Mister Pootato Head and the Home for Lost Boys

Today I am interrupting my regularly scheduled blog to unblog. Life is messy, and as the saying goes when the going gets tough the weak run and hide.

I've been re-reading my blog, and have discovered that I say "shit" a lot.

Possibly too much. I feel like Gordon Ramsay lite. I don't use the f-bomb, I excrete the other expletive: The s-bomb.

Profanity in general is expressive. It's abrupt, jarring, and most effective when used sparingly. I guess this is why I enjoy saying shit so much. Like its big brother the mighty F word, there are dozens of ways to say shit. Like the color (or colour for my English and Canadian friends) of shit which has subtle shades and hues that can denote an array of conditions - the aural delivery of the shit word, is a linguistic cornucopia.

Why all this reflection upon the excremental wonder word? I suppose it has a lot to do with the record number of times I said it today. Even Margaret commented on it. I think it was, "Shit John, you must've said shit a hundred times in the last five mintes."

I suppose I'll have to set the stage. I should have known that to simply launch into a rant about the word shit, and then go on about my record use of said word without any preamble wouldn't work.

I can set it up with one word: Norton.

Norton came over yesterday and he had beers with him. We sat on the porch and spent the afternoon sitting and drinking beer. They weren't Kilkenny's, but he'd brought along some Sam Adams so it was pretty good for all that. I could tell he had something to say, and was working his way up to blurting it out.

Finally he said something that sounded like, "JohnIdon'twanttoliveathomewithmymotheranymoreshe'sdrivingmenutscanImoveinwithyou?"

Several minutes passed by while I processed what I thought I'd heard. Norton cracked open another Sam's and sucked it down. He opened another and started to look for the bottom of the bottle.

There was no way on God's green earth I was going to let Norton move in with me. None. No way in hell (am I telegraphing this enough for ya? You know what's coming don't you?)

I opened my mouth, and out popped "I guess."

I guess? Oh shit. Shit shit shit shit shit. What have I done?

Norton finished off his beer - picked up the remaining soldiers and staggered into the house to put them in the fridge. Right around then his mother drove up, parked in front of the house and honked the horn. Norton smiled his drunkard's smile at me, "Ride's here - gotta go. I'll be bringing my stuff around later in the week."

I suppose if I was thinking objectively about what I've done, I'd come to the realization that I've been overusing the wrong word.

This is one where the score would read: Gordon Ramsay 1 - John Chapman 0.