Coprolalia

Or how I learned that, despite its color, a bar of Lava soap isn't a good after-dinner mint

I once worked in a movie theater doing a little bit of everything. I was primarily a projectionist, and as such would watch all the movies after splicing the reels together to make sure everything was as it should be.

One summer, my father was in the hospital for an extended period, and the family got to know the nurses on the floor where his room was located. One nurse – older than my parents but probably not as old as I am now – asked me about a new movie with Richard Gere and Debra Winger.

“It’s good,” I said. “You should go see it.”

Several days later, I encountered the nurse again while visiting my father. As soon as she saw me, her eyes narrowed.

“You!” she said in mock anger. “I can’t believe you sent me to see that filth!”

I thought for a moment, trying to decide what might have offended her. “I’m sorry; I didn’t even think about the language.”

“Oh, I didn’t mind the language,” she said. “It was all the sex!”

I apologized again but figured she must not have been to a movie in a while. If there were graphic sex scenes, I must’ve missed them.

This was the second thing I thought of upon reading a piece in the New York Times last week entitled “Why Does Everybody Swear All The Time Now?”

Writer Mark Edmundson asks, “Is there is anyone out there who doesn’t swear? Is there anyone who doesn’t revel in vulgar language?”

The questions resonate with me still, as those who know me well know I’m not above peppering my phrasing with some salty language. I could talk for hours about the utility of particular expressions, and the nuances of a well-executed blue adjective. But even I have to admit that the deluge of profanity the general public is subjected to has grown tiresome.

I recall a comedy special by a guy named Katt Williams. He was funny enough, but it was akin to trying to eat steak riddled with gristle – the meal would be a lot better if you didn’t have to navigate through the objectionable parts.

These days, going out in public means you’re willingly exposing yourself to whatever spills from the mouths of those around you. More often than not, it will be rife with the sort of language that would prompt your grandmother to stick a bar of soap in your mouth. Believe me, I know. I learned at an early age that gritty, abrasive Lava soap Grandaddy used to wash away the grime before supper may be the color of an after-dinner mint, but you really don’t want it in your mouth.

There’s a reason the clinical term for Tourette’s involuntary cursing is called coprolalia – copro meaning related to dung or feces, lalia meaning speech. Hence Grandmother’s choice of heavy-duty cleaner.

As scriptwriting goes, I tend to think gratuitous profanity is lazy. It stands out, calling attention to itself. Deft, judicious use of the occasional cuss word, woven into a phrase like a golden thread, can enhance, like a dash of cayenne in ginger-snap dough.

In speech, it helps to read the room. I once described a far-flung place with a reference to a bawdy Egyptian town you won’t find on a map. I thought it was commonplace but “colorful.” One person I was talking with was horrified, and probably still thinks of me as “that horrid, profane man.”

“Reading the room” pertains to my first thought as I finished Edmundson’s piece. I was a child at a viewing in country funeral home in Tallapoosa County, likely for my paternal grandmother, who died when I was in elementary school. I was standing in the corridor so I could not see the casket when one of the funeral directors was hurrying along behind me and tripped over a fake peace lily. “@#$!” he muttered, then righted the plant and kept moving. I was gobsmacked.

I told my parents about it as we were in the procession to the cemetery.

“That funeral man cussed,” I said. “He tripped over the potted plant and said a bad word.”

My father, whose repertoire of blue language never reached the degree of George Carlin’s “Seven Words,” shot my mother a knowing glance.

“Well, it’s a stressful time, and he is human,” my father said.

I protested. “But Daddy – he was wearing a suit!”

I’d like to think I was indignant on Maw-maw’s behalf, since in our family lore, it was she who was so horrified by a television commercial for toothpaste. “The next thing you know they’ll be advertising T. P. !!”

That was well before the reins were loosened on dirty words in popular entertainment As for movies today, profanity is well-entrenched, although I’m not so sure that art imitates life in this case. Blue language is far more common among movie characters than most of the people I am around these days. In fact, a relative of mine told of a game among a group of their college friends involving — a videotape of “Scarface” from Movie Gallery and a keg of beer. The rules were simple – at each utterance of the “f-word,” participants must drink some beer.

I doubt they even got as far as the “Say hello to my little friend” scene.