I seriously loves me some curse words. To wit: when I read the word “fucking” in a sentence I always laugh. I also tend to giggle when I read the word “monkey,” but not as much. This is primarily why I ordered the Thug Kitchen cookbook. That, and because I am working on becoming a vegan, but that’s another blog post.

Recently, I decided to start trying to use the word. Not “monkey”, which any fool can use. The other one. This is how Paco and I discovered that I have no talent for it. That’s why I was surprised when I tried it out on him the other day and he started laughing.

“Did I do it?” I asked, honestly surprised. “Are you laughing because I was funny?”

“No. I’m laughing because you can’t say “fucking” and I think that’s funny.”

Even David, who pretty much never even says, “gosh,” can use the f-word effectively in a sentence.

My cousin, Erin, was here this afternoon, and we were talking about this, in part because she had just dropped the f-bomb for the 10th time in an hour.

“You know,” I told her, somewhat enthusiastically, “I can’t say that word. I’ve been trying, and I always just fail. I fail at fucken cussing!” I noticed her wince involuntarily even though I could tell from the way she squinted that she was trying not to. “See?”

“No, really, that sounded good to me.”

But it didn’t really sound right to either of us. We’re related. I knew. And then I had a thought.

“I think maybe I fail because I say it wrong. I always get excited because I know I’m about to say that word out loud and then I rush and always end up saying, ‘fucken’ instead. Like I’m saying, ‘chicken’ but with an ‘f’. I think that’s why I fail. I always trip up.”

I can’t help it. I know I have used the word in anger in my past, when I was working a high pressure job with a bunch of men who were totally relieved to learn that I could cut loose with the f-word when I was ticked off at somebody. And somehow, the f-word is to language like smoking is to bars: nobody cusses until somebody else does, and then everybody lights up the conversation with expletives, like a bunch of 9 year olds just learning to talk like grown ups. This is something I miss about working. And also about bars. The laughing, and the talking to people. And also making money. So fucken much money. But that, also, is another blog post.

The other day I posted a blog entry that included a cartoon of my face saying “fucking” in two different sentences. I thought it was quite funny, but my mother (the only person to read it thus far) gave me two comments, one of which suggested I switch to “fracked” like all the Republicans do1, and one of which asked me to stop spamming her Facebook page with my fracking foul language.

It is in this context that you will now see the words “fwack” and “fwacking” in lieu of that other word that I can’t say anyhow (but only when it’s coming from my own mouth).  I do this in honor of my parents, and also of my own fexpletive-challenged writing ability. From now on you can tell your friends and relatives that I have a really fowl mouth. Really fwacking fowl.

1I cannot do this, as Mom is well aware. Both my political leanings and my ecological bent prevent me from using such a tasteless term in such a public forum.