of the man (and legend) I will share my favorite fatherly anecdote…
Five years ago both my grandmother and great aunt were in failing health. My parents (unable to repeatedly drop everything and drive to Texas on a moment’s notice) brought my grandparents back to their house in New Mexico. They had plenty of room to accommodate Daisy and Bertha. In fact, they only lacked one essential item: an additional bed. Dear old dad was delegated the task of rectifying this problem.
Several hours later he came home pissed off and bedless. After five minutes of gentle coaxing, my mother learned that he has been asked to leave the store. Naturally, my mother then asked WHY he was asked to leave the store. This was when the real fun began…
In order to rent a bed, my father was asked to provide references. He (rightfully) took offense at this. The salesperson advised my dad that he need only provide the names of a couple of friends for this purpose. To wit, my father replied:
All my friends are dead.
After some more bickering, he finally caved in and filled out the reference form placed in front of him. Once the salesperson saw who my father had listed as a reference, he was asked to leave the store. He had written:
William Jefferson Clinton
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, DC 20500
That’s when my mother decided to take charge of this task and a bed was secured.
P.S.: I recently asked my dad about something he did twenty years ago. I wrote:
Remember that time you wrote â€œMagic Sucksâ€ in lipstick on the bathroom mirror? I do. What was that about? Just curious.
And here’s his reply:
I vaguely remember writing something on your mirror… but do not remember what or why! Given that I do not care for basketbell ….
I suppose “Magic” runs in the family.