I've been trying to cut down on my swearing. I've already been known to make truck drivers, sailors and frat boys blush, but the litanies I've let loose in the past two weeks, well, I've even started to shock myself. Shouting out sockcucking futhermucker in the office isn't really professional or polite, especially considering that we work in a single room and conversations (or outbursts) can be easily overheard on the phone. Not the level of integrity I usually take to the office. And just another reason why I'm not cut out for nine-to-five life. Somehow, people expect a certain level of decorum, even if aptitude is optional. You have no idea of the level of "genius" I sometimes have to deal with...or, maybe you get to frolic in it, too. Now I understand why God invented Happy Hour...and why it goes on for two or three.
As I've been trying to spare the ears of my two colleagues, I've tried to be creative with my outbursts. Farg has become a regular expletive substitute for me. "Wait. Did you just say 'farg'?" my co-worker asked yesterday, obviously more accustomed to hearing the blue streak. "Yeah. Just trying to cut down on the bad words." She gave a nod that was both slightly confused and a tad grateful.
Rice crispies is another good term to use when around children or old people. It's sort of a mouthful to say, and is confusing to the listener. However, it hasn't really found its way into the workplace as yet.
Douche bag, on the other hand, has been falling out of my mouth pretty regularly. About every five to fifteen minutes or so. I try to throw in Massengill every now and then, just for kicks, but even I've grown tired of using an antiquated and unhealthy feminine "hygiene" apparatus to express my disgust.
So, it's time for turkey. I warned the girls it was coming. They kind of dig it, too. I can't wait to roll down the window and scream it at the next