The Art of Swearing.

So after a twitter conversation with @CelticRose and @TheRealIrishMum about vices and swearing,  a conversation that has us all admitting to our horrendous habit of swearing like sailors, it got me thinking about the time my then 7year old son borrowed his mothers potty mouth.

It was a lovely mid-morning. The children were all off playing in the street. We lived on the corner of a lovely little cul-de-sac that contained two other families with children around the same ages as my children. So they would all play together, often outside but also running between each others homes. This particular day, they were at the boys house, so my house was deliciously quiet and serene and I was enjoying it with a lovely cup of tea and some marking. 

The front door bursts open and in rushes BugBoy with tears streaming down his face, sobbing his little heart out. Well, of course the mummy instinct kicks in when your child is distressed and I opened my arms and asked him what was wrong. He launched his little body at me wailing at decibels that cause eardrums to rupture that “I am going straight to Hell mum. Straight. sob. to. sob. Hell. sob.”  I had to stifle a giggle. It was really quite melodramatic and I had surmised by now he was not physically harmed. So containing that giggle fit was taking quite the effort on my part. 

“Why are you going to Hell?” I asked. 

“B b b b be because I called N a very very bad name! I am going to Hell!” 

“What did you call N? And just so you know, God doesn’t normally condemn little boys to Hell for calling their best friend a bad name okay.” 

“I called him….I called him a Doodle Fucker!” (More sobs) Followed by me trying exceptionally hard NOT to burst out laughing. 

“Well, that is a bad name. But not bad enough for you to go to Hell, unless, Did you apologise to N?”

“Yes. Twice.” 

“Okay then I am sure God is okay with that. Would you like me to go speak to K?” (K is N’s mum)

sobbing and nodding. 

“Okay then. How about you sit here on the couch and cuddle Ghee for a minute while I go make sure N is okay.”

 

I walk outside and immediately start giggling. I’m not particularly worried about K’s reaction, they are a Catholic family too and well, us Catholics, we tend to have some vices… But I knock on the door anyway and enquire about N. 

*looking puzzled* “N is fine. He’s playing the playstation. Why?”

“Oh, see, BugBoy just came home wailing about how he was going to Hell because he called N a bad name. He said he apologised, twice, but he was still upset about it, so I wanted to check that N was okay.” 

“Yes, N is really fine. What did BugBoy call him?” 

“He called him a Doodle Fucker. I am really sorry. I have never used that particular terminology before and neither has his father. I’d say he got his potty mouth from one of us but we’re both still using ours so this is all him. Again I am very sorry.”

K was too busy laughing to really take in what I said. In true Aussie style she wiped her eyes and said 

“Doodle Fucker. That’s gold! Thank you for the apology but since BugBoy already apologised to N and N didn’t say anything about it I assume all is well. Send him over to play when he feels better.” 

 

Later that day I was on the phone to a dear friend of mine (an Aussie lady who is married to a US Marine) and she thought the name was rather genius and truly Australian. 

“Only an Australian would put a fairly innocuous word (or a childish one) with a swear word to create a ridiculous yet hilarious insult. I am so using that the next time someone annoys me.” 

Bugboy hasn’t called any one a Doodle Fucker since. However, he does have a habit of calling his brother a Dickbutt on a regular basis. 

Should never have told him God doesn’t send little boys to Hell for calling people names.