[Vision2020] Social Security Time Line

[Joan Opyr]

By way of pejoratives, Dave offers us:

1) Nutbag
2) Blatherskite
3) Pompwheeler
4) As_hat
5) Do__he Bag
6) Nimrod
7) Numbn_t
8) Troll
9) and, frankly, (just don't call me Frank) anything else that uses a narrow but descriptive brush. (Joan, I need a bit of creative help here -  you better take over.)


Surely (but don't call me Shirley), I can't add anything to this, Dave, without accumulating an inordinate number of FCC fines.  No, wait -- the FCC doesn't regulate the Internet, does it?  Ha!  So, let's see what I can find in my late grandfather's bag of tricks.  (Ranny Watkins was a Master of the art of creative invective.  Since his untimely death in 2002, he has been sorely missed by Montana ranchers, longshoremen, and merchant marines the world over.  Now, when they drop a wrench on their toe, they don't know what to say except, "Gosh.")

So here, for your swearing pleasure, is the Ranny Watkins' short list. This is just off the top of my flat head.  Believe me, there's more:

1) Fumble-fingered fart
2) Friday fart at a Saturday market
3) Sh-t for brains
4) Turd-tapper
5) P-ss ant
6) P-ck-r neck
7) P-ck-r wood
8) Dried apple fart
9) G-d damn s-n of a b-tch Eisenhower a--faced b-st-rd.

The key to good swearing, as you'll note from invective number nine, is to string your rude words together in a higgledy-piggledy fashion.  Just imagine that you're the unholy offspring of Lewis Carroll and Lenny Bruce, with a little Dr. Seuss thrown in there for good measure.   

Now, for those of you who are having trouble grasping this concept (i.e., Mormons, Jehovah's Witnesses, and Missouri Synod Lutherans), I'd be happy to offer free Southern swearing lessons.  Just meet me in my garage some day when I'm working on my '76 Chevy Suburban.  I'll be trying to do a simple job, like replacing the exhaust gaskets.  This should take, in an ideal world, fifteen or twenty minutes.  But a rusty old bolt will break off, and I'll need to drill it out.  Unfortunately, the drill bit will also break, the drill will slip, I'll scrape all the skin off my knuckles, drop the drill, the cord will hit a sharp metal edge, slicing through the insulating rubber, sparks will fly, and a small fire will break out in the engine compartment.  As I'm trying to extract myself from inside said engine compartment, my foot will get caught on the exhaust headers, and I'll fall ass-over-teacup head-first onto the hard concrete garage floor.  As soon as I'm finished seeing stars, a la Elmer Fudd, I'll search high and low for the fire extinguisher, finally locating it in its obvious hiding place behind three rolls of carpet and a spilled bag of cat litter.  Then, I'll promptly spray myself in the face with it.  When I finally get it turned around to put out the blaze, I'll discover that I've melted my new, special-order, sixty-dollar spark plug wires.  And that's when you'll get it: a complete dissertation's worth of swearing, Southern-style.   

If you don't know shorthand, please bring a tape recorder.  I hate repeating myself, especially when I'm bleeding from the eyeballs, shins, ankles and knuckles.

Damn it all to hell,

Joan Opyr/Auntie Establishment
www.auntie-establishment.com
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