We are kicking this challenge into high gear! Today’s topic is a fun one, and I had a good laugh writing it. An informative tale awaits you. Head on over to www.concreteorchid.com and get a whiff of what my sister has to say.
I will begin today’s post by admitting that I can be a verbal court jester from time to time, and have been known to insert more than a few feet squarely into my sound hole. Often enough that I should, by now, have athletes foot of the tongue. It’s too easy to jumble and fumble the verbiage and have items that were meant to sound one way, come out as something entirely different. I’ll admit it. I’m guilty of that. Or, you can just defy your mother like a stubborn little twit, and get dealt with the punishment of legend. This tale is about to get real personal, so heed my warnings.
It all began back when I was a stubborn little twit (around 8 years old perhaps), and my young mouth was chock full of dirty little 8 year old boy vulgarities. I remember very clearly parading around the house chanting of (exact words here) dookie and pee pee. Yes, this is a true story, and yes, I’m not ashamed to admit that these were my words of choice. I got a huge kick out of those words; they rolled off of my tongue with vigor, and I quite recall exploding into fits of laughter after saying them. I could make entire stories out of them, and masterfully inserted them into my sentences like a dirty wordsmith. What can I say, I liked dookie and pee pee. My mother rightfully became annoyed by my choice of verbal entertainment, and instructed me repeatedly to cease the dookie at once, or else she’d wash my mouth out with soap. Eight year old kids generally tend to push the envelope, and push the envelope I did. I continued on with my fecal fetish, full steam ahead, with no fear of the soapy consequences. In short, I refused to flush the dookie from my young vocabulary.
One bright and sunny day, my brothers thought it would be a grand idea to hurl these obscenities to passers-by through our open bedroom window, and I gleefully accepted the challenge. One by one, I’d yell my dookie fueled words at the innocent walkers, and we’d burst into delightfully devious chuckles. One by one we did this, until I heard my name being called from my mother’s bathroom. I’ll never forget the ominous tone in that “Gary….”. The room got quiet, and my heart sank like a torpedoed cargo ship. There was only one reason why she’d be calling me into that bathroom. She heard the poop fest word for word, and my Irish Spring gum scrub was about to begin with the quickness. I tepidly approached the bedroom, wondering (and hoping) if she had the gall to carry out her execution of my mouth. Indeed she did. She was unwrapping a minty fresh bar of soap as I slowly walked toward the bathroom. Blam! She was on me like Hulk Hogan as soon as I hit the bathroom door, and I can truthfully say that I more than likely had the cleanest mouth on earth that day. If I close my eyes, I can still taste that soap.
Moral of the story – when your mother compels you to stop saying dookie, just buck up and stop saying dookie. Listen to your parents; they rule the show, and they mean business. Putting my foot in my mouth got me a mouth full of Dial. Mom, I know you’re reading this, and I hope you’re laughing. I don’t say dookie anymore (at least not when you’re around).