Dafuq?

About a year in to my very first TV gig, the Director of Human Resources called me in to her office. No biggie, I thought. I’m 23-years old and practically a golden child around here. The HR gal and I had a decent working relationship … exchanging pleasantries, etc. She was a bit matronly, but always had a looming presence. She was the eyes, ears, nose and throat of that station.

When I sat down, she smiled and politely said, “You swear too much for my taste.” Wait? What the f*ck? I was being admonished for a potty mouth?! “Michael, you swear so much, it’s become an issue. I need you to try and curb that, please,” she continued.

To say I was gobsmacked would be a f*cking understatement. Was my language really that f*cking bad?

“I’ll leave you with this,” she said. “When you swear, you risk offending someone. If you don’t swear, you offend no one. Now have a good rest of your day.”

I slinked back to my office with my tail between my legs and decided right then and there to stop swearing. It didn’t f*cking work. Fast forward twenty years later and I finally got my big break … I was poised to co-host a TV talk show. A few weeks before the show debuted, my boss called me in and had the exact same f*cking conversation with me. “You better watch your mouth,” he said. “You’re going to swear on air, and that will be the end of your days on the show.”

For f*ck’s sake.

Once again, I decided right then and there to stop swearing. Well, I think we all know how that f*cking turned out. In the span of two weeks, I got spanked for saying “skank-ass” and “asshat” on the air. Both completely acceptable words, I assumed. Maybe I did have a problem, and this was live TV after all? Somehow I lasted on that show two years without so much as a single f-bomb. It was a Christmas f*cking miracle.

Then I started subbing on a radio talk show where all I would be required to do is … talk. Freely. Openly. Candidly. And with no filter. I was completely f*cked. My co-host told me that my mouth could cause them a $100,000+ fine if I wasn’t careful.

Right then and there, I decided to stop swearing, uh, again. And this time I meant it. And I kept my promise. Third f*cking time was a charm. Oh sure, I slip up about once a f*cking week or so, but that’s a marked improvement from my earlier days as a entitled, profane-laden 20/30-something. Maybe I was mellowing with age? Or maybe I just wanted to keep this radio gig afloat? Plus, Lord knows I didn’t have $100,000 just laying the f*ck around.

Moral of the story … if you cuss, you risk offending the f*ck out of someone. If you don’t cuss, you f*cking offend no one. Words to live by. I swear by it.

One thought on “Dafuq?

Comments are closed.