Published Apr 24, 2005
While I have no particular memory of taking GSBA 547: Cursing for Managers this semester, I’ve either received some cutting-edge new subliminal training in how to drop f-bombs in class, or I’ve contracted Tourette’s Syndrome. Either way, I’m contributing to the moral turpitude of the Marshall School. (Note to entrepreneurs: turpitude.org is apparently not taken!)
It all started, appropriately enough, when we were discussing what to do with underwater options. I somehow managed to use the f-word seven times in about a minute and thirty seconds. About a third of the class snickered like fourth-graders; another third was relieved that someone had finally cursed in class so now they could; and the other third was probably quietly appalled.
At first I assumed that, well, there was a topic I felt strongly about so I spoke perhaps a bit out of turn. But it’s only gotten worse; it’s as if the curse words found a chink in my armor and have now entered all areas of my speech. I’ve caught myself cursing in everyday conversation several times in the last week, and, just this morning, I cursed at myself when talking to myself in the shower.
Of course, like everyone born back East, where men are men and women wear tons more perfume and thus can be located from across the room simply by smell (convenient when one has lost one’s girlfriend in a crowded bar), I used to curse a lot. When I came out West for college, I was tremendously amused to see all those Bay Area people who used “hecka” in lieu of the apparently too-vulgar “hella”. Of course, the f-word was, at the time, my favorite adjective, and all of the freshpeople from the East Coast enjoyed recognizing each other from a distance by our gratuitous use of the d-word, the s-word, the seven-letter g-word, and, of course, the 14-letter s-word.
But being known for my potty mouth wasn’t exactly what I’d come to college for (I’d come to college, of course, for the girls, and for the newspaper). So I cleaned up my act. Sure, I kept the f-bomb around for when I needed it, but it was part of my arsenal for massive retaliation, not for low-intensity warfare.
And so it was for the last 12 years, until, this semester, I found myself cursing to obviously-confused international students. I don’t know how it happened. I don’t want people to know me only for my potty mouth. I mean, we’ve all known my ideas were shit all along, this would just be too much.
I think you said it twice in the span of about a minute. There was some snickering, and the shuffle of people taking notice. I was conflicted. I was glad that someone had finally used the word, but I also feel it’s unnecessary in classroom discussion. And of course it was Voight that brought it out of you. Can you imagine anyone using that word in Bhambri’s class? No frigging way. Oh, I’m sorry. Fucking. No fucking way.