Monday, June 2, 2025

What the Feck?

Image by Anand KZ from Pixabay
Letters of eclectic commentary featuring the wit and wisdom of a garrulous geezer and {Dana}a persistent hallucination and charming literary device.
  
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"Everything has gotten vulgar and out of line for children to watch. It's more of a swearing match." -Bubba Smith

Dear Gentlereaders,
The word feck, I refer here to that specific word, not to that other word it reminds you of, has been around for a long time and has had various and sundry meanings as time went by. 

Wikipedia: The most popular and widespread modern use of the term is as a slang expletive in Irish English, employed as a less serious alternative to the expletive (word you're thinking of) to express disbelief, surprise, pain, anger, or contempt. It notably lacks the sexual connotations that (word you're thinking of) has. My emphasises.

{Should I and our gentlereaders assume that (word you're thinking of) is the word...}

Yes, obviously, feck, on the other hand, is a minced oath, a term I recently discovered that shouldn't be confused with minced meat (a.k.a. ground meat, a.k.a. hamburger), or the culinary obscenity called Mincemeat.   

Wikipedia again: minced oath is a euphemistic expression formed by deliberately misspelling, mispronouncing, or replacing a part of a profaneblasphemous, or taboo word or phrase to reduce the original term's objectionable characteristics.

{So, instead of saying (word you're thinking of), you say feck?}

Not usually, not, but I like the way the Irish have cleaned up this particular "dirty" word. 

I do say (word you're thinking of) from time to time, but only if/when it's situationally appropriate — context is everything when it comes to words — to preserve its power. I prefer a milder but more socially acceptable cuss word like damn for everyday use.

On the other hand, if I were able to communicate with the late, great Sister Mary McGillicuddy, I would switch to darn. 

Context.

Point of information (you learn something every day if you're paying attention) shite, which sounds like a minced oath to most Americans, or at least to this one, is actually a synonym of (word you're thinking of) in the countries where it's regularly used and is considered to be just as vulgar as (word you're thinking of).

You should keep this in mind if you find yourself visiting one of the English-speaking countries of the Commonwealth. 

To me, and I suspect to many of muh fellow 'Meracuns, shite sounds like a minced version of (word you're thinking of), and a funny one at that. I spell it shyte, a touch of personal mincing, I guess, but still only deploy it cautiously in my writing. 

{Fascinating. Anyways...}  

(Word you're thinking of), until relatively recently considered the mother (see what I did there) of all curse words, has lost a great deal of its power because it's so commonly used nowadays. It's so commonly used/encountered as to render minced oath versions almost pointless. Everyone knows what the F in WTF stands for. It ain't feck, and it's everywhere.

The Federal Communications Commission still regulates what can be said on broadcast radio and TV, but as far as I can tell, the rules are somewhat flexible. Irregardless, when a given word is "bleeped" in some form or fashion, nowadays it's usually easy to figure out what the specific word is.  

And yet, a paradox.  

We can't bring ourselves to toss out the tot with the Jacuzzi water and let anyone say anything they please on the (supposedly) publicly owned airwaves as well as other forms of public communication. 

Perhaps all words are not created equal?

On a related note, I personally think that you might as well say (word you're thinking of) as say frick (which sounds stupid) or frig, a ugly sounding word that for many of us citizens of a certain age is a slang term for masturbation. We find friggin' children freely using it somewhat disconcerting. 


I can't remember who he was or what kind of car it was. The dude in question worked, briefly, in the supermarket I worked in at the time, my first "real" job. 

I first heard George Carlin's famous bit about the seven dirty words you can't say on television via an 8-track tape (click-click) in that car in the early 70s. This tracks (see what I did there? again!) because a bit o'- googlin' revealed that Mr. Carlin's monologue, which is famous enough to have its own Wikipedia article, dates to 1972.

You could hear those words if you saw him perform live, or via record or tape, but you couldn't hear them on broadcast radio or TV. This is still true even though there is no, and never has been, an official list. It was just a bit of Carlin's shtick. 

TRIGGER WARNING! The following YouTube clip contains all seven of the dirty words. If you're a nun or a monk who has been living in an isolated, semi-secret facility since before roughly 1965, or a parent with little kids in the room who finds toddlers who talk like truck drivers jarring, don't say you weren't warned. 


Mr. Carlin, a master of wordplay, maintained that words are just words and that we shouldn't be so hung up about "dirty" words throughout his career. He was wrong. I was a fan, early on. I saw him live once at the Stanley Theater (now called the Benedum Center for the Performing Arts, dontcha know) in Pittsburgh in the late 70s. 

(Apropos of nothing much, I saw a lot of great concerts there in the 1970s, and never paid more than 20 bucks for the privilege.) 

But he lost me when he turned bitter, depressing, and nihilistic in the 90s. Wikipedia says that version of his act made him more popular than ever, which would seem to be an indication of the state of the Republic that continues today. But that's not my point. 

{There's a point?!?}

Don't be snarky, there's always a point... eventually.


Big BUT, this column is already late, and I'm running very low on motivation just now. I'm dealing with some health problems that are doing a number on my energy levels and generating brain fog, hopefully not permanently. So, going forward, if a given column is a day or two late, and/or not as long as you think it should be, please forgive me. If you would like a refund, please contact me at: mejotom824@endelite.com. 

{I guess you're not going to mention the fact you've rewritten this part of the column so many times that...}

My point? It's occurred to me that Mr. Carlin's notion that words are just words invalidated itself every time he used words. His words made us laugh; other words make us cry. We have to be careful about exactly what we say to whom if we don't want to destroy a relationship or start a war. 

Words are incredibly powerful, and I'm certain my gentlereaders can think of a thousand examples without my help. I'll start, how about so-called hate speech? No shortage of H. sapiens seem to be preoccupied with that subject just now. 

And didn't somebody say something about that in the beginning was the word?

Colonel Cranky

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Copyright 2025-Mark Mehlmauer-All rights reserved




Wednesday, May 21, 2025

Doctor, My Eyes

A pair of vaguely related random randomnesses.
Image by DesignDraw DesignDrawArtes from Pixabay

Letters of eclectic commentary featuring the wit and wisdom of a garrulous geezer and {Dana}a persistent hallucination and charming literary device.
  
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"Resistance is futile. You will be assimilated." -the Borg


Dear Gentlereaders,
My last column, in blatant violation of company policy, was published Sunday, 5/18. As my millions of regular gentlereaders are aware, my column is supposed to be officially published every other Saturday. It's usually unofficially released into the wild on Friday evenings, but that's a secret, so don't tell anyone. 

The reason for this was explained in the truncated column released on Sunday, and a commitment was made to post something with a bit more meat on the bones in short order. This is that column.

{There goes the vegetarian vote.} 

Balance has been restored to the Force and my next column will be officially released on Saturday, 5/31/25, Lor' willin' an' th' crick don' rise. Tell your friends. 

{Lor' willin' an' th' crick don' rise?}
 
Here's a link for any other etymologically inclined nerds in the audience. Appropos of not much, greater Pittsburgh area natives, where cricks abound, are aware that I'm not talking about a crick in my neck.  


I have a lazy eye, lazy eyes actually. My big brother claims it's because of the time he "accidentally" tipped over my baby buggy, and I landed on my head. 

While there's a kernel of truth buried in this apocryphal tale -- i.e., I really did fall out of my baby buggy while he was pushing me back and forth at the time, perhaps with a bit too much enthusiasm to shut me up while Mum made dinner -- but I don't think I hit the floor hard enough to permanently knock my eyeballs out of whack. 

When my brother tells this story he likes to opine that as a result of the tragedy I can see around corners,  so all's well that ends well. 

My lazy eyes, although sometimes a problem when I'm attempting to talk to someone whom I've never met before, because they think I'm looking at something or someone sneaking up behind them, have not left me permanently psychologically scarred. 

Also, early on, I perfected a method wherein I stand at a bit of an angle to someone when I speak to them so that they're only required to deal with the eyeball that's pointed at them. 

Unfortunately, this doesn't always work. Some people notice what I'm doing and wonder why this dude is standing at an angle. Is he preparing to execute some sort of martial arts move that will result in them waking up later with their wallet and car keys missing?     

That said...

{Hold up there, Sparky. Did you say lazy eyes? Plural?}

I did, Dana, yes. I can look at a person with either eye, but the other one will move to the far end of its respective socket, like it's trying to escape, or see around the corner. While I can't see around corners, it occurs to me that if I could, I might've had a much more exciting life as a spy.

{Or a mugger.}

I saw (see what I did there) some sort of specialist when I was very young. He said that the only way to fix the problem was with surgery, and that the problem could eventually return anyway. That was all me and Mum needed to hear; she didn't want someone sticking a knife in my eye any more than I did. We were outta there.

Dad, not exactly well known for being a supportive, hands-on parent, got mad. His position was that I should do some sort of eye exercises and somehow will my eyes into behaving, like a real man would. A sort of visual version of walk it off, son. He subtly but effectively made it clear he found my problem embarrassing to him.

Unfortunately (or fortunately?), it never occurred to me to spend my life trying to get his approval by becoming a RBFD in some form or fashion while accumulating a hooge pile of dough.

{That's why you squeak by on a fixed income. You should write a book claiming that, between your eyeball problems and a father who was more like a benign but disinterested grandfather than a Dad, yours has been a life of constant struggle. Good money in being a professional victim nowadays. Say, have you ever done time or been addicted to drugs?}

No, but I am addicted to pizza. I also...

{Have you ever thought about wearing an eye patch to make it easier to communicate when you're out and about? It would be perfect for when you're promoting your book, and/or becoming a social media influencer.}

I have indeed considered wearing an eye patch from time to time, but I always talked myself out of it figuring it would generate more unwanted attention than my wandering eyes. 

Hold on a sec, I'll be right back...

Hey, Amazon offers a large selection of eye patches in various materials, colors, and patterns. You can even get one that features a skull and a pair of crossed swords. I'll bet the chicks would dig it, maybe I'll get one yet. 

Aargh!


Now, despite the trauma of having lived a life with two lazy eyes and the fact that I've been chronically a day late and two (adjusted for inflation) dollars short, I was never tempted to become the CEO of a ginormous healthcare firm to resolve my physical, psychological, or financial issues.

United Healthcare (UHC) which has been much in the news of late due to the assassination of its CEO by Chuck Mangione's grandson, a falling stock price, and most importantly which provides my Medicare Advantage Plan, is now under investigation for fraud... related to its Medicare Advantage Plan, leaving me to wonder if I'm going to have to switch companies and/or be left holding a bag of poop when I'm least expecting it.

They haven't ripped me off in any way as far as I can tell, in fact, just the opposite. However, I hate them anyway for several reasons, the main one being that it's virtually impossible to resolve any problem over the phone, even if you can manage to reach a human being with all-American names like Steve or Sally. I have reason to believe they may not use their real names.  

Hint for fellow sufferers: Find a way to make the problem something your doctor's clerks need to deal with. Otherwise, don't waste your time or call a lawyer.  

Another tip, you know that promised free transportation to medical appointments? The subcontractor they farm this out to farms it out to another subcontractor in your area. 

You may learn the hard way, as I did, that you should've made other arrangements. Walking would've been better than risking my life with that crazy chick with crazy long glow-in-the-dark fingernails who drove with one hand while continuously texting with the other while executing the occasional panic stop and blowing through traffic signals.

{You made that up!} 

No, I didn't. 

{Did you complain?} 

To ModivCare? The firm that works for UHC? Fill out the form, human, we'll get back to you, promise, by email. We have more important things to do than talk to "end users," but we're developing an AI system to handle annoyances like you. 

Bend over and grin. Resistance is futile; you've been assimilated.

Colonel Cranky

Scroll down to comment, share my work, or scroll through previous columns. I post links to my columns on my Facebook page so you can love me, hate me, or call for my execution via social media. Cranky don't tweet (Xclaim?).

Copyright 2025-Mark Mehlmauer-All rights reserved
 




 





Sunday, May 18, 2025

Please Stand By...

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Letters of eclectic commentary featuring the wit and wisdom of a garrulous geezer and {Dana}a persistent hallucination and charming literary device.
  
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"An obsession with untold stories is a source of energy." -Greil Marcus


Dear Gentlereaders,
Normally, I have a spare column or two stashed in the lower right-hand drawer of my hooge, custom-made roll top desk for situations like this.

I've been wrestling with my muse over a subject that...well, I've finally given up on. The main problem was trying to distill it down. Too many words and too broad a hypothesis. Too broad a subject to fit into a mere column or two?  

Might just be me. I am a garrulous geezer after all, but I really wanted to "get it out there." I became slightly obsessed. 

{What's the difference between obsessed and slightly obsessed?}

Usually, if I abandon a notion for a week or two, the problem resolves itself. I return to it with fresh eyes (a refreshed psyche?), and the solution reveals itself. Sometimes the solution is to click the delete button, but that's okay. The sense of relief, irregardless, is almost physical in nature. 

I'm told this is normal among certain "creative" types, no matter the art form, but since I find such people to be highly annoying, I refuse to acknowledge that (even if only occasionally) I might be one. Let us never speak of this again. 

Big BUT, in my defense...

I became slightly obsessed with trying to finish the project because I kept getting this close. In the interim, I published the backup columns that were in the now empty drawer, convinced I would resolve the problems of the column from hell by last Saturday and publish the damn thing. No Joy. 

The good news is that I tossed it in the burn barrel, and I've been accepted into a highly regarded rehabilitation program. Also, while rooting through the aforementioned desk in search of a lost receipt that I need desperately because... never mind, I found a couple of partially finished, vaguely related, random randomnesses that will be published/posted as a single (shortish) column in a day or two. Wednesday, 5/20/25 at the latest.

I've already begun working on the next column after that at the suggestion of Dr. Freidrich Puffendorfer, director of the Puffendorfer Center for (mildly) Obsessed Writers and Other Mostly Unsuccessful Artistic Types, a.k.a. P.C.(m)O.W.O.M.U.A.T.

MEM 

Scroll down to comment, share my work, or scroll through previous columns. I post links to my columns on my Facebook page so you can love me, hate me, or call for my execution via social media. Cranky don't tweet (Xclaim?).

Copyright 2025-Mark Mehlmauer-All rights reserved