I got in trouble this week for bad grammar. In trouble with whom? My 7-year old daughter!
It all started one afternoon as we were driving home when all of a sudden some crazy son of bi$%h decides to change mother fu%$ing lanes without flashing his G&*da%m signal (just another day in the ATL!).
After going on a tirade about Atlanta rush hour traffic, I blustered “that don’t make no sense!”
All was quiet in the car, as my blood pressure fell back to normal range, when all of a sudden; a stern voice from the back seat reminded me that I should have said that doesn’t make any sense.
Little did I know that I was riding with Bill Safire.
In hindsight, she had me dead to rights! Of course, not to be outdone, I clumsily fumbled my way through a lame explanation of the difference between casual and formal speech. I argued that it is fine to use words incorrectly when you’re having a hissy fit, as long as you know that any other time you must use the correct words.
Yeah, right, she bought that!
(The fact that I regularly get away with using a third of Carlin’s seven forbidden words must mean my daughter has gotten used to my potty mouth, but we’ll save that for another post.)
Am I upset that a soon to be second grader called out her master’s degree holding old man on my incorrect use of the Queen’s English? He!! no!
I’m just proud to see that my little grammarian already has a feel for subject-verb agreement, avoiding double negatives, and of course, the value in speaking properly.
Now, all I have to do is get Thad Allen and the boys from BP to help me launch a cleanup of my potty mouth.