Not Safe For Work

When I started my blog, I laid a few unwritten ground rules for myself.

1. No politics
2. No religion
3. No naughty words

 
Rule #3 didn’t apply for short stories. If my characters want to use bad language, I am not going to stop them. If I did, the result would be, for want of a better word, dishonest. When you read something, and the tough gangster refers to the local police chief as a “doo-doo face”, for some readers, the piece might be lacking a certain authenticity.
 
Okay so short stories have swearing. But when I was writing about other stuff that wasn’t a short story, I wanted to avoid cuss-words. There was however a sliiiight problem. You see, when I talk, I use cuss-words. A lot. And I don’t subscribe to this opinion that using bad language indicates a weak vocabulary. Au contraire, mon frère (which is Djiboutian for “no-way, Jose”. Or something). One time, I did one of those Facebook quizzes and they said my vocab was, like, well good.
 
Thing is, when I wrote my last post, I was dissatisfied with the end product. Not because of the content; I fact-checked that thing within an inch of its life. Because of the language. It felt weak. It felt dishonest. It felt wrong. Wrong because I was holding myself back in refraining from the use of naughty words. Holding myself back like I was driving with the handbrake on. Like I was fighting a six-year-old. Like I was watching internet porn without wearing my crotchless-leather-gimpsuit-onesie.
 
In trying to watch my mouth, I broke a rule way more important that the self-imposed guidelines set for myself at the outset of my blogging journey. I wasn’t telling the truth. The writing was like soup without a pinch of salt. It was like a Guns ‘n’ Roses song without a nine-minute guitar odyssey from my main man Slash. It was like a ride in a lift without awful, stilted, pointless conversation. It was just wrong.
 
And so, dear reader, from this point forward, the gloves are off.

*spoiler alert – here comes the NSFW part*
 
Fuck it.
 
Uggghhh. That’s better.
 
I come from a long line of swearers. My late great grandmother on my dad’s side didn’t change her middle name to “A. Trooper” for nothing! Hell no! In fact she didn’t do that at all. Wait, what was I talking about? Swearing. Yes.
 
Now this doesn’t mean that everything you read here will be littered with four-letter profanity. Fuck no. (Okay, now I’m just playing *winks playfully into camera*). It also doesn’t mean that every fourth word will be ****, ****, or dare I say it… willy. And I promise never ever to drop the c-bomb, because that is completely unnecessary.
 
What it does mean is that from now on I promise to drive with the handbrake firmly off, and the crotchless gimp suit firmly on.
 
It also means I need new rules. Hmmm…

1. No politics
2. No religion
3. No… pandas?

 
Yes. That’s right. No pandas. You want to know why? Because fuck pandas.
 
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If you are a panda who was offended by this blog post, email me via the usual contact channels and I’ll apologise in person*.
 
*Not true.