You Kiss Your Mother With That Mouth

tommyrawblog@gmail.com






I'll let the story do the cussing...

oh, oh, I mean the talking... LoL

Just remember...

They're only words

They CAN NOT... hurt you!

You Kiss Your Mother

With That Mouth

Gimmie an “F"

Gimmie a “U”

Gimmie a “C”

Gimmie a “K”

What’s that spell?

Trouble!

What’s that spell?

Trouble!

How about gimmie a break!

Everyone gets so upset when they hear the dreaded “F” bomb. Or any four letter cuss word for that matter.

Personally, I love them. All of them. I want every one of them etched onto to my gravestone.


Just like George Carlin and his...


7 Dirty Words!

Shit
Piss
Fuck
Cunt
Cocksucker
Muthafucka
And...

Tits

Nothing has more of an impact on a conversation then a well-placed obscenity. But only if you deliver it with the precision
of a skilled surgeon that is.

And in my case, I guess you could say that I was, and still am, the Hawkeye Pierce of cussing.

(Remember Hawkeye from M*A*S*H?)

I know people say you’re judged by the language and vocabulary you choose to use, that your intelligence level diminishes with every “Mutha-#*&!+%#$” you spew.

Well if that’s true,
I’ll be stuck in the 1st grade
for the rest of my life!

Hey, fuck’em if they can’t take a joke.

I can’t really pinpoint the exact date and time that I began my assault upon the English language in earnest, but I know it started
at a very young age.

I can remember my older brother Joey running into the house and pleading with my mother to make me stop, that I was outta control. Retarded even.

“Ma, ya gotta make him stop! He sounds like an idiot. Every other word out of his mouth is a curse! Make him stop or I’ll pound him!”

Man, I was just possessed by those four letter words. They’re like a warm pair of gloves on a cold snowy night. We just go together so well.

Asshole… Tommy.

Tommy… asshole, see!

Beautiful, man!

But, I do remember going a little too far one day. And it cost me big time.


I might’ve gotten away with spewing my profanity at my brothers’ and friends out on the street, but it was a whole different ball game once you were within radar distance
of my mother.

Then the rules changed a bit. Like, there would be no profanity at all! None, zero, zilch. But, I didn’t know that. There was nothing in the Kid Handbook about cussing in front of your mother.

I didn’t even know the real meanings behind half those stupid words I was unleashing. But they got such a rise outta everyone who heard them, I almost became addicted.

I was overdosing on fucking words, man!
Gimmie a fix. I got the DT's...

But, I’ll tell you; the rise that I got outta my mother was not the rise I expected. All I said was the word fuck, and that was it.

Then it was like look out!
The demon child had spoken.
We better check his scalp for three sixes, 666!

Well this now validated the complaints that were coming from my brother, which meant that something would now have to be done with Damion the Devil child.

Maybe mom would break out the rulebook and explain the do’s & don’ts of cussing.

Wrong!

Maybe a nice calm pow-wow, or a quiet scolding.

Wrong again!

I was too far-gone for the
“You’re offending others” speech.

My mom got right down to business and out came the big family sized bar of Ivory soap.

White, creamy, and fucking disgusting!

“Open your mouth!”

“Nope!”

“I said to open your mouth Tommy!”

“No way, I didn’t do anything!”

Great defense huh?
I had the same mantra that every other guilty asshole in cell block 6 had!

“I didn’t do anything!”

I should’ve said,

“I didn’t FUCKIN’ do anything!”

Now that...
would’ve been a statement.

Fuck James Dean.


I’m the real rebel without a cause
around here muthafucka!

But there would be no further rebelling. As that gigantic bar of soap made it's way
into my mouth.
(Although mine was a bar of Ivory)


You should have seen the look my dads face when he arrived home from a long day’s work and walked through the door.

How fucking embarrassing was this?

I was standing there like a jackass with a big bar of Ivory soap sticking outta my mouth. I might as well have been a roasting pig
with an apple in its mouth!

Look at that fuckin' hairdo will ya... LoL
That's me Feb 1973.
That's my friend 'n neighbor Dean standing in the back.
And behind him you see the corner of the fridge and back doorway.
Well that's where my dad walked in from work.
I was facing the doorway about a foot or two to the right
from where Dean is standing.
The bathroom was behind the wall to Dean's right.
This was pretty much within the right time frame too as I was 12 years old
in this photo. Maybe I was angry and cussed a lot because of my hair... LoL

Stick a rotisserie up my ass and throw me on the barbie baby! Oh, what a nightmare it was.

Now being embarrassed in front of your own family sucks, right? It does! But it’s not nearly as bad as playing the fool in front of all your friends.

The people you hang out with every second of every fucking day. Now that really sucks!

Your family usually forgets about those humiliating events after time. And usually only break them out during big family gatherings. But your friends, they never forget anything.


Ever!

The only thing they ever forget is their fucking wallets, when it’s time to pay for the beer!
Those scumbags!

Now listen to this crash landing.

There was this one time when we were playing touch football on my block, Simonson Ave. This was the Mecca of touch football
in our neighborhood.

We used to play a game called The Masters. This was two against two street football. One guy would play quarterback, while the other slob would run around endlessly waiting for a pass.

My brother Joey, and friend Michael were always the champs. They were both highly skilled at every sport we played. You hated them and wanted to punch them both in the face
during every sport we played.

Oh, unless of course they were on your team. Then you loved them! What can I tell ya, competition brings out the worst in people... LoL

I was always on Billy's team. He had the best arm on the block, but he was like myself, a little chubby. In fact, if you would put
Dan Marino's arm on Fred Flintstone,
you’d have Billy.

But, man, he could throw that ball a mile!

Too bad he didn’t have any plays in his head to go along with that cannon of an arm. He was by far the worst fucking play caller
I’ve ever seen in my life.

Every huddle we had was exactly the same.


“Well Tom, what’a ya wanna try?”

“I dunno man. How ‘bout a button hook?” “Naaah! Fuck that, just go long!”

Sometimes we’d go back to the huddle and nothing would be said at all. We’d just stand there looking at one another. Then, Billy would give me a stupid smirk, and circle his index finger in a pointing motion down the block.

I would just look back at him with a smirk that was just as stupid as his, and say, “You dick!” Then go long!

(Okay, so we weren’t exactly college material.)

But, anyway, this particular day was one that neither my friends nor myself
would soon forget.

Now what I’m about to tell you isn’t even all that funny or humiliating. Well, it’s a little funny. Well fuck, it’s incredibly humiliating as well.
What the hell am I thinking about?

Anyway, if you bring this story up in front of my friends, just fagget aboudit! They love it.

Those pricks!

Well, it was just like any other Masters Game. Billy and I were playing my brother Joey and Michael, while everyone else awaited the outcome and their turn to play from the sidewalk.

We were losing at the time and I remember being a little more vocal than usual. The cuss words were spilling outta my mouth onto the pavement like churning chunks of vomit.

We were practically tripping over them
as we ran.

Then, finally,
my brother just couldn’t take it any longer.


“Shut the fuck up asshole!”

And I returned fire...


“Oh fuck you, just play the game asshole! You guys might be winning, but you know you both fuckin’ suck! Fuck you!”

My Goodness, listen to me.
I am the demon seed!

And yes, I was a sore loser as well.

More words were exchanged and the whole thing came to a head with some pushing and shoving. Then, out came those famous last words that infiltrate every neighborhood
sporting event...

“Fuck you! I QUIT!”

And like the pussy that I was,
I began to walk off the field.

“Aaah, c’mon Tommy, lets finish the game!”

“No way Bill, I’m outta here! Fuck this shit!”

So I proceeded to walk away from the game and got about two pole lengths away
from the scuffle.

(This was yet another neighborhood measuring stick of greatness…… The pole length!)

The distance between each pole was about 100 feet or so. This was how we laid out the field.

Anyway, I remember walking towards my house mumbling to myself…
Mutha-%!&*?#$……
I wonder what’s for dinner? ……
Scumbag-&^?#)+$*!……
I hope we eat soon, I’m starving!……
Jerkoff-#%!&$?*@#&……
What a bunch of assholes, man!

(((Hey, what can I say?
I was a complicated kid, but in a simple way)))

Then, when I was more than two telephone pole lengths away, I felt it.
It was a sense of danger, a feeling!

It was as though I was Steve Austin,

The Six Million Dollar Man.

Do Do Do Do Do Do, Do Do Do Do Do…
I sensed something approaching me,
getting closer, and closer still.

It was… maybe a sphere.
A brown sphere-like orb, perhaps with laces.
No way, I thought to myself. No fucking way!
It couldn’t be!


I was well over two pole-lengths away, maybe three away from the guys at this point.

No one could throw the ball that far.

WRONG!

And before I could turn around to see my fate approaching……… BANG!!!

“SON-OF-A-BITCH” I cried out!

That muthafucka hit me right in the muthafuckin' head with that muthafuckin' football.


I didn’t think my brother
could throw the ball that far.
I guess I was mistaken, once again.

Man, I saw stars.

(( And oh... sorry about all those MF's a few sentences back! LoL... no I'm not... LoL ))

It was an unbelievable throw.

I had absolutely no idea what to do at this point. Should I cry, pee my pants,
or go defend myself?

Well, I didn’t wanna cry.
My friends would not accept that.
Maybe just pee myself a little?
I think that maybe they could
understand that. LoL

Defending myself was definitely out.
My head was already ringing. I didn’t need
any further pounding.

My only recourse to this travesty was to follow it up with what got me there in the first place.

“FUCK YOU ASSHOLE!
THAT DIDN’T EVEN HURT!
YOU JERKOFF!”

“That’s it Tommy,
I’M GONNA KICK YOUR ASS!”

And with that, I promptly turned tail
and ran for cover… again!

“MAAAAAAAAA!!!!”

Man I'm such a momma's boy aren't I!?

It was really humiliating. And it hurt too!
It’s something I try to forget about, but of course it will never go away. To this day still, Billy reminds me of it whenever we take a stroll
down memory lane.

“Hey Tom, remember when Joey nailed you in the head with the football?”

“Yeah you hump! I do.”

It’s then that I’m forced into reminding him of his humiliating ritual of vomiting in the tall cattails while we were hiding from the maniac.

The maniac being one of the board-of-directors from our local little league field where we all played ball. West Shore Little League
on Walker Street in Staten Island.

This was the field where we would play tackle football. Sometimes with full equipment and other times without. We'd play here also when we had too many guys street ball.

It was amazing how this guy knew we were there. It was like the Bat signal flashed across the sky whenever we hopped that fence.

Kids on the field!

Kids on the field!

The fuckin’ Batmobile would turn into the little league complex doin’ sixty! Kickin’ up dirt and rocks into the air, as the car
fishtailed through the gate.

Of course, this scared the shit out of us. Especially being that he knew us all. We would see the cloud of dust approaching and practically kill ourselves climbing back over the fence
to escape his wrath.

It was total chaos!

Billy would vomit. Charlie would practically hang himself on the fence trying to get over it.
Too fuckin' funny!

((((Charlie was by far the worst fence climber in history, hands down.

He once gouged out a three-inch chunk'a leg meat from his inner thigh while climbing over a fucking three-foot high fence!

In fact it was the fence right next to Nanny’s garage (my neighbor) where I got busted for cutting out of 2nd/3rd grade. Remember the Public Enemy Number One story?
Our underground fort was about 100 feet
behind her garage.

Walk around Charlie, please walk around! You’re runnin’ outta leg meat!))))

After we all made our escape into the tall cattails, we would quietly peek out through them while the maniac verbally assaulted us
from atop a mound of dirt.

And if you thought that I was outta control with the language, you should’ve heard this nut. It was as if he was protecting Camp David
for goodness sake.

Didn’t he realize that it was only a Little League baseball field? And that we were just kids?

((( But we still love you "K".

You were a big part of our lives during those little league days! Awesome! )))

We would gradually wear the maniac down though, with our deafening silence.

The only thing that was heard was Billy nervously throwing up! LoL

The manic dare not enter into the cattails after us. This was our Sherwood Forrest, our safe-haven if you will. And we were Robin Hood's merry men! Although clad in football gear, Robin's men nonetheless!

Then, eventually the light bulb would turn on in the manic’s head and he would finally realize that his Sunday afternoon was being spent chasing kids off of a Little League field
instead of sexing up his wife
or something much more exciting
and fun than this.

So he would turn in disgust and leave in the same fashion in which he had arrived, once again kickin’ up the rocks and sand into the air
as the Nut mobile departed.

Then, like a hoard of roaches in a tenement building waiting for the lights to go out, we would run back onto the field to finish the game.

Oh, smelling like vomit of course!

Thanks Bill!

This was almost a weekly ritual, all except the football to the head. Not that others haven’t thrown at my head mind you. Just that this was the only attempt to actually make
contact with my melon.

And so you see what can happen, all because of a little four-letter word.

You get soap shoved down your throat,
or things thrown at your head.

Chaos just erupts all around you.

Isn’t that just the coolest thing ever?