I Swear to You: Dispatch from a Cursing Connoisseur

May 7, 2019

I have been swearing semi-professionally since I was about 10-years-old.  That’s the first time I remember using the word “fuck” and feeling the rush that comes from the impact such a word makes.  If used properly, swearing wields power, commands attention, and according to Psychology Today, “provides physical and mental health benefits,” including pain relief, social bonding, increased circulation, elevated endorphins and an overall sense of calm, control, and well-being.  Who knew?  Uhh, this bitch, that’s who.  

 

Swearing is a hobby of mine, one I try to cultivate by bingeing shows like Veep which have elevated cursing to a Shakespearean-level art form.  For instance, when struggling to come up with her revised stance on abortion, VP Selina Meyer bemoans, “Maybe I should just say, ‘Get the government out of my fuckin’ snatch.’”  See what I mean? Profane perfection.  On Veep they would never just call someone a cunt, they would call them ‘Cunter S. Thompson,” and obviously, that is so. much. better.  

 

I have tried to file all their brilliant expletives away in my brain for future use but I seem to have less and less access to those files as the years go by – tiny little brain demons keep relocating the goddamn file cabinets – so I may have to re-watch the entire series and take notes this time.  For my collection of cusswords.  

 

I'm sort of a collector of collections.  In addition to the useful curses, I have collections of Coke memorabilia, salt and pepper shakers (inherited from my Grandmother who started it in 1929), funky hats, X’s, Día de los Muertos calaveras (sugar skulls), hippos, red lipsticks, crows, dog art, dog photography books, children’s picture books, young adult books, (okay –  ALL the books), tiny Cow Parade replicas, chicken chotskies, moose décor, Chihuahua clothing, gaudy jewelry, concert posters/tickets and t-shirts beginning with Styx Paradise Theater circa 1980, Great Danes, handbags, Frog Prince paraphernalia, vinyl albums, anything with a zebra pattern and probably a dozen other things I am forgetting right now.  The Hubby says I also collect personalities so that I can swap them out at a moment’s notice.  I say that’s just being practical.

 

But my favorite collection is one that I have had nothing to do with.  It stems from my aforementioned deep and abiding love of profanity and consists of thoughtful gifts from friends and family, each one almost always accompanied by the phrase, “I saw this and thought of you.”   I call this collection Swearobilia and it’s fucking awesome.  So far it consists of:

 

  1. “Bitch, I AM the secret sauce”  handtowel

  2. “Mother-fucking girl power”  socks

  3.  “Fucksox”  socks that come in threes because you always lose one. They’re from Christopher Moore’s Bloodsucking Fiends. Get some HERE (100% of profits go to MS research)

  4. “Where are my fucking keys?”  keychain

  5. “Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck”  handtowel

  6. A set of notecards that includes “You Made My Fucking Day” and “Fuck Yeah, It’s Your Birthday!” and “Fan-Fucking-Tastic!” and “You’re the Shit!”

 

More than one of these items were given to me by the same 13-year-old girl.  She’s got a hard and fast rule about swearing in her vicinity – absolutely not allowed and anyone heard uttering a profanity is immediately reprimanded  – but for some reason I get a pass.  When her Dad asked her about the discrepancy she just shrugged, “It’s funny when Xan says it.”  

 

Well, thank fucking Christ on a crispy cracker because I do the swears a LOT.  I have a glitchy filter.  I know I still have a filter because I can use it for seconds on end when necessary but after a minute or two I have to mutter a quick “fucksicle sticks” under my breath to do a reset.  

 

Yesterday the latest piece of Swearobilia showed up on my doorstep, delivered in elegant black and white giftwrapping via the Divine Miss Doré, my Hubby’s wondrous goddamn queen of a niece.  It was a perfect little tube of Tom Ford’s “Fucking Fabulous” lipstick which is a resplendent red so it checks the boxes on two of my collections!

 

It makes me happy beyond words to know that whenever my friends and family bear witness to a humorous obscenity, an image of me pops into their minds.  Indecent, motherfucking foul-mouthed me.  

 

A tour of a few highlights from my collections:

 

                                                                                                   

 

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