Skip to content

Stop overusing the word ‘fuck’

Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Monday I post a new column.

 
“Fuck” used to be a great word. It was a beautiful, poetic way to describe joyfully defiling and banging the holy bejeezus out of someone you normally wouldn’t care for, or whom normally wouldn’t care for you. It was also a fierce, intense insult aimed at only the vilest of enemies.

Telling someone to “Go fuck a pole” used to mean something. It meant you wanted that person to physically thrust their erect penis headlong into a pole, preferably with a running start, and injure themselves in the worst of ways. Now it’s just another generic insult, thrown out for every mild offense.

Someone honks their car horn? “Fuck you.” The waiter forgets to bring additional napkins? “That stupid fucker”. Your grandmother casually mentions she doesn’t care for NCAA basketball? “Fuck that bitch.” Fuck, fucker, fucking, fucked, fuckety fuck fuck fuck fuck. All the time! Every day! Whether I’m at work or out on the street, all I hear is “fuck this, fuck that, fuckity fuckity fuck”. Enough!

“We went to this great fucking store the other day.” No you didn’t. You went to Target. A “fucking store” would be a business so terrible that you had diarrhea when you left, or were treated like an AIDS victim with a nosebleed. Stop trying to slip the word “fuck” into every single sentence. You’re killing it. You’re killing the word that is most dear to my heart, because it describes the two things I love most: Unclassy sex and brutal hatred.

I don’t understand how Google works

Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Monday I post a new column.

 
I don’t get the internet. I went to Google and searched for “Paul Ryan likes danishes from McDonald’s but only if they heat them in the microwave first duh idiots of course I like it hot” and I only got seven search results, none of them relevant. Then I realized I accidentally spelled it “micromave” and sighed in relief, figuring that was the problem. But after fixing it and searching again, I still got seven worthless results.

What the hell, man? I expected one of the following search results: 1) A detailed biography of me, including which danishes I find the tastiest, 2) A detailed biography of some other guy named Paul Ryan and his danish preferences, or 3) Porn. The actual results included none of these things. The internet is supposed to be perfect and magical, but it certainly wasn’t that day. As the first girl I ever had sex with said to me, “Is that it?”

So I tried a different approach. I typed “www.paulryanloveswarmdanishes.com” into my browser and hit enter. There’s no website located at that address. Why the hell not? “Maybe I’m more important than I suspected,” I thought. “I should try www. paulryanloveswarmdanishes.org.” I did, but still found no relevant results.

Take a sick day, you douche

Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Monday I post a new column.

 
My boss crawled into work on Monday morning, almost literally. Her withered form crept through the dark hallways, filling every shadow with her sickly coughs and wheezing. Opening the door to her office, she winced back in pain from the sunlight, hissing like a wounded vampire as her pupils constricted.

“Oh, she’s taken up drinking,” I thought. “Good for her.” But she wasn’t hungover, reader. She was sick. Sicker than Old Yeller when Travis entered the barn with his gun. If I had been holding a gun, I probably would have tearfully put her out of her misery as well. That’s how bad she looked.

Some of my co-workers called her a “trooper” for coming to work. I prefer the term “retard”. Why did she show up? She didn’t do any work. She just walked around all day whining about how sick she was and gathering sympathy from every person she could blow snot on, which was all of us. By this time next week the company will have to install barf bags in every cubicle to accommodate all the poor bastards she infected.

I hate Oscar parties

Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Monday I post a new column.

 
I’ve never been invited to a fancy Oscar party here in Hollywood. I don’t drink enough gin on weekdays to qualify as show business personnel. However, I have been invited to Oscar parties thrown by friends. These parties usually take place in some married couple’s living room, which tells you pretty much everything you need to know about them.

To put the comparison in Minnesota terms, these parties are very similar to your small town city council meetings. You’re not really sure where all these half-crazed lunatics came from, you just wish there was a way to leave without everyone staring at you. Sadly, there isn’t, so you sit motionless for four hours with your head in your hands, praying God will send a flood to drown all these horribly obnoxious people.

Someone wants to hire a lovable loser!

Note: I’m a columnist for the Reader Weekly, an alt-weekly newspaper in Duluth, MN. Every Tuesday I post a new column.

 
At the age of 28, I might finally get a full-time job this week. To most people, this would be good news. Comfort and financial stability are common goals of society’s upstanding citizens. But I’m not an upstanding citizen. I’m a worthless deadbeat, so for me the idea of full-time work is downright terrifying.

If someone hires me full-time for a real job, that means I can’t get bored and ditch out after two weeks, right? And when the work on my desk starts piling up, I’ll have to actually complete that work instead of just finding a new job, right? No sir, I don’t think I like this new way of doing things.

I’ve always been this way. As a kid, anything my parents asked me to do would take no fewer than 15 working days to complete. Clean my room? I’ll just move the mess around with my foot until it looks different. Take out the trash? I think we can cram a few more items into that thin, weak plastic garbage bag, mom. Whenever guidance councilors suggested what I should do with my life, all their options seemed like a lot of work. “Can’t I just wake up at noon, drink and bitch about ‘The Man’ all afternoon, and end my day at 7pm by throwing up all over the toilet seat at Pizza Luce?” Usually this honest question would receive a horrified glance in return.