"I think that we're all mentally ill. Those of us outside the asylums only hide it a little better - and maybe not all that much better after all." -- Stephen King
X-Rated Language in Nonfiction Writing
I try not to be overly foul-mouthed in my writing. An effenheimer sprinkled here and there - depending on the circumstances maybe a few more than some deem necessary. It’s all in the name of art, though. I’m not a deranged befuddled lowlife with a second grade vocabulary, so I can find “another” word if I want to. There are situations, however, that demand strong ugly and vulgar language.
Today was one of those times – exigent circumstances. What, you may wonder, would those circumstances be? Let me acquaint you with them –
A couple of blog posts ago I mentioned that my partner was out of the country for a chunk of time – 33 days to be exact. On Day 2 of this sojourn, the dastardly canine that resides in this house evoked his biennial fecal incontinence. If you require more detail, please feel free to scroll down and read the entry. Otherwise, allow me to share today’s events – YES plural – EVENTS.
Day 23 of the aforementioned 33 day stint: It’s approximately 90° outside. My head is thundering like a herd of buffalo on a rampage. I arrive home from work at the normal time thinking of the cool white bottle with the lovely blue label – ALEVE. I unlock the back door and the canine about mows me down scooting past me. Not a good sign, I think to myself.
The buffalo shuffled off and the Riverdance Tour took up residence in my skull. My eyeballs throbbed with the beat.
The central air had cycled up while I was at work, so the temp in the house was a moist and steamy 87° … add to that a funk that would put a skunk to shame. Oh, yes, my readers … the fecal incontinence redux. And I’m not talking the average doggie poop logs … oh, no. I’m talking brownish gray liquidy blobs of goo that look like a toxic waste dump behind a nuclear plant. These pools of pasty poisonous poo covered half the runner by the front door.
I wonder how much it will cost to have the rug steam cleaned – or if a rug cleaner would even accept the befouled tapestry. Perhaps incineration is the only answer, but then I worry the smoke would blow a hole in the ozone layer.
Of course, I scrubbed and emitted a few cuss words – several actually – well, okay a nonstop stream of expletives. And the stomping dancers in my head are replaced by heavy hoofed buffalo. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear the civil defense sirens sound at any moment. There was disaster afoot, after all.
I cleaned up the pestilential masses and by turns gagged and cursed my way to the trash barrel. Mr. Dumbass (you’d know the canine’s name if you read my earlier blog entry) frolicked alongside me back to the house where I proceeded to firmly close (not slam, mind you) the door in his face.
I defunked the air in the living room as best I could – I used half a can of Lysol “Neutra Air” sanitizing spray. Fresh scent my ass!
Having finished the feculent cleanup I turned to place the paper towels back in the kitchen when my foot slid through a scummy puddle of pee. The nasty little hound had lifted his arthritic leg and managed to pee on the leg of the couch.
More profanities issued forth from my mouth and took flight – the windows are still rattling from the reverb. (Kidding – mostly.)
Oh, let me backtrack … I decided to let the dastardly dog into the back porch before I had finished phase one of the decontamination drill. Now, having completed phase two, I was on my way to the trash, again, when I opened the door to the back porch – SMACK! POW! BAM! No, I did not have the TV tuned to a Batman episode.
Yes. Incredibly, the conniving canine had decorated a good portion of the floor with less than delightful little splotches of noxious liquidity. If there is a hell on earth – I’m in it!
The disgusting dog is outdoors where he’s free to punish the neighborhood with his odiferous offerings.
I’m washing Aleve down my gullet with ice cold Diet Pepsi and marking off the days on the calendar – only 10 days until my honey returns. If the canine is of a religious bent, now would be a great time for him to get down on all four knees and pray the next ten days go quickly because I’m seriously considering banishing him to his lush green fortress (aka the garden).
A person can’t make this stuff up … this, my friends is my nonfiction contribution to the art of writing.
I prefer fiction.
Write on!
Today was one of those times – exigent circumstances. What, you may wonder, would those circumstances be? Let me acquaint you with them –
A couple of blog posts ago I mentioned that my partner was out of the country for a chunk of time – 33 days to be exact. On Day 2 of this sojourn, the dastardly canine that resides in this house evoked his biennial fecal incontinence. If you require more detail, please feel free to scroll down and read the entry. Otherwise, allow me to share today’s events – YES plural – EVENTS.
Day 23 of the aforementioned 33 day stint: It’s approximately 90° outside. My head is thundering like a herd of buffalo on a rampage. I arrive home from work at the normal time thinking of the cool white bottle with the lovely blue label – ALEVE. I unlock the back door and the canine about mows me down scooting past me. Not a good sign, I think to myself.
The buffalo shuffled off and the Riverdance Tour took up residence in my skull. My eyeballs throbbed with the beat.
The central air had cycled up while I was at work, so the temp in the house was a moist and steamy 87° … add to that a funk that would put a skunk to shame. Oh, yes, my readers … the fecal incontinence redux. And I’m not talking the average doggie poop logs … oh, no. I’m talking brownish gray liquidy blobs of goo that look like a toxic waste dump behind a nuclear plant. These pools of pasty poisonous poo covered half the runner by the front door.
I wonder how much it will cost to have the rug steam cleaned – or if a rug cleaner would even accept the befouled tapestry. Perhaps incineration is the only answer, but then I worry the smoke would blow a hole in the ozone layer.
Of course, I scrubbed and emitted a few cuss words – several actually – well, okay a nonstop stream of expletives. And the stomping dancers in my head are replaced by heavy hoofed buffalo. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear the civil defense sirens sound at any moment. There was disaster afoot, after all.
I cleaned up the pestilential masses and by turns gagged and cursed my way to the trash barrel. Mr. Dumbass (you’d know the canine’s name if you read my earlier blog entry) frolicked alongside me back to the house where I proceeded to firmly close (not slam, mind you) the door in his face.
I defunked the air in the living room as best I could – I used half a can of Lysol “Neutra Air” sanitizing spray. Fresh scent my ass!
Having finished the feculent cleanup I turned to place the paper towels back in the kitchen when my foot slid through a scummy puddle of pee. The nasty little hound had lifted his arthritic leg and managed to pee on the leg of the couch.
More profanities issued forth from my mouth and took flight – the windows are still rattling from the reverb. (Kidding – mostly.)
Oh, let me backtrack … I decided to let the dastardly dog into the back porch before I had finished phase one of the decontamination drill. Now, having completed phase two, I was on my way to the trash, again, when I opened the door to the back porch – SMACK! POW! BAM! No, I did not have the TV tuned to a Batman episode.
Yes. Incredibly, the conniving canine had decorated a good portion of the floor with less than delightful little splotches of noxious liquidity. If there is a hell on earth – I’m in it!
The disgusting dog is outdoors where he’s free to punish the neighborhood with his odiferous offerings.
I’m washing Aleve down my gullet with ice cold Diet Pepsi and marking off the days on the calendar – only 10 days until my honey returns. If the canine is of a religious bent, now would be a great time for him to get down on all four knees and pray the next ten days go quickly because I’m seriously considering banishing him to his lush green fortress (aka the garden).
A person can’t make this stuff up … this, my friends is my nonfiction contribution to the art of writing.
I prefer fiction.
Write on!