My Twisted Tree of Life

The other day I told Otto a joke on the fly hoping to make him laugh and cheer up after a truly despondent reaction he had after a good pal hurt his feelings . Here is the joke.

What did one butt say to the other butt?

 Hey asshole.

It worked.

Is this any worse than placating Precious Pee-Wee with a sugary treat or a new toy gun or a body dysmorphic Barbie when he or she is in ruins and a sack full of hugs is not cutting the mustard? I have no idea but I do know this.

It sure felt good to get a smile on his face after so many frowns. And asshole IS a funny word. Well, there are funnier I suppose. I could have said balloon knot or frosted back door brownie or pooped pucker or fudgy fingerprint but I didn’t. I said asshole and it did the trick. He was crushed and I panicked and I knew that saying a word that was absolutely off limits would crack that sad crust that had formed all over him. Oh, and when I just said crack there was no pun intended. Really.

What would you do if your little chipped gemstone needed some gluing back together but nothing was working? Would you reach into your funny bone bag and pull out an R-rated retort?

Dirty jokes were the wallpaper of my childhood and some of the best memories I have are PG-13, if not NC-17. Where I grew up all the neighborhood kids would climb up a tall tree we called the Dicky Dick Tree and take turns telling jokes that would always induce spectacular spit takes and near fatal falls. I learned to appreciate the art of writing a joke and telling a joke at a very early age. With that skill came an invaluable ability to laugh in the face of adversity and mock those who were most cruel and unusual in their peer punishing. It no wonder it still works wonders today.

Of course, I am not advocating or advertising the use of foul language as a standard family activity or an after school pass time to be enjoyed by every first grader, everyday. In fact, I feel that these little potty mouth petit fours are for emergency use only, much like a fire extinguisher filled with cotton candy or a handgun made of stale Twinkies.

Not to say the profanity parade does not exist in our world of washed-out mouths and squeaky-clean conversations. When researching preschool for Otto someone told me about a private elementary school here in Los Angeles that insists on having the children be able to use any bad words they choose to help express themselves. The rumor is that little Jaden Caden Haden Azul can run red Rover right over with a truckload of f-bombs while sprinkling the jungle gym with shits, dicks and craps.

That is ridiculous. Not only to I NOT need to pay someone else $25,000 to let my kid scream cocksucker while playing tether ball, I certain do not need my child coming home and telling me to go fuck myself when I ask him to wash his little hands before dinner.

I know where to draw the line. I’m just not sure whether to use a poop-colored pen or a penis-shaped pencil to draw it.

What about you?