Why Cursing is One of Mankind’s Greatest Achievement’s

Why do we look so disparagingly upon the magnificent and underrated curse word? Personally, I love to fucking curse. It’s a release. Sort of like throwing a pricey piece of China against the wall and hearing it shatter into a gazillion satisfying little shards. I mean, what else can we do when a Godawful driver in a pricier vehicle cuts us off, nearly causing a ten car pileup, as we’re headed home to whining children and annoying spouses? Or when the shopper behind us surges forward to snatch the last of the seasons Tickle-Me-Elmo toys right from under our noses; the ONLY toy your child wanted for Christmas? Or when the cake falls, the turkey dries out, and your gravy is lumpy, and all the people you invited the last three Thanksgiving’s, but never showed up, are thumping at your door this holiday season just in time for all these catastrophes? Or when your more successful/perfect/beautiful sibling deftly points out all of your most embarrassing moments at what was supposed to be your best birthday party ever? What but God’s Gift to Language could solve the minor and major annoyances that life tosses in our paths? Opening your mouth and uttering a loud and empathetic ‘Fuck!’ ‘Shit!’ or ‘Goddammit You Fucking Asshole!” is the best therapy ever. I’m sure many a would-be-victim was left, body intact, because of proper languages bastard cousin–the curse word–being uttered in a time of great need. I often wonder how many men might still be alive today, if instead of their wives/girlfriends picking up guns, knives or a handy-dandy bottle of arsenic when they were caught in bed, doggy-style, with the neighbors eighteen-year-old daughter, they had screamed a loud and heartfelt ‘Fuck You You Lying Cheating Shit Eating Bastard!’? I guarantee you Lorena Bobbit uttered a tremendous curse when after years of alleged abuse, she merely cut her then husband John Bobbit’s dick off and tossed it in a field, as opposed to putting the same knife straight through his heart like many women probably would have done. Also, cursing allows many of us to have greater artistic and verbal creativity. Where the hell would we all be if comedian’s didn’t have curse words to contribute to their sometimes mediocre dialogues? There are a few comedians I can think of right now that wouldn’t be funny at all. Hell–many of the most famous rappers wouldn’t have a punchline if not for the noble curse word! Cursing adds a richness to the everyday boredom of modern English vernacular. Why, if cursing were never invented, states like New York and New Jersey would be wiped clean off the map. Not to mention how many reality stars would still simply be ‘Housewives’. I’ve read that there are languages, such as Japanese, that have no curse words. You know what I say to that? ‘FAAACCCK NO! You gotta be kiddin’ me!’ A language without curse words is not a language I want or need to learn. Cursing is a wonderful medium in which we can all become artists. As in any art form, some of us will be better at it, either because of frequent practice, or illustrative and creative interpretation.  In parting I say: Live, love, curse well and goddamn it, CURSE OFTEN!

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Deviant Art: Best Fuckin’ Art Site Ever!

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National Free Your Breasts Day! June 20, 2012

1,2,3-GO! Bras in the fire and chant with me! No more bras! Come on now! No more bras! Okay. Alright. Just having a little fun with folk. This is all to bring up an interesting–perhaps even disturbing–fact for my quasi and hardcore feminists out there. Some of you may need to strap on a ventilator for this tidbit of shocking news. Are you sitting down? OK–good. Did you know there was supposedly never an Olympic sized event in the sixties wherein dozens, upon dozens, of women liberated their formerly captive breasts from their bras in a frenzy of bra burning glory? Nope. Never really happened the way the press said it. Apparently the myth of burning of bras, nylons, girdles and other constricting clothing the male power culture foisted on subjugated women, was symbolically tossed in a trash can to protest the Miss America Contest in 1968. Symbolically. Nothing nearly as epic as the overblown images in many of our minds. Just a brief fire and some unfortunately floppy-breasted women. However, ladies, this fact NO LONGER HAS TO BE TRUE! We can all burn our bras AND FREE OUR BREASTS! It doesn’t even have to be political. Let’s leave the politics of clothes behind, ladies. We have all been influenced in one way or another by something or someone. So let’s not fall into that small-minded line of thinking. I’m picking a day: June 20, 2012. It’s the summer solstice. A good day to do something special. I’m daring you to FREE YOUR BREASTS! Hell–I already have…

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Big Pig Jig: Vienna, GA Nov 4-5, 2011

Watcha say? There’s gon’ be a pig pickin’ out there in Vee-anna, Georgia? Ya don’t say! And what–? There’s gonna be a big ole contest with all those folk dat’s cookin’ lined up to win a award?  Tickle me pink n’ roll me down a hill! And I can buy me some a dat competition Barb-Be-Q for just $5 a carton? Well, I’ll be there in a jiffy whit my ma, my pa, my good fer nuthin’ hubby and my gaggle of kids. Gone bring me some moonshine my uncle Willie bought me when he was up the mountain. What?! I can’t bring no cooler! Aw, shucks! Well, I guess there’ll be a ton o’ drinks there for us to buy. Well, guess I’ll see you when the moon’s full n’ my belly’s a growlin’ fer some Bar-Be-Q!

Translation from Hillbilly to English: Cool event, tons of delicious, inexpensive barbecue, fun stuff for kids to do, a parade and great music. In other words: be there! Here’s the link: http://www.bigpigjig.com/

PS: Leave the Moonshine in the pantry or your trunk!

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Powder Girl of the Day: Concha Buika

In my research to find awesome women, I occasionally come across an individual that makes my jaw drop. Concha Buika is one of those women. She is a Flamenco singer, passionate and fierce. Is that what makes my jaw drop? No. She is a resident of Spain. Is that what makes me gasp in amazement? No. She is a beautiful woman. Is this what floors me? Absolutely not. What amazes, floors and leaves me excited and a-jitter, is the simple fact that she is an African woman. She is the only black Flamenco singer in the world. I have to say: I LOVE this woman. I love what she stands for, love her fiery passion and her musical rebelliousness. She lives for and abides by her own rules and people like that, particularly women, always engender my admiration. Life hasn’t been easy for her. The daughter of a political exile of Equatorial Guinea, she resided in the barrios of Spain’s Mallorca. As a child, she experienced personal loneliness and social exile. Often the only black person in the room, she was viewed with suspicion and skepticism by the Gypsies, English and German tourists she lived, danced and sang amongst. These emotions influenced her heavily as she grew up. Her life became a kaleidoscope of experiences, all of which permeate her music, creating a passionate vocal experience that is at once unforgettable and haunting. Melding jazz, African and soul to foot tapping dance rhythm’s, Concha Buika’s Flamenco is unique and refreshing. Before she was nominated for a Latin Grammy in 2008, she tried her luck on the stages of Las Vegas as a Tina Turner look-alike. Leaving the broken streets of Vegas behind her, Concha returned to Spain. Choosing Flamenco as her musical medium of choice, she promptly became infamous for it. Her first album Mi Nina Lola was an instant sensation in Spain. Her second album, La Nina de Fuego, got her nominated for that Latin Grammy I mentioned earlier. She meets all my criteria for Powder Girls: fearless, daring, determined and brilliant. Check her out yourself. Here’s the link: http://www.myspace.com/conchabuika Unfortunately, she does not have a website of her own, not does she have any upcoming tour dates. I will try to find additional info about her record label, ect. In the meantime: Rock on, Concha. ROCK ON!

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Emma Crawford Coffin Races Oct. 28th-29th, 2011 Manitou Springs, CO

Picture this: you in your finest pimped out, possibly feathered and sequined, perhaps even blingin’ and flashin’, chrome-rimmed, coffin. That’s right. Coffin. You had never quite envisioned yourself going out in this sorta style. Nobody knew the heavenly gates would welcome ear-splitting crunk. But that’s what’s blasting out of the sub-woofers plastered into either side of your glittering, final resting place. Except you’re not resting. Far from dead, you and your ghoulishly outfitted buddies are preparing to race to the finish line in your velvet lined, multi-wheeled coffin straight down Manitou Ave. in the town of Manitou Springs, Colorado. What is this madness I am referring to? Why the Emma Crawford Coffin Races, of course! Appropriately occurring a couple of days before Halloween, this event celebrates–albeit bizarrely–the life and times of Emma Crawford (pic to the right), a young lady who expired of tuberculosis in 1890, just a few short days before she was to be married to her sweetheart. After much toiling, her devastated fiance, along with eleven other men, buried her at the 7200 foot summit of Red Mountain. After many years of heavy rains, her remains, slipped and slid down the side of the mountain, coffin somewhat intact, and deposited themselves at the foot of the mountain. Very macabre right? What’s more macabre is the celebration that was somehow attached to this bizarre accident. But here we are. Pimp your coffin out and mimic Emma’s slide to the bottom of the mountain. Ready, set, go! Here’s the link, you weirdos:http://community.manitousprings.org/events/17th-annual-emma-crawford

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Fantasy Fest Oct. 21st-30th 2011 Key West, Florida

Okay. So I love festivals. Have I ever told you all that? I am always searching for something new and fun to get involved with. The funkier, the better. What could be funkier than the Fantasy Fest going on in Key West, Florida for ten entire days leading up to and through my favorite event of the year: Halloween! There’s goblins and ghouls and sexy witches and cross dressin’ She Devils. There’s stilettos and bared midriffs and drunken revelry and hairy chests and beads and glitter…(sigh!) And the weathers gorgeous so you can be half-naked on the glittering sands of the beach with some god or goddess you just met at the wild street parade…not that I’m advocating that sort of behavior…but it don’t sound half-bad from where I’m sitting on my couch here in North Carolina! Course my God would be my beer swiggin’ hubby and a bag of good weed. But that’s my thing. What’s yours? Why don’t you find out and click on this link:http://www.fantasyfest.net/ You can be in the sun in your weirdest costume with a cold rum punch in your hand if you start planning now. Okay. What are you waiting for? Fulfill your twisted fantasies. Go!

 

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