The word "shit" has a special place carved in my heart. Phrases including but not limited to "Are you shittin' me?", "Gonna eat the shit out of that burger," and "On it like stink on shit" frequently roll off my tongue like..well, shit off a greased pig's back. So varied its uses, so visually descriptive its imagery, how can one not be charmed by the four-letter combo?
My propensity for impropriety startles me sometimes, however. Most notably when I'm forced to reckon with my behavior classification, which verges on crass (my mother nicely calls it "earthy"). I cringed and refused to believe it on initial realization, sputtering Nuh uh, now way. I attend operas and symphonies! I bake scones and drink tea! I couldn't possibly be-- Well now, hold the phone there, Collins. I tell dirty jokes. I like naughty inuendoes. I have an affinity for the hard workin' man with grime on his hands who drinks whiskey with beer backs. And there it was, clear as day--I'm one misdemeanor short of being a societal blight.
This wasn't so much of a news flash as a slow awakening. I sensed this ultimate truth at age seventeen--and the subsequent "beginning of the end" with my first love when he decried my "shit" usage. I could see him physically shrink back with horror when I let it loose in conversation. I'm burning dinner: Oh shit balls! I'm excited: Holy Shit! The Chinese take-out didn't agree with me: Move out of the way--I gotta shit!
Don't let the blonde hair, fair complexion and goofy smile fool you. It's an unintentional false front--gently luring many through the doors of believing I'm possibly a refined creature, maybe of middle-class descent (where I come from we call it "priviledged upbringing"). But a whirling dervish of obscenities is me. The memory of my first love and our vast cravasse in linguistic differences recently reared its head over Orange Beef and Spicy Prawn with Asparagus on a first date with a good looking gent I was kind of keen on. Educated, interesting, and very handsome, out of nowhere he hits me with a softly uttered "What the hay?"
To which I say, "What the fuck?"
What the hay is child's talk. Rubbish. Verbiage for the person to whom the vagaries and vulgarities of life are foreign. Life is not deepened by "the finer things". It's colored and textured with grime, sweat, tears and sex. And maybe a little spilled Jim Beam. Profundity is rarely found within the limits of refinement. As Mark Twain said, "There are no people who are quite so vulgar as the over-refined."
I like that Twain guy--he really knew his shit.
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