Not for the content, here. Just for some of the language. And that language will offend the community standards of most decent people, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Motherfuckers.
OK, that word? I don’t say that*. I could count on one hand, maybe even on my thumbs, the people who have actually heard me use that word. Out loud. In my head? That’s a little different. And I blame Shamar Moore.
He’s the really cute guy on Criminal Minds. He’s a young, black guy, talented, well-spoken
::tangent::No I did not call that man “articulate.” I said “well-spoken” instead. Because as best I can determine, a black person in America simply can no longer be described as “articulate.” Because that’s politically incorrect and/or racist. White people can be articulate; black people cannot. (If we ain’t some crazy-ass muthafuckas…) This is unfortunate, I think. Relatively few of us (Americans) are truly “articulate.” And now there are even fewer. Yes, I do understand why some choose to be offended by that adjective when applied to an African-American. And I say it’s time to let the word mean what it means, as applied to any who deserve it.::end tangent::
So anyhow, I like to watch Criminal Minds. And somewhere I saw young Shamar on a talk show, and I found him attractive, charming, yea, well, I already said how I found him. But then I saw him on another show — TMZ. A kind of celebrity in-your-face show. I think he was drunk. But part of what he kept saying, over and over (or did they just keep replaying it?) was this: “I am Shamar Motherfuckin’ Moore.” Over and over. So that now, every time, and I mean every time, I see the man, my internal voice says, “Oh, look, it’s Shamar Motherfucking Moore.” On a talk show (look, it’s Shamar Motherfucking Moore!), when he arrives on the scene of a serial killing (hey, there’s Shamar Motherfucking Moore!)…
It’s really a very objectionable word. And yet, it is almost infinitely expressive. It communicates something sometimes, when other words fall short. For example, if I see a bruise on your leg and I say, “Does it hurt?” and you say, “Why, yes, it hurts quite a lot!” then I might nod and change the subject. But if I see the same bruise and ask the same question, and you reply, “Like a muthafucka!” then I become much more concerned, maybe even ask some follow-up questions or offer you an icepack or something.
People know you motherfucking mean business when you use that word. I have never seen “Snakes on a Plane,” yet somehow, I know that those snakes’ days were numbered when Samuel L. Jackson had finally HAD IT:
Anyhow, the last couple of weeks, I said that word (in my head) a fair amount even when Shamar was nowhere in sight. While I was planning a children’s party.
::tangent::Long-time readers may have picked up on the pattern that the more stressed/depressed I am, the sillier and/or more outrageous/offensive my writing tends to be. And while I’m tangenting here, allow me to credit my dear friend, mrtl, for the :: tangent indicator device.::end tangent::
So, I was planning this huge surprise birthday/moving away party for LG’s friend, and the daughter of my friend. The thing was big. And rather expensive — not that I begrudge one cent — more expensive than I might have gone for if it were a party just for us. A bit over-the-top, even for one known for over-the-top kid parties. Anyhow, I sent out about 40 invitations. The guest-of-honor has a lot of friends. And I mentioned at least three times on invitation and enclosure, that it was a SURPRISE!!!!! party. And don’t you know, within two motherfucking days of sending the invites out, one little motherfucker had motherfucking TOLD the guest of honor (GOH) about the party. What part of SURPRISE!!! did that motherfucking “gifted and talented” 12-year-old NOT understand? (I knew the GOH would probably be tipped off; but I thought it would be by accident, not a deliberate act, as was the case.) So, yea, we continued slaving away to organize a motherfucking surprise party that wasn’t. And that was a little disheartening for my daughter and her BFF/co-party-planner, who were so thrilled to be surprising their friend. It was just sad. Motherfucking sad.
Another feature of that party was that each guest was to give to my daughter or her BFF, a scrapbook page, to be compiled into a book for the GOH. We gave them a motherfucking deadline of one week prior to the party. One motherfucking middle-schooler met the deadline. The rest straggled in. I got over that. I started telling kids’ parents as long as we had them the day before the party, we’d be good. And I took considerable solace in the fact that, even though the GOH wouldn’t be surprised by the party, the really cool friend-made scrapbook WOULD be a surprise to her. That is, of course, until the night before when one of the little motherfuckers called the GOH to say, “I haven’t been able to make your scrapbook page yet, but I’ll give it to you after the party and you can add it in.” MOTHERFUCKER!
And don’t even get me started on the RSVPs. Some of the expense of the party was related to the hired caricaturist. I had to sign a contract for that motherfucker (OK, that one was gratuitous, not at all heartfelt). And the cost was dependent upon the time I needed to contract with him for, which was dependent upon the number of guests likely to get their caricatures done. I motherfucking needed to know who was coming. Motherfuckers did not reply. One time, the day after the “reply by” date, I was at a meeting with the mothers of two of the invitees. And I very politely said, “Oh, while I have you here, are Lissa and Emmy coming to Erin’s party?” And do you know what they said? The MOTHERS said, the day after their children were already supposed to have replied, they said, to my face, “I don’t know.” Well, can you point me toward the motherfucker who WOULD know? WTF?
So, yea, it was a tough gig. But, and this is a big BUT, the day of the party, all was well. It was one helluva fun party. Not a motherfucker in sight (in my head). Yea, there wasn’t a surprise, except I was a little surprised by how much Erin LOVED the scrapbook. A day later, when I went to say a final goodbye (for now) to her mom, my friend, she told me that Erin had not stopped looking at the book. She was sure Erin would treasure it the whole time they are away.
If you ever plan to have a motherfucking backyard carnival party, I can be your consultant.
*That is, of course, unless some motherfucker steals my lunch.