I’m as guilty as the next girl of cursing like a sailor. But I’d like to think I generally maintain awareness of my surroundings and tailor my language to my audience. (My parents might disagree.)
This morning in National Airport I had the joy of sitting next to two women in their early 30s who clearly thought they were hot shit (despite wearing sweatpants in public) and wanted to broadcast their badness to the world at large.
It was odd because – aside from their poor fashion – they seemed like reasonably intelligent, articulate women. Until they fired up the profanity.
In addition to speaking LOUDLY, they had a pretty steady flow of language that underwhelmed me.
Describing a place that was (I think?) small-town, one girl kept calling it, “bo-f*ck.” Um. What was that? “Beaux-f*ck, you say?” I’ve never heard of that. Po-dunk, sure. Bumble-f*ck, perhaps. But “bo-f*ck” just sounds like an exercise machine for whores, not a place.
And she didn’t just say it once. Every time she mentioned the place she had to pull it in. Sometimes, looking for what I suppose was special emphasis, she would refer to it as that “bo-f*ck – sh*thole” place.
Her language achieved its purpose, because I couldn’t pry myself away from their conversation to get any real work done. Just as I would dive into an Excel spreadsheet, I would hear a reference to “crack hos” and feel obligated to dip back in for a listen.
As I was closing my laptop, I heard the louder of the two girls broadcast, “Ah yes, fudge-packers of America, we salute you!”
And, in turn, to you in your fine grey sweatpants I say, KEEP IT CLASSY.
Because with a mouth like that, you’re keeping the professional landscape WIDE OPEN for the rest of us.
pithypants 
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