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I heard it again this weekend. Someone referring to another person’s weakness as a need to “grow some”. You know what that means. Balls. The person needed to grow some BALLS. Cojones. Nuts. Nads. Thus implying that all acts of derring-do and general heroicism come from having a pair of these “man tonsils”. Dog, I hate that.
So here’s my problem: you see, I’M A GIRL. And I don’t have testicles. Never have, never will. DON’T CARE TO EITHER. Seriously, guys, look in the mirror some time, they look ridiculous and aside from procreative properties, most women could give a damn. And while we’re on the subject, this lack of male physiology has never prevented me from speaking up, standing up, beating up, and giving it to anyone or anything that stands in my way. And there are plenty of women out there just like me. So where the hell do people get the idea that owning a pair of testicles equates courage? I could own a pair of testicles. I could castrate some guy right now, put ’em in a jar and keep ’em in my purse. There. Would that count? I don’t think so. Not on any level.
What I need right now is another phrase, term, word, whatever, that replaces “balls” as the mantle for bravura and pugnacity.
So the next time I’m trying to bolster a female friend, co-worker, sistah about being too timid, instead of telling her she needs to “grow some” (something she clearly doesn’t need to do) I can tell her________________________________???
A common misconception in life is that blonds have all the jokes told about them. As a redhead, I can attest to the fact that this is not true because one, redheads don’t often let the teller of the joke have additional opportunities at re-telling it, and two, redheads just better know how to keep 50% of the population occupied thus leaving blonds ample time to further mislead people with other urban myths.
Despite these facts, however, I have managed to amass a fairly decent collection of jokes. Here’s some from my repertoire. There’s many more but not all of them bear mentioning. Some are silly and some are downright true, okay, most are downright true.
So to my little titan haired friend at the grocery store who tugged on my hair last weekend and asked why there aren’t more of us, I say this: because we are few, we are a privileged few, we band of sisters, and we won’t be ignored….
How do you know when a redhead has been at your computer?
There’s an ax embedded in the monitor.
What’s safer, a piranha or a redhead?
A piranha, they only attack in schools.
What do you call a redhead with an attitude?
What’s the fastest way to a man’s heart if you’re a redhead?
Through his ribcage.
What’s the advantage of a blond over a redhead?
You can at least ignore a blond safely.
What’s the difference between a redhead and a lawyer?
There’s some things even a lawyer won’t do to people.
How do you get a redhead’s mood to change?
Wait 10 seconds.
What’s the difference between dating a redhead and putting your hand in a blender?
There’s always a 50/50 chance the blender isn’t on.
How can you tell when a blond is satisfied in bed?
Who cares? How can you tell when a redhead is satisfied?
She unties you.
An old man of ninety was sitting on a park bench crying. A policeman noticed this and asked him why he was crying.“Well,” says the old fellow, “I just got married to a twenty-five year old redhead. Every morning she makes me a wonderful breakfast and then we make love. In the afternoon she makes me a wonderful lunch and then we make love. At dinner time she makes me a wonderful supper and then we make love.”The policeman looks at the old man and says, “You shouldn’t be crying! You should be the happiest man in the world!”The old man says, “I know! I’m crying because I don’t remember where I live!”
…fire in the hole…
I’ve decided to put a halt to my normal shenanigans and skedaddle to the other side of the spectrum to indulge in some good old fashioned word play. I’ve been collecting a list of words that have “fallen out of fashion” in the last century, although, I bet if you rent a copy of the movie “The Music Man”, I’m sure you could probably catch most of them there.
Frippery (finery or something trivial)
Hoosegow (jail again)
Gulch (to drink greedily)
Doppleganger (a ghostly double of a person, aka stalker?)
Brouhaha (a donneybrook!)
Dagnabit (expression of anger or frustration)
Kerfuffle (commotion, and isn’t this a Simpson character?)
Canoodle (to pet amorously)
Fandango (a dance or piece of music)
Fusty (moldy, musty, out of date, or an old fogy)
Hoary (gray with age, ancient or venerable, tedious from similarity)
Dandiprat (a diminutive person, a coin, or spoiled brat)
Musterdevillers (a valuable cloth)
Cattywampus (askew or awry)
Hierophant (one explains mysteries, a mystagogue)
Slumgullion (a stew, or refuse from whale blubber processing-yum!)
Mollycoddle (to spoil or indulge)
Soused (a little abvious I think)
Milksop (a spoiled brat)
And my personal favorite…
Quaff (to drink copiously and with hearty enjoyment)
For a while I had been doing my best not to swear like the lorry driver I was raised to emulate. But I have to admit, I was good for a day, maybe two, then I reverted back to speaking my native tongue.
I know, it’s so declasse, but I really don’t give a rat’s ass anymore, it’s part of my vernacular and I’ve decided to embrace it.
To understand this, you have to know my parents. My father is world class swearer. Growing up in Detroit, swearing is an art form and with the regional sport being arguing with your neighbors, my old man has elevated cursing to the heights of the Sistine Chapel. When he turned that mouth onto us kids, two things usually went through our heads: one, “Crap! He’s really going to kill me!” and two, “I really need a pencil to write this stuff down”.
Little did they know that my parents were creating a monster. Like Ralphie in “A Christmas Story” I too, became a connoisseur of soap. It wasn’t so bad, my mom wasn’t such a good cook, so sometimes soap was a preferable way to end the evening. But, oooh, the invention of Soft Soap nearly ended my career more than once.
Growing up with older brothers, living on a block of mostly boys, and 13 years in Catholic schools did nothing to improve matters either. Boy could those nuns let loose in the teacher’s lounge! The best part was that my school was a stop over for missionaries on sabbatical, so I learned all sorts of cool swear words in other languages.
Yes, Sister Eustacia, ironically, you had much to do with the way I turned out.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not as though I go around all day saying eff-this! and eff-that!. I swear judiciously, according to the situation. You might even say strategically. There’s some people and instances where I simply keep my mouth shut.
Lately though, I’ve been experimenting with new combinations and some retro standards. The way I figure it, if you update your wardrobe from time to time, shouldn’t you update your repertoire of swear words? How do you coordinate nail polish with the word s***? What bag best goes with damn?
I’ve also been utilizing some classics like jackass and rat-bastard for some time now. When I’m really p.o.’d though, I find rat-bastard-mother-f*****! to be quite satisfying. Try it, I think you’ll agree.
I came across this hilarious website about Cuss Control. I’m tempted to send them a letter telling them where they can go.
And Sailor Man, oddly enough, never swears. I honestly don’t know how he gets through the day.