Language Arts

It has been said, by a few, that I may cuss to much.

It has been said, by a few more, that I should watch my language around the children.

Fucker.

I arrived at Team Beer Headquarters for our Men's Sunday League Softball game. I just want to point out that the name of our team is again: Beer. I want to make sure everyone knows that. That does not really sound like a family oriented name, does it?

What do you picture when you hear of a softball team by the name of Beer? Maybe a bunch of over the hill guys trying to fight off the she devil of old age. Maybe a bunch of has beens that smoke between innings or maybe a few fellers who tell lies that they could have made the show if only they hadn't stayed home to take care of Mamma.

That's pretty much right on. And I would imagine you would also think that a softball team by the name of Beer would cuss, but just on occasion. That occasion being just about every pitch.

And so it was when I played this last weekend. Things were going fine and we were making our ill advised comments about the church team we were playing. It was a high scoring game which we didn't win. But that is besides the point in today's blog.

We had one of our chubs heading around second. He was huffing a puffing like the last of the Mohicans was after his scalp. He rounded third, headed for home.

At this time, I chose to shout: "Run you fat bastard!"

I don't know why I shouted it, but I just assume that I was caught up in the moment of it all. Competition, sweat and the smell of a possible heart attack. Everything that makes Sunday Men's D League softball worth while.

Well our fat bastard runner did score and all was right with the world. Until Uncle Bricksalesman stepped away from the on deck circle and looked at me.

"Hossman, watch the language." He said in his stoic voice.

I looked around. Was there another Hossman on the field?

Well, yes there was. There were three to be exact. They all have the last name of Hoss and I am jealous. But Uncle Bricksalesman wasn't looking at any of them, only at me. I did a quick count to see what I could have possibly said. Fuck--nope, not that one. Asshole--I only use that one for the special occaions. Jiz Mopper--I think that is only a profession and not a swear word at all.

Bastard, that is what I said. But was that what brought this next language correction to me? I was confused. Seriously, Bastard is a bad enough word for Team BEER to have me chastised? I mean, come on. I heard other guys talking about having sex with goats earlier, so why me?

But my brother in law is not the only one to try and correct me on this problem. My mother in law loves to give unsolicted advice. I think that this makes her whole. She has commented several times how when I do write blogs I should watch the language. She states that she cannot check my blog at work because it is blocked because of the foul language. Hmmm. I don't know how to take this. So let's put some spin on it:

I am banned from many computers but I continue to write. That makes me a rebel and a revolutionary. I am fucking Thomas Jefferson in this motherfucker. Ladies, the line starts to the right.

But my brother in law has pointed out some a very important fact, the bastard. Little Hoss is getting to that age where she is starting to repeat things. She has already said shit. The bad parent award goes to the good looking gentlemen in the front row.

And I have 3 nieces and a nephew. All under the age of 4. Little Hoss will probably teach them all how to say shit and then it is my ass for sure.

Bubba Hoss is still only a week old and I know that he has heard me drop the F bomb around a million times. Manly at around 112:50 when I am trying to sleep and he decides No, screw you dad, it's play time. So he may not be saying any bad words yet, but I'm pretty sure he's thinking them.

And when I am with my family, and this is going to sound bad, I just forget the kids are around. As a family we easily slip back into our familiar roles: I am the Hoss, toughest around by far. Uncle Bricksalesman can't close the deal with any woman, ever. Uncle Hippie has odd ball ideas, like using methane biodigradible gase to run his car. Hossmom is the pop culture queen, often pointing out who is banging who in Hollywood. The mother in law wonders why we don't pay more omage and take her advice on the best carpet to buy.

It's easy, it's what we know. And here is the kicker: we all fucking cuss. It isn't just me. But being that I am Hoss, my voice does carry a little bit more. At least I think so because Hossmom is constantly reminding me that I should use my inside voice. So it is easy to blame me for spilling filth around the kids even though we all let the occasional shit squirt statement squeeze out from time to time. And I do suppose the kids look up to me more than their own parents. After all, I once played a couple of football games with a broken hand. That's tough. I'm kinda like Jesus, just not in a sacraligous way, thus sayeth Homer.

So begining today, I will drop the cussing in public. I will make my blog G rated and talk only about bunnies and sun flowers. At Team Beer games I will smile and say that's ok when someone jabs a spike into my shin. I will not use the words fuck, cunt, shit, ass or the brown eyed saint anymore. I swear it.

Uncle Bricksalesman is right, I do cuss to much.
Fucking bastard communist.

Come on man, it's BEER softball for fucks sake! Seriously, what am I supposed to say: Gee wiz Beaver, I sure hope you move your bulbous behind a little faster so that we can score against that swell church. And this blog, fucking come on! It's a blog about my life and when you are cleaning the shit of 2 kids, 2 cats, 2 dogs and whatever my own body plops out, how can I not say fuck!

But for my neices and nephews, I promise I will only say words like "ship" when I stub my toe.