Sometimes I'm misunderstood.
My sense of humor can be so vulgar and offensive at times that people who first meet me tend to think that absolutely anything goes. Not so. Although there are admittedly few things I don't find funny, they do indeed exist.
The list of things I do find funnier is far longer. Supposedly off-limits subjects that I manage to crowbar into jokes on a regular basis:
-Alcohol and drug dependence/rehab
-Black market babies
-Physical and mental handicaps
-Trading one's sister for 2 live chickens and a quart of tequila
Don't get me wrong--none of these things are funny where they actually exist. But joking about them existing where they don't is, in my opinion, good for a chortle. For instance, it's never funny when someone says, "My aunt Betty has been diagnosed with brain cancer." But when someone says (and they do, all the time) that if given a choice, they'd rather have brain cancer than be forced to read Assclownopolis, that's good stuff.
Zing! I kill me.
Things that are not at all funny to me include:
-Morning radio teams that call themselves "The Zoo"
-Anything that requires me saying the P word for a woman's private parts. (Oh, don't play dumb, you know what word. The one that rhymes with...um...scrussy?) I don't want to be so tedious as to refer to it repeatedly throughout this post as "the P word," so from here on out I'll give it the code name 'barrymanilow.'
Don't ask me why so many women are squeamish about saying barrymanilow. I think it's just inherent in the female makeup that most of us find it hard to utter that word. In fact, I never use the C word for a woman's private parts, either. Well, okay, that's not entirely true. Once, when my son was less than a year old and had a fever of over 100, I called our pediatrician's nighttime answering service. The surly bitch who answered the phone must have been in the middle of something very, very important--probably involving a metric ton of Twinkies and a bathtub full of Ben & Jerry's ice cream--judging by her level of irritation at being disturbed by my silly little phone call. Long story short, I was eventually forced--forced!--to call her the C word. I didn't want to do it, but the lady was begging for it, and I can only take so much begging before I cave. My always proper and polite husband stood nearby gaping at me in horror, and when he tried calmly to ask me what the hell I was thinking, I very nearly called him the C word, as well. As he backed away slowly, all I could think of in my defense was that a burning hot, screaming infant can cause a woman with an already-disagreeable personality to turn flat-out wolverine-like.
But in general, without the provocation of a bitter, hateful sow bent on impeding my ability to keep my son alive and healthy, I refrain from using either of those distasteful words. In fact, let that be a New Year's resolution of mine for 2007: The next time I have an encounter with someone as miserable and as deliberately difficult as that answering service trollop, I will refrain from calling her the C word, instead opting perhaps to call her a fucking whore, or maybe a disease-riddled crotchwaffle.