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.