*F-BOMB ALERT* – CONTAINS (more) COARSE LANGUAGE (than usual)
Think I’ll get that printed on a T-shirt, along with a maple leaf.
Studies show (and I want to know who got paid for this one) that Canadians swear more than Americans, Brits, or Europeans. We’re not merely foul-mouthed, we’re world-champion spewers of profanity and obscenity.
Unless we’re around people we don’t know. Then we wouldn’t say shit if we had a mouthful of it. ‘Cause, well, we’re polite, eh? (Unless we’re rioting after hockey games, but that’s different.)
If I had a nickel for every time I said something vulgar, profane, or obscene in front of my friends, I could quit my job and live forever more on the proceeds. But if I’m with strangers, I don’t swear. There’s some bizarre internal filter that simply won’t let that language out. Instead, it all gets saved up for the next time some fucking moron cuts me off in traffic.
I’m not the only one who does this, either. The same study showed that it’s a Canadian trait to be restrained in public but a potty-mouth when with friends. Guess they weren’t listening the day our Culture Minister publicly referred to Canadian television as “shit”.
This blog is an exception to the “not in front of strangers” rule. We’re all friends here, right? And I wouldn’t want the language in my books to come as a complete shock. But still, I post the F-bomb alert. Other bloggers just let ‘er rip, but I’m too… Canadian.
I’m not sure why we collectively possess such a deep well of profanity. Maybe it’s because we’re trying so hard to be polite to every dipshit we meet that it just has to come out somewhere.
Maybe it’s the beaver jokes. As you may know, the beaver is our national animal, causing no end of hilarity to those with dirty minds (which would be most of us). It’s really hard to avoid a little coarse language under the circumstances.
Or maybe it’s our weather. Let’s face it, when you live in a country where a third of the land mass has continuous permafrost, profanity seems like an unavoidable consequence. In the southern areas, schools close when the temperature dips to -40 degrees Celsius. If it’s only -38, well, suck it up, ya pansy-ass kids, and walk to the bus. The swearing habit starts early here.
For those who aren’t familiar with Canada, I should mention that we do, in fact, have summer. You can tell it’s summer when the grass turns a funny green colour, and enormous squadrons of mosquitoes attempt to carry you away if you venture outside. But that only lasts about ten minutes, and then it’s back to fucking winter.
I’m exaggerating. We actually do have other seasons on the prairies, called “goddamn hail again”, “holy shit, tornadoes”, and “sumbitch heat and humidity”.
Or, if we don’t know you: “How about that weather, eh?”
Any other potty-mouths out there? What are the seasons in your neck of the woods?
And just because I know you want it, here’s a gratuitous beaver picture. Now that’s one big fucking beaver. Yeah, the kind with teeth.