Cussing Up a Storm

I'm not a big fan of the F-bomb, the A-bomb, or a bunch of other very similar, equally naughty words. I think it's the fastest way to convince another person that your vocabulary is very limited. Want a new way to make some more great than great? Make it effin' great and make sure everyone knows that you can't spell awesome.

That having been said, there are times when a curse word might actually be appropriate.* These are few and far between, but they do exist. For example, if a friend just lost his job, you wouldn't want to respond with this: "Gosh darn, friend. That situation is certainly unsavory."

* I got cursed at by the most delightful little old lady last Monday. We hung a screen porch for Miss Barbara and she was displeased with our work, describing it with a certain profane synonym for poopy.** She was; however, pleased with the fact that I fixed her Nissan and fully winterized a birdhouse.

** It was a fair assessment.

I once met a man who used the F-word as an adverb. I'm fairly certain he was entirely unaware that an adverb was a thing. It was that kind of cursing - every sentence kind of cursing - that communicates very little. The word had lost its shock value and instead just made him look unintelligent. If you asked this guy what television show he was watching, he might say: "American *&$%ing Gladiators." It was terribly unfortunate and horribly inappropriate.

I mention all of that because I want to show you what happened to my house while I was on a mission trip:


Damn.

I Used to Work at a Church Camp...

My posts about high school were pretty popular, but eventually I ran out. Unfortunately, my life isn't as glamorous as the blog here makes it seem, so I'm forced to draw on another source of material. This should last for quite some time.

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I know a lot of Pauls. My best friend is named Paul. One of my buddies in high school was named Paul, and he's been mentioned on this blog space. My favorite apostle was Paul. And my favorite Beatle is Paul, hands down.

I also worked at a church camp with a guy named Paul.

Paul was a good guy; really, he was. We did enjoy his antics, but all in good fun.

Paul tried to hang a picture on the wall, using a hammer and screws. He couldn't find nails, so he used screws; screws with threads and everything. Much to his consternation (also, our boss's); this didn't work. His defense: "I honestly believed that if I hit them hard enough, they would go in."

The camp had a tab at Ace Hardware. We could go pick up anything we needed, tell them to put it on the tab, and then we'd leave. They'd bill us later. This convenience was as alien to Paul as an actual alien would have been. That is to say, he was not familiar with it.

After much explanation, Paul was asked to go to buy weed killer at Ace. He didn't have to pay. He merely had to put it on the tab.

"So, I don't have to pay?"

"No."

"Okay, I'm not going to pay for it."

"That's correct."

Paul got in a truck, and drove over to A's Pest Control. This was the incorrect establishment.

In and of itself, this is a minor error. Paul compounded the situation. He walked in, allegedly looking very lost. A concerned employee dared to ask if he could help.

Paul was alarmed and frightened, like a baby chipmunk on Mars. "Yeah. I need some weed killer and I'm not gonna pay for it."

The man told Paul where he could go. And that place was elsewhere.