It was after I realised that I actually am the most foul mouthed member of the boat club. Now, this is no mean feat. The boaties are well known for their amazing use of expetives, throwing around the C word left, right, and fuckin' centre.
'OI, GET THE F...ING BALANCE YOU STUPID C...TS!'
'SHUT THE F... UP YOU C...!'
And that's just the teachers. A-ha-ha. The boys are even worse. And god bless us.
We are the most foul mothed of the sports, with effing and blinding being heard literally every minute during a de-rigging session. But I'm pretty sure I still managed to be the most filthy speaking potty mouthed sonofabitch who ever picked up an oar, and I'm pretty proud of that. The spewing forth of that amount of language is a complicated discipline, needing many hours of study, tongue weightlifting, language therapy, and standing on one leg on a post in the 'crane' position, while repeating the three core words over again: 'Fuck... shit... cunt... fuck... shit... cunt... hummmmm.' I did a lot of yen mediation too in a pub full of scousers, so that the foulness of the language could fully permate my entire soul.
It was hard, it was painful, but it was worth it.
But now, I have decided to tone down the ol' language a bit. Why? I'll tell you. As you all know, I have two idols in life: Ghandi and Stephen Fry*. And neither of them swore very much. Um. But for one much more important reason. Something my mother told me on her deathbed. Well, not her deathbed. You never know, she might die on it. I just had a thought. If somebody falls out of a plane (I dunno how, there's a hole in the floor or something), and they fall and they crash into a bed and die, does that bed become their deathbed? What if they crash into a hammock? Is it a death-hammock? Well, if I fall out of a plane, I don't want to end up in a death-hammock. Hammocks are silly and once you get into one, you can't get out without looking stupid. And the one time you don't wanna look stupid is when you're dead; you can't say something witty to get out it.
So, yeah. Something my mother told me on the bed that might be her deathbed, depending on her exact location when she dies:
Every time you swear, God kills a kitten.
Firstly, the actual proverb goes somewhat differently, but my mother is a frail, simple, confused person and I don't think she quite understands the concept of masturbation (which, by the way, Mrs Ogg, your son has been doing INTO THE CAULIFLOWER). Anyway, its now swearing that makes God kill kittens, not masturbation. And when she told me this, I was shocked. I swear so damn much... there must be a mountain of kittens somewhere that are dead JUST because of me. But how many? I did a bit of maths.
On average, I estimate that I swear once every two minutes, which is 30 times an hour (this is about right). If I'm awake for twelve hours a day, and I've been swearing competitively for an average of six years, then...
30 swear-words an hour x 12 hours a day x 365 days a year x 6 years = hahahahhahahhahahhahahaha.
I have sworn roughly 788,400 times over the course of my swearing life. Fuckin' brilliant. That's a LOT of cats. If the average new-born kitten weights 3.5 ounces, then I've taken out 2,759,400 ounces of kitten. THAT'S NEARLY 77 TONNES. DO I RULE OR NOT? That is quite an achievement. I am actually proud of myself for wiping out that many of the cat population.
I wonder if there's a huge pile of dead kittens out there somewhere. And how does God kill the kittens? Do they just collapse in the street or do rocks fall from above and split open their little heads? Its an interesting survey. In fact, I reckon that I'll do a test. All I'll need is a kitten and a swear word.
AND AS LUCK WOULD HAVE IT...
Aww. Its so damn cute. Look at its little eyes. It's just so iccle and sweet, just begging to be stroked, petted, fed with food, and allowed to grow into a happy and healthy little member of society.
Its just a pity that can't happen.
I know, I know, I'm evil, I'm nasty. I shouldn't be allowed to perform experiments on animals in this matter. I should be locked in a cage and experimented on. But I have to do this, for the good of humanity. If I don't, who knows what sort of crazy shit will happen next? What if our mothers lied to us all along? What if swearing is a good thing? What if, instead of killing kittens, it takes out terrorists? You say the F-word and a hijacker has a heart attack. Or perhaps instead of killing kittens, it SAVES kittens from a nasty fate? We just don't know.
And if they're wrong about this one, what about everything else. Perhaps if the wind changes, our faces WON'T stay like that!
And... God forbid... do you think they were lying about crusts on sandwiches? WHAT IF THE CRUSTS AREN'T GOOD FOR US? What if the crusts are ACTUALLY POISONOUS? CHRIST. WE COULD ALL BE KILLING OURSELVES AS WE CHEW.
So you see, it is my duty as a MAN to do this. I must just see if the mothers were lying to us all along... I'm doing this for the good of humanity. I should... nay, I must... do this. I'm sorry.
Fuck.
Well, what do you know, they were telling the truth. That's a relief. Brave kitten, you died in a good cause.
What delicious snacks do cows enjoy? Moofins.
*Not really. They are both gimps. Fry is fat and Ghandi is thin. I guess if you mixed them together in an industrial cement mixer, you might get a normal sized guy. A homosexual indian spiritual leader/gameshow host with a nice cheery face and a fuckoff bizarre accent called Stephatma Fryndi.
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