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What the Ficken?
I suppose it was the fifth grade … somewhere around then … that I first encountered the word “fuck”. Like most blue-collar parents … and perhaps most parents in general … my father and mother swore on occasion. But no one in his or her generation dared use the “f-word” except in the context of war. Soldiers have always said, “fuck”. They’re entitled to. Hearing the word and knowing what it meant or having an inkling of its versatility was lost on me. But hey … that used to be called innocence. The f – word is all over the place now. And to be honest there are times I get sick of it. Yet I certainly oppose censoring the word because there are some people in this world…and they are few and far between…who have a real talent for using “fuck” (and all it’s variations) to make a point, enhance humor, or clear the air. I enjoy being around a person who has a knack with “fuck”. I once worked at a log splitter company (another tale in itself) with a guy named Mark. Mark was from Flint, Michigan. And if you’ve ever spent any time in Flint you know first hand that anyone who lives there…ever lived there…has every right to say, “fuck” whenever they want. It’s the severely depressed city that’s been home to filmmaker Michael Moore, writer Ben Hamper, and 60’s and 70’s unappreciated power trio Grand Funk (Fuck?) Railroad. Mark, who outside of his rough vocabulary, was the sweetest guy you could ever know. Once I heard him swear I realized no one could equal his talent for utilizing arguably the most versatile word in the English language … or any language for that matter. If he was angry with someone … or disgusted … whatever … then Mark called them a “fuckknuckle”. This really cracked us up there at the screw type log splitter company!! It’s so original the word isn’t even listed in The F Word, by Jesse Scheidlower (1995 Random House), a 232-page book devoted exclusively to the word “fuck” and its derivatives. Nowhere appears “fuckknuckle” and believe me there are plenty listed I haven’t encountered. (And I’ve been around the fucking block a few times!) Unicorn Log Splitters was a small shop with three younger guys (of which I include myself), the owner, and an older, retired guy who supposedly was the accountant. His name was Mr. McClintoch. I never saw Mr. McClintoch do much of anything except talk about drinking and in our brief careers there all of us drank with him at one time or another. Mark wasn’t impressed with the guy. He nicknamed him “Mr. McFucktoch”. I had to be real careful when addressing the old guy. “McFucktoch” stuck in your brain. And it’s easier to say than McClintoch too. Mark was so creative with the f – word I realized he was the King. The “Fuck” King if you will. Then there’s Claus. He’s the husband of a very good German friend of mine. My wife, Yvonne, and I have visited him and his better half Heike a few times. The very first trip we took to Europe we went to Altbach, Germany and stayed with them. Claus kind of reminded me of a German Mark in a lot of ways. Even though Claus is in his 40’s he still loves heavy metal music … and I mean he LOVES it and loves it LOUD!! So did Mark. Claus may or may not swear like Mark. I can’t tell. My German is horrible. Non-existent really. But they both certainly share the same bravado. As a gesture of our gratitude for hosting us, Yvonne and I planned to take Claus and Heike out to a nice restaurant on our last night in Europe. After I made myself ready I went into the living room to try to have some sort of combination conversation/pantomime with Claus over the din of heavy metal, it was then I noticed his t – shirt. The front looked something like this: fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck I said, “Uh, Claus. Are you sure you want to wear that shirt to dinner?” He had no idea what I was getting at. “It says ‘fuck’ all over your shirt. Won’t that bother people?” I made my point to him. (His English isn’t much but he’s a translator compared with me.) Claus assured me that the American word “fuck” is used all the time…in fun mostly. It didn’t have the same vulgarity in Germany because it’s a foreign term. “Ficken”, Claus explained to me, “You don’t want to say that!” Okay. Fuck good … fun even. Ficken … bad … except possibly in the United States. A few months later … when it came time to buy Claus a Christmas gift I knew exactly what to get him…a Dead Kennedys “Too Drunk Too Fuck” t – shirt. I figured if anyone in Germany was familiar with these punkers and their underground “hit” it would be Claus. I packaged it up and sent it off with Heike’s gift. Shortly after Christmas I gave Heike a call to make sure they received their holiday package and see how they liked their presents. Heike answered so I chatted with her a little while. Before I even got the chance to ask about Claus I heard her tell him in German that she was “speaking with Rick”. Okay, I understood “Rick” but I understood what was happening. Immediately … over the heavy metal music of course, I heard Claus shout joyously … in a way only he can do, “TOO DRUNK TO FUCK!!!! TOO DRUNK TOO FUCK!!! TOO DRUNK TO FUCK!!!” “I guess Claus likes the shirt”, I said. “Oh sure, sure. You should not be surprised.” Heike replied. “I couldn’t find him one that read ficken” I joked back. Heike laughed her wonderful German laugh and somehow I felt like we both knew…without saying … that Claus was something else … something else indeed. But there is one thing I do know for sure. That Claus … he ain’t no fuckknuckle!!
http://leavesofcrass.blogspot.com/ The Non-Fiction Theater of The Truly Mundane Sarcasm by Scene: the inside of a Lucky’s Market. Rick and Yvonne are nonchalantly meandering up and down the aisles pushing a small grocery cart. Both are dressed casually. Rick is wearing a maroon, long sleeved t-shirt that reads in white lettering across the front: The American Sarcasm Society They soon come to the seafood department and stop directly in front of the glass case. Behind it stands a fishmonger around 35 years old wearing a customary white apron. The man smiles broadly at his new customers. Yvonne – We’d like a pound of the large gulf shrimp please. Fishmonger – Of course! He methodically weighs the shrimp, wraps it in white paper and hands it to Rick. Rick – Thanks much. Yvonne and Rick turn to leave, pushing their cart in front of them. Fishmonger (in a slightly louder than conversational tone) - I have to say sir … I REALLY like your SHIRT! Rick stops and turns to the fishmonger. Rick (somewhat playfully) – Are … you … being … SARCASTIC? Fishmonger (chuckling) – Why no! Not at all! Yvonne and Rick again turn and begin making their way to the cashier. After strolling a few yards Rick moves his head close to Yvonne’s ear as if telling her a secret. Rick (in a firm whisper) – You know … I’m not sure I BELIEVE that guy! Curtain Cast: Yvonne – her charming self Rick – his intimidatingly sarcastic self Fishmonger – his polite, smiling, sincere self (???) Jimmy Mak's new book,
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The Non-Fiction Theater of The Truly Mundane Cousin Brucie by
Scene: A “Rec Room” in the basement of an early 60s suburban home in Strongsville, Ohio. The room has a dropped ceiling with fluorescent lights built in. Every wall is paneled. 1950s style, overstuffed furniture is scattered lovingly around the room. A brown throw rug covers much of the cement floor. The year is early 1963. 11-year-old Ricky and his 14-year-old Cousin Brucie sit on a couch together at the back of the stage. To their immediate right is a TV – Stereo combo in Early American design. Brucie picks up a stack of about six 45 r.p.m. singles he has just selected from a box in his lap … gently places them on the stereo’s spindle and engages the player’s turntable. The first record falls and the needle descends to the platter. Soon the sound of The Ventures’ “Walk Don’t Run” fills the room. Ricky – That is so KEEN! Cousin Brucie (abruptly) -No one says KEEN anymore! Ricky – (embarrassed) Oh … sorry. I like this song. The two boys sit in silence listening. A few minutes pass and the stereo begins playing The Beach Boys “Surfin’ U.S.A.” Ricky – WOW! NEAT – O!!! Cousin Brucie (rolling his eyes) – Been even longer since people said THAT!! Ricky (again embarrassed) Uh … oh. Next up is “Sherry” by the Four Seasons. Cousin Brucie – Cool song. Rick grimaces but keeps quiet. A few more minutes pass and Shelley Fabares is cooing “Johnny Angel”. Ricky is visibly uncomfortable … wincing. Cousin Brucie – What is WRONG with YOU? Ricky – I don’t like songs about girls … love … mushy stuff. Cousin Brucie (sternly … looking Ricky straight in the eye) – LOOK RICKY! You got surfin’ … you got hot rods … you got SCHOOL! After that … whaddya got? Ricky – Uhhhhhh … Cousin Brucie – GIRLS! YOU GOT GIRLS!!! And someday your gonna LIKE girls. Ricky – Uhhh … I dunno. Cousin Brucie again rolls his eyes. Curtain Cast: 11-year-old Ricky – his pre-pubescent self. 14-year-old Cousin Brucie – his eye rolling, post pubescent self
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