Welcome to the Buttermaker Multisphere. There Will Be Fucks.
Apparently, we need to have a fucking meeting about profanity.
Not war. Not inflation. Not crime. Not whatever fresh hell the internet has coughed up before breakfast.
No.
Some adults are deeply concerned that another adult says “fuck” too much.
Jesus Christ.
I have never understood the particular breed of person who willingly follows someone online, consumes their content, becomes offended by the way that person talks, and then decides the obvious solution is to inform them that they should change.
You know there’s a button for this, right?
It’s called unfollow.
You don’t even have to submit paperwork.
I curse.
I have always cursed.
I curse when I’m angry. I curse when I’m excited. I curse when something is funny. I curse when something is ridiculous. Sometimes “what the fuck?” is not only the appropriate response, it is the most linguistically efficient response available.
And somehow, despite this, civilization continues.
Yet every so often somebody wanders into the Buttermaker Multisphere and reacts like they accidentally walked into a biker bar during Bible study.
“Do you have to use that language?”
Yes.
Next question.
Actually, no. I technically don’t have to.
I want to.
That’s the part the pearl-clutching committee seems unable to process.
I am a grown fucking woman.
I am not sitting in your living room. I am not addressing your kindergarten class. I am not applying for membership at your country club.
You entered my little corner of the internet.
Nobody kidnapped you.
Nobody duct-taped you to a chair and forced you to listen to me say “motherfucker.”
You arrived voluntarily.
And now you would like renovations.
Absolutely fucking not.
There is something especially strange about adults policing the vocabulary of other adults as though profanity is some reliable measurement of intelligence, character, morality, education or credibility.
It isn’t.
A person can speak like an etiquette instructor and still be a complete asshole.
A person can drop three fucks before finishing her coffee and still know exactly what she’s talking about.
Vocabulary and character are not the same fucking thing.
And context matters.
Obviously I know there are places where I’m going to speak differently. Everybody does. Humans have been adjusting their language to their surroundings since approximately forever.
But social media is not a courtroom.
My website is not Sunday Mass.
And the Buttermaker Multisphere sure as fuck is not finishing school.
This is me.
Sometimes thoughtful.
Sometimes serious.
Sometimes completely fucking ridiculous.
Sometimes I will spend an unreasonable amount of time researching something and explaining it carefully.
Sometimes my entire analysis will be:
Jesus fucking Christ.
Both are authentic.
And that is really what bothers me about the language police.
You’re not asking for manners.
You’re asking for editing.
You’re saying, “I would enjoy you more if you were slightly less you.”
No.
There are millions of people online.
Find the person who says “gosh darn it.”
I support your journey.
But if you decide to stay here, understand the ecosystem.
There will be fucks.
There will be motherfucks.
There will absolutely be Jesus Christs.
There will occasionally be combinations of words that make even me stop afterward and think, Well, that was fucking creative.
You are welcome to laugh.
You are welcome to disagree.
You are welcome to think I curse too much.
You can even clutch the pearls.
Just clutch them quietly.
Because I am 47 fucking years old, and we are way past the point where somebody in my comment section is going to teach me which words I’m allowed to say.
Welcome to the Buttermaker Multisphere.
Please keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times.
And leave your fucking pearls at the door.