MODERN LANGUAGE

Long ago and far, far away when I was just a lad, things were different. That’s a silver tongued first sentence, isn’t it? Right out of a thousand stories and Star Wars too, I think. I digress. How different were things? Don’t answer. That’s a rhetorical question and I’ll answer it here in a little bit. Okay, where was I?

Oh yeah, different. Back in those days, the Fifties and early Sixties, girls didn’t talk about the parts of the male physique that lie below the waist line. And waist lines, surrounded by cheap leather belts, were a lot higher back then. If I happened to overhear a girlish conversation about boys or men I would hear giggling chatter about muscular arm muscles, highly shellacked pompadour or D.A. hairstyles, dreamy eyes and other non-racy stuff like that. Really hushed conversations might turn to a guy’s ability as a kisser. That was hot stuff back then.

Then the Sixties rolled on in. Those long haired wild eyed rock and roll musicians started multiplying. Then a bunch of them crossed over from England. Crazy, drugged up band boys leaping about and screaming sex driven lyrics were all over the radio and television. Bands like the Kinks, the Rolling Stones, the Beatles and probably the wildest band of all Freddie and the Dreamers. Next thing we knew girls’ skirts got shorter, bras were being burned and people were rolling in the mud in upstate New York. Books like the Joy of Sex were on every newlywed’s night stand. And I think that one even showed up on Father Knows Best. Maybe not.

There has been a downhill slide ever since those halcyon days of yore. (Another terribly overused cliché there) All of which brings me to the point you all knew I’d get around to eventually.

The other day I happened to be at the mall in the food court. I know, I know. I’ve told you before how I never go to the mall. Well, it was raining and I wanted to get a walk done so I was there doing that. Then I needed to go into Sears for a new chain for my chainsaw. All that made me hungry so I went to ChicFila for a healthy grilled chicken sandwich. Okay, are you satisfied?

Anyway, a bunch of young teenage girls was sitting nearby talking and laughing in that annoying way that only teenage girls can seem to master. They were talking about budget deficits, the upcoming election and ways to foster world peace. Ha! You know I’m lying with that last one. No, those girls were talking about boys and all the necessary equipment and stratagems they use to capture the smelly creatures. But the conversation reached, in terms of language and anatomical correctness, a whole new level that, frankly, surprised even me. As anyone who has ever heard my skills in the area of off-color language can attest, no trooper or sailor has a vocabulary more extensive than mine. I pale in comparison to that group of expensively dressed, well fed young females.

“Like last Friday, ya’know, I went out with Billy and he like was wearing these really like tight jeans and ya’know you could see his **** and his **** and when I shoved my like tongue down his throat his **** got all **** and like he grabbed my **** and like I was **** and….”

That was a highly censored excerpt of part of the conversation. I supplied those asterisk thingies for the unmentionable body parts. But I completely eliminated all the “F” words, “S” words, “MF” words and others. If I had kept those in that paragraph would have run well over a page.

But something even more disturbing than that conversation happened a little later. I mean, teenagers can be excused as being ignorant and interested in saying things for shock value alone. It was a day or two later when I was in the grocery store that I came across three middle aged ladies in the produce department. I was innocently squeezing tomatoes when I overheard a conversation emanating from those expensively dressed, well fed matrons. Here’s a sample.

“Yes, my George is getting so lazy when it comes to ****. Why he even went out and bought me a ****** so he wouldn’t have to, you know, **** me. So Javier the pool guy we have, who is very good by the way, has been taking care of **** and **** and **** and I’m a lot more relaxed now. And you should see his **** and his **** is magnificent also.”

It went on. These women didn’t use as many cuss words as adjectives and adverbs but they weren’t totally cuss free. But I had to move on when one of the women noticed a tomato turning into sauce in my hand and she figured out I was eavesdropping. When all three glared at me like I was some kind of lecherous psychopath I made my way to the dairy department.

Well I guess my shock at hearing such blunt and crude language from the fairer sex marks me in one more way as an old geezer. And I’m sure that those few representatives from the distaff side aren’t like all women. I know my dear wife doesn’t talk dirty, no matter how hard I try to convince her to do it. She can let loose with a string of colorful invective when she’s really irritated with me, however. Which is, when I think about it, fairly often.

Okay then, have a fine day.

JUST A COUPLE OF THINGS HERE...

Howdy friends and neighbors. It’s been quite a long time since I posted anything on the old Blog site. I’ve been focusing most of my writing energy on my little pieces of poetry. Some would call them little pieces of something else but I think those folks are just artistically deficient.

But today I feel the need to comment on a couple of things. One of them is a little bit political so if you’re sick and tired of all that crap you can skip over it. But if you skip it then you have let to me know and I’ll send along a couple of poems for you to read. You’re going to get your unpleasant reading whether you like it or not.

Okay here’s the political stuff. First of all, I’m not a party politics kind of guy. It’s true that I’m more than a little bit conservative in my views. In fact I’ve been described as a poor man’s William F. Buckley. Not quite sure who described me that way. Might even have been me. It doesn’t matter. This recent primary election business was an interesting bit of civics in action. What with the Tea Party folks and the more traditional Republicans going at it along with a few interesting little contests on the Democrat side there’s something different flowing down this particular river of history. I’m not registered with any party so I didn’t have the opportunity to vote in the primaries. Probably better that I didn’t because my variety of choices might have short circuited the voting machine. But the message from the voters of both parties seems to be that a whole lot of folks are tired of professional politicians.

For instance here in Delaware we had a Democrat Party primary to choose a candidate for the State Treasurer race. One of the contenders was Ms. Velda Potter-Jones who currently holds that esteemed office. She’s been involved in government for a long time and her husband is a city councilman up in Wilmington. But she projected just a little bit of arrogance, a little bit of the “I’m a member of the very smart ruling class” attitude. Her opponent was a hard working accountant type guy who came across as sincere and uninterested in making elected office-holding a lifetime career. Well he won quite handily. Other races in the state seemed to be decided the same way. Career politicians might be a new and welcomed endangered species. I’ve always harbored a suspicion of folks who come out of college with a law or political science degree and immediately go about building a career that leads to permanent residence in elected office. In fact I find them kind of scary and I take most every opportunity to vote against that particular breed. The upcoming general election will be interesting to me mostly to see how many incumbent careerists get to join the unemployment rolls that they helped fill up with regular working folks. So that’s my political ranting.

Now on to a subject that may cause my spleen to burst if I don’t get it out of my system. And if I have any readers who happen to be part of the group I’m about to malign (which is pretty unlikely since these morons must be completely illiterate) too bad. If I knew your names I’d mention them before I let go with this diatribe. Where did these complete idiots on motorcycles come from? I’m not talking about those club guys who tool around on their Harleys or the folks in late middle age who ride those big shiny Gold Wings with more options than the average Cadillac. No I’m talking about the fools on those “crotch rocket” imported bikes that ride without any regard for laws, life or limbs.

Just tonight we were driving east on RT 50 coming home from the DC area when a pack of those things ripped by us, weaving in and out of traffic at speeds well over eighty miles per hour. I know that for a fact because I hit the gas to try and keep up with them but I chickened out when I hit eighty. It’s hard to weave a 2005 Chevy Malibu in and out of traffic at speeds like that. Those guys were flying down the highway. I know they passed several cops because I saw the police cars and they were shooting the radar gun and picking up little old ladies doing sixty-seven in a sixty-five zone. They pick up those kinds of speeders because there’s no challenge to it. Cops know they can’t catch the “crotch rockets” so they don’t even bother.

And why do the over-dressed, tinted glass helmet wearing knuckleheads travel in packs? We always see three, four or more of them whining their annoying engines as they terrorize other drivers and cause pedestrians to leap from bridges. I honestly can’t think of a greater hazard on our roads today. As we traveled home tonight we saw big electric signs in several spots – MOTORCYCLE SAFETY WEEK SHARE THE ROAD. Those signs blinked and went out when the “crotch rocket” riders roared past causing a warp in the space-time continuum.

I do have a solution, harsh and cruel though it may be. I will sell you a device to mount on your car, SUV, pick-up truck or minivan that will stop those riders forever. When you see one or more of those bikes racing up to pass you, just flick a button. That button will release a spring loaded very long, very sharp blade at just the right height to slice the front tire of the motorcycle and retract immediately. At that point just slow down and watch as the motorcycle continues along at eighty or ninety until the unraveling tire causes the thing to start flying through the air like Evel Kneivel on crack. “Awesome, dude!” they might say as they become highly colorful road-kill.

Well, you get my drift. I feel better now.

Have a fine day.