Friday, June 20, 2008

Watch your language, buddy

There is ALL KINDS of construction going on in our street. The city is doing something to something to make the somethings work more efficiently. I think it's the storm sewers, but don't quote me on that.

The construction begins, with a great farting fanfare of diesel machinery starting up, at about 4:30 am and carries on all day just until the point that I think I'm going start chewing holes in the carpet. Then they stop and go home, leaving a few discarded cups and cans dotting the careful landscaping and a new coating of dust on my windows.

I can deal with the cups and cans, I suppose. That's why God sends the wind, right? To blow the city workers' dumb trash right back to city hall, three blocks away? But what I find harder to deal with is the CONSTANT CURSING that goes on. It wears on my last nerve, it really does.

For instance, here are a couple of the poetic utterances I've heard this morning while sitting here at my desk by my open dining room window:

"J**** C****!!!! SLOWER! SLOWER, G** D****!!!! WHAT THE F*** ARE YOU TRYING TO DO??!!"


"PUT THAT F***** IN GEAR AND BRING 'ER FORWARD, G** D*****!!!!! NOT SO F****** SLOW!!! J**** C*****!!!!!! I DON'T HAVE ALL F****** DAY!!!!!"

Don't get me wrong. I am not a dainty little flower. I'm just saying when you have people working right outside your house for eight hours a day for the past five days and many unforeseen days into the future, it would wear you down to have people shouting "Mary Had a Little Lamb" at the tops of their leathery lungs, let alone bombarding you with a fusillade of profanity.

Besides, I know what "Mary Had a Little Lamb" would sound like from this gang. It'd go a little somethin' like this:

"MARY HAD A F****** LAMB..."

Mere seconds ago, another torrent was unleashed with the foreman yelling, "I'VE TOLD YOU ALL A THOUSAND TIMES NOT TO ROLL THAT G** D***** THING FORWARD OVER THERE BUT IT LOOKS LIKE I'M GOING TO HAVE TO SAY IT ONE MORE F***** TIME!"

At that point, I'd had it. I mean, it is only 10:15 am and the sun is not yet beating down and the traffic is light and there's a fresh morning breeze. What's it going to be like at 4:30 pm when it's hot and everyone's tired and sweaty.

So, partially concealed by the dining room curtain, I assumed my best Teacher Will Give You Saturday Detention voice and shouted ringingly, "HEY! YOU STOP THAT KIND OF TALK OR I'M COMING OUT WITH A BAR OF SOAP AND DON'T THINK I DON'T MEAN IT!!!"

Seriously. If I were working outside a house with a great big Virgin Mary shrine prominently displayed in the front -- you cannot miss it; it's a huge chunk of concrete that stands thigh high -- I'd be a little more circumspect in my choice of epithets I was going to be hollering at the dimwits I was leading.

There was a slight silence. It was absolutely golden. But then another diesel engine fired up and I don't know if Mr. Cussy McCussington ever summoned up a reply. Heh.

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