I’ll admit it: I have a cursing issue. Nothing like the tics that accompany Tourette Syndrome – it’s not like I’m shouting &^%, &*$# and %^& in the grocery store, church or the security line at the airport.
In fact, one should avoid all conversation while waddling shoeless through the entire airport screening process. Nothing ruins the first day of vacation like being frog-marched off to the body-cavity room for mistakenly uttering something as benign as ‘government workers suck.’
No, my expletive-filled rants usually have a purpose, and are more often than not directed at our politicians, news media (especially weather people) and the blue hair doing 50 in the fast lane with his turn signal flashing like a lighthouse beacon.
Now I know that some folks consider a foul mouth as a sign of low-grade intelligence and that others think such language represents a heathen upbringing, but of both groups I can confidently say: #@*& ‘em!
In all seriousness, the grandchild has reached the stage of vocabulary development where he enjoys repeating things that are said to him.
‘Justin, did you get new shoes?’
“New shoes.”
‘Are you coloring a picture, Justin?’
“Color picture.”
‘Do you need to go potty, Justin?’
“Go potty.” (Which he still does in his Huggies, but it’s a start)
The point is: if you say it to the grand gnome, the little sprite will say it back.
Anyway, some time over the course of the summer my backyard became the gathering spot for ninety percent of Maryland’s mosquitoes. It’s gotten so bad that even our border collie refuses to go outside unless we dip him in deet.
So as the family recently gathered on our back deck for a Sunday afternoon cook-out, hordes of blood-sucking insects descended upon our grilling festivities.
No, not the bloodsuckers that rent you apartments or collect taxes, but the ones that leave the itchy red bumps on your skin.
My 68-year-old mother and grand gnome 2.5 were the prime targets of the attack; my theory being they both smell of bath powder and protective undergarments.
Having run through the yard with Uncles Adam and Trav and attempting to prematurely pluck fruit from our tomato plants, little Justin returned to the deck with half a dozen welts dotting his arms and legs.
His Aunt Chelsea, sympathetic to his itchy, inflamed bites, picked this moment to coat the boy’s skin with Off resulting in something that – to a toddler – must have felt like he was suffering second degree burns to most of his body.
Running in circles, dancing in place and cooling ice cubes placed on the now crimson skeeter chomps calmed the little dude, but Poo-Paw here thought that a more proper rescue was in order.
So I put my arms around the imp, rubbed his itchy, burning legs and articulated the immortal phrase: ‘damn bugs’
“Damn bugs” was squeaked back to me in one of the cutest little voices I’d ever heard. My daughter – Sergeant Mom as she’s known to my grandson - didn’t find it so delightful.
This repetition revelation is going to put a serious damper on my fall sports viewing – as bad as our local professional and college teams are, my grandson should be cussing like a sailor on a Bill O’Reilly outtake by Thanksgiving.
By J. Doug Gill