Cussing

Cussing: (n) the act of using profanity in speech

Since I am not God and certainly not even piously positioned, I do have sins I think are worse than others.

When I was a kid, I was told that cussing was just as bad to God as killing.

Even as a young person, this pissed me off. How could words flung into the air be anywhere as volatile as bullets taking a similar path?

I didn’t buy it.

I don’t buy into it today.

If God is just, God knows there’s a difference between “get your shit together” and “get over there in the corner where I can shoot you.”

I think it’s religion at its very worst when people start pecking at other human beings for language just because they’re chicken to live their own lives at full throttle.

So I will tell you the top five sins in my mind, counting down from #5:

5. Stealing

4. Self-righteousness

3. Selfishness

2. Lying

1. Killing

Cussing doesn’t even crack my top five.

Why?

Because as human beings, there are times we need to release our frustration—so we don’t steal, get self-righteous, become selfish, lie and kill someone.

Cussing is a better choice.

 

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Cuspid

Cuspid: (n) a tooth with a single projection point or elevation; canine.

I have always felt that the trouble with perspectives is that you can only display one at a time.

Although I have met fellow travelers who feel they have come up with a perspective that is universal, I think anything that rattles around in our minds collects all the dust and goop of its surroundings.

In other words, our opinions permeate our perspectives.

Whenever I hear anyone talk about the subject of teeth or the positioning of a cuspid, I have to silence my soul and ease my simmering frustration. Even in my family, there are those who are greatly perturbed by their teeth and will spend thousand of dollars to improve the situation.

(You can see by the sentence I just shared that my perspective is showing my prejudice.)

There is absolutely nothing wrong with being concerned about your teeth (even if you discover that your cuspids are actually bicuspid).

I will concur with that statement if you will agree with me that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with being unconcerned with a gap between one’s teeth.

Unfortunately, the “gappers” are highly critical of the “toothers” for being overwrought and the “toothers” are nearly repulsed at the sight of a “gapper.”

I don’t know why we think it’s strange that we have wars, struggles, bigotry and mayhem in our world.

When you consider the dissension that can befall us simply by discussing the cuspid, it’s easy to understand how this could be multiplied seven times over when arguing the Godhead.

If you have lovely teeth, I am very happy for you.

But please understand—I have chosen to take my time, my money and my sense of well-being and sit over here with my teeth as they are and let them last just like me—for as long as they can hang in there.

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Criminal

Criminal: (n) a person guilty or convicted of a crime

If my recollection holds any accuracy of memory, I believe it happened right after my twenty-eighth birthday. I was in a room with a bunch of friends—and some strangers—and a question was posed.

“What was your first job?”

Well, I let three or four people go before me so that I could understand if I was on point, what the question really meant and the best way to answer it.

After the fourth teller finished his story about being a bag boy at a grocery store, I raised my hand and explained, “The summer between my junior and senior year, I joined some sort of national work program for teenagers sponsored by the government, which offered opportunities for local jobs at minimum wage. After volunteering, I discovered that the possibility afforded to me was working at the cemetery, cutting the grass and taking care of the gravestones.

“I was torn between being grossed out and wondering whether anything could be any more boring. But the only other thing available was with a farmer, bailing hay. I did not like hay. I didn’t like heat. I didn’t favor sweating and knew the farmer would be there the whole time, and I’d have to really work hard. I thought that the keeper of the graves might actually trust me to do the job without peeking over my shoulder.”

“I was right. Matter of fact, after about four or five days, I discovered he never showed up to confirm my work. So I started coming to the graveyard, signing in, and then leaving. I was able to continue this practice for about two weeks, collecting my check—until I finally got caught.”

At this point I stopped speaking, thinking I was going to get some laughter and maybe even a round of applause for my tale. But instead, a young woman sitting across the room gasped and said:

“Geez…that was criminal.”

Looking into all the faces around me, I waited for someone to speak up and offer at least some support for my ingenuity.

No one did.

I was angry.

Although I did not stomp out of the room, I made my exit from the party as quickly as possible without drawing attention to my frustration.

I fumed. How dare anyone accuse me of being a criminal? I knew what a criminal was. It’s someone who commits crimes, right? An individual who breaks the law and is tracked down by the police and thrown in jail, to stay there until they learn their lesson or complete their sentence.

Then a horrible thing happened.

My conscience showed up.

For some reason, my conscience was in a mood to talk, in a most accusing way.

Mr. Conscience reminded me that three years ago, I had skipped out on rent that was due.

He also brought up the fact that I copped some money from a drawer when I was at a friend’s house.

There were four or five examples that my goddamned nosy conscience decided to dredge up. Each one could be individually explained away—and had been, by my glib nature.

But collectively, they showcased an individual who felt he was superior to everybody else—certainly high and lifted above the rules—and therefore could do what he wanted.

The conclusion was simple. I was a criminal because I committed a crime by breaking the law, which was really a rule set by those who have the uncomfortable job of trying to make things run smoothly by seeking common ground among diverse people.

I was thoroughly ashamed.

Since that day I have not lived a faultless life, but I’ve never been a criminal again. Because even though I don’t always agree, I always know that agreeable is necessary.

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

 


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Counterproposal

Counterproposal: (n) a proposal offered to offset a preceding one.

I would never want to return to the sheer horror, ambiguity, dance of confusion and frustration that was involved in being seventeen years old.

Yet I do fondly remember the wrangling that went on in a car on a Saturday night with a girlfriend you had been with for at least three months.funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

The first three months of dating consisted solely of terrorizing one another with the awkwardness of conversation and trying to discover where you fit in with her and she could find common ground with your less-than-diverse tastes.

But after three months—and some sort of little ring, chain or token being offered to confirm that you were committing to one another—then the entire project shifted from “getting to know you” to “getting to know all about you.”

On that Saturday night, after the movie was over, the hamburger was consumed, the French fries were shared (because she was on a diet) and the milk shake melted enough to be sipped to its bottom, it was time for the two of you to nervously head out to an isolated park, backroad or private location, where you could begin the negotiations.

She, being a good, small-town girl, who knew the next morning would have to sit down with her friends in church with a picture of Jesus staring down at her, had already taken inventory and considered what was available for the taking.

On the other hand, you felt it was time to expand the project—open up new horizons and generate some excitement.

So you would make a proposal and she would counter your idea with a suggestion of her own, which was rarely sufficient to your teenage, ravenous lust.

Of course, adding to the craziness was a budding horniness, leaving you (and I believe, her) dizzy from trying to resist. After an hour-and-a-half of proposal and counterproposal, procedures were agreed upon—and pursued in such a vigorous way that the whole deal accelerated so quickly that it was nearly blown.

This process, which we shall call “The Saturday Night Feverless” only worked for a few weeks. For the curiosity to find out what sex was really like was overwhelming. Or maybe it was just a need to discover once and for all if “us” were really going to be any good at it, or become permanent outcasts from the world of pleasure,

Counterproposals are a part of life, but rarely do they give the satisfaction of the original ingenious idea.


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Contain

Contain: (v) to control

This will be over-simplistic.

I know this.

Often, in an attempt to take away the complications of life, there are individuals who will rise up in horror and accuse those who are trying to break down life into funny wisdom on words that begin with a Cnuts and bolts, and attack them for such a foolish endeavor.

With that in mind, I offer this silly premise:

Great life is about avoiding frustration.

Frustration is caused by trying to do something that doesn’t want to be done. Maybe it rejects your efforts now, or it’s containment is denied to anyone, at any time.

But further effort will only produce frustration, which eventually promotes cynicism, leading to the emotional desert of faithlessness.

I do not know what I can contain.

I try to contain myself within a diet. Even when I’m successful at following a regimen, sometimes my body feels affronted and refuses to shed pounds, in order to protect me from starvation.

I try to contain my belief into a quaint explanation of my hopes only to discover that when inspiration wants to crack through the atmosphere of Earth, it will often contradict my theories.

I try to contain prejudice and racism from permeating the society in which I live, only to discover that my best chance is to focus solely on my own quirk.

We become boggled because we begin to believe we have enough answers accumulated to solve all the equations. We are soon frustrated. And frustration is what brings us our worst…

Oh, I already said that.

 

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Chortle

Chortle: (n) a breathy, gleeful laugh.

What is your percentage?

What is the percentage of the things that happen in life that you find funny?

It’s a very important number. If you’re not careful, you can start taking everything very seriously, and end up frightened, aghast and terrified
to “move about the cabin.”

But also, if you think everything is a joke, somebody eventually gets the commitment papers signed and puts you away.

For instance, I don’t take government seriously at all. People who encourage me to vote because “every vote counts” are always complaining to me within a few weeks after the election–because every vote didn’t count.

There is a certain number of lamentations which can be changed into jubilations simply by altering one’s perspective.

For instance, some people take religion deadly somber. But you see, since we do not know if there is anything after death, it’s really not necessary to speak definitively or act pious.

What percentage of the things that happen in life do you find worthy of a chortle instead of needing to be treated as immortal?

I certainly think that every human soul, if he or she is to maintain sanity, needs to have a chortle meter set at 51 or above. Yes, over half of the things that we muse, confuse, diffuse and refuse end up being just meaningless worry which collected on us like morning dew, waiting for the sun to burn it away.

And as I get older, my percentage of laughs has increased, and therefore, in my opinion, my sanity is bolstered.

When I heard about the “war on Christmas” I laughed. Nobody’s gonna mess with Christmas. It’s when everybody makes their money.

When somebody told me that immigrants were causing problems in this country, it crossed my mind that this might be a color issue, colored by how these individuals view coloration.

Sometimes I giggle to myself because I don’t want to hurt the feelings of those who have brought a whole platter of difficulty and expect it to be honored.

What is your percentage? Are you prepared to go crazy with every piece of lunacy that leaps at us from the moon?

Or have you set your mind in the direction of silliness, allowing yourself the benefit of releasing your frustration–through a good old-fashioned chortle?

 

 

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Choir

Choir: (n) an organized group of singers

I found that being in a choir squashed my desire to be heard. Yes, you have to be willing to blend.

Matter of fact, they talk about “the blend”–that particular sound that a group of singers makes which is supposedly unique unto them.

It is fairly restrictive. Even the names are:

The Mormon Tabernacle Choir: “To sing, I have to be Mormon, get directions to the tabernacle, and then hide my voice among other song birds. I am en-caged.”

I felt this in high school.

When I quit the football team because I discovered they made fat boys run, I realized that my second-greatest interest other than tackling running backs was singing. It seemed logical to join the choir, since that was the avenue afforded to me on the thoroughfare of musical expression.

I hated choir. Nobody could hear me sing. They commented on “the blend,” or applauded the musical director, or noted how the robes looked so good.

It drove me nuts.

So in rehearsal one day, in a fit of rebellion and pending insanity, I just started singing another song from my standing position in the choir, while the rest of the parakeets tweeted out the prepared number.

My voice was strong, but certainly not powerful enough to overcome the mass musical. But it was annoying enough that the director kept tilting her head, leaning in with squinting eyes, trying to determine what was disrupting her “blend.” I just kept singing a different song–a little quieter, but with enough volume to create frustration on the face of the conductor.

After a few moments, she took her baton and tapped it violently against the music stand, stopping the proceedings.

“Is everybody singing the same song?” she bellowed to the gathered.

Those standing closest to me, who heard my little interpretation, turned in unison and gazed in my direction.

I was caught. The director peered at me intensely and said, “Were you singing a different song?”

I paused–not so much to make it seem like I was making up a story, but just to express my alarm. Then I replied, “I thought we were doing Number Eight in the program.”

I don’t think she believed me, but she played along.

“No,” she said. “It’s Number Seven. I’m sorry if I did not make that clear.”

“You’re forgiven,” I replied in my snootiest voice.

She nearly lost all sensibility. Glaring at me, she said tersely, “Thank you.”

We resumed singing, and I couldn’t help myself. Once we had gotten a chorus of the song in, I reverted back to my former tune, which was completely alternative to “the blend.”

This time she stopped and used her baton to point toward the door as she screamed, “Get outta here!”

There were giggles and whispers as I made my way out, escaping the class. Fortunately for me, she was not specific about where I should get–so since I was told to be punished, I just went early to have a leisurely lunch.

 

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