So TJ’s grandmother was none too pleased that we dropped an f-bomb in our recent post about taking Little G to the city on Black Friday, buying him a remote control Dodge Charger at Toys R Us, and leaving the f*&$ing thing on Metro-North (Update from MNR Lost & Found: No hint of your Dodge Charger. Try back again soon.)
In my defense, I rarely use the f-bomb. I don’t mind if Straphanger Joe or Foot It Tim does–I know they’re both serious writers who choose their words carefully, and if they see fit to type an f-bomb, I trust it’s for good reason.
I had a debate about the f-bomb earlier this year with one of my big bosses, who has since been downsized, rest his soul. We’d seen the actor/filmmaker Tim Robbins deliver a kick-ass speech imploring the media types in the crowd to focus on real issues, not the latest drug-addled starlet falling out of a limo. Robbins peppered his speech with numerous expletives, including f-bombs. I argued that they served a purpose–they set the tone for a fiery, irreverent speech right off the bat. They got people laughing, which allowed Mr. Shawshank to deliver some controversial statements after he’d turned on the audience’s good humor.
Mr. Big Boss just thought Bull Durham’s expletives were gratuitous and crass. Then again, Mr. Big Boss had one of those swear jars in his office that you had to contribute to every time you cursed.
I actually searched the f-word on Trainjotting, and five links came up: two were Straphanger Joe quoting someone on the F-train (F-bomb train, anyone?), one was long-lost correspondent PeterFromPort quoting some very drunk, rude riders on the LIRR, one was me quoting some woman who specializes in cutting open cadavers on the 7 train (she was not actually cutting the cadavers on the 7 train, just talking about doing so), and another was me expressing my anger at the LIRR disability scandal.
So I only use the f-bomb when it really, truly applies, like when you’ve had a fun day in the city with your son, and all day long he’s been pestering you to open up his new remote control car, and you’re in the car going home, and he brings up the car again, and you tell him you left it on the train, and his lip starts to quiver.
That deserves an f-bomb. Right?
Anyway, sorry about the “cuss,” Nana. I’ll try to be more careful.