“Motherfucker! I’ll beat the fuck out of you, cocksucker!”
I had never seen this man before, and he wasn’t even addressing me, but two things were clear: like me he was a wordsmith of reckon, or maybe wreckage, and I was in love. After the little mishap with the “Tub Full Of Cum” picture of me that circulated around the Internet, I feel it necessary to set the record—and myself—“straight” so to speak. I am so straight that even my gay lover will swear to this fact. But to quote the character Woof from the hippie musical “Hair” when talking about Jim Morrison, “I’m not gay or anything…but I would make sweet love to him!”
His was driving in a white pick-up truck behind a cab driver. The cab driver stopped a little after he crossed the avenue, forcing my wordmate to have to stop his truck suddenly which resulted in his poem—or is it verse or is it prose?
“Motherfucker! I’ll beat the fuck out of you, cocksucker!”
Breaking down the cleverness and deliberateness of his word choice, I saw that, like one of the ancient languages, be it Sanskrit or Hebrew or Arabic or Aramaic, there were many layers in what, to the common word whore would seem like a simplistic statement. The first fuck was used as a verb, fucker, meaning this was an action in which the recipient of his poetry partook. The second fuck was a noun, as if, a physical object that could be removed through the proper application of force—although clearly it was not a physical object but a symbolic object. In a clever twist to the theme at the end of his variation of a Japanese haiku, he brought in the word cocksucker as a strong—and risky—close, presenting the listener with not only the other man’s ability to utilize his own penis but in how he was able to manipulate other persons’ penises as well.
As my readers know, and to my detriment, I tend to be much wordier. The same concept that he managed to express in the succintity of nine words would require eighty-six from me:
“Sir, you seem to be obsessed with the organ of the penis. You have placed it in your mother’s vagina, which tends to be shunned by the culture in which we live. I am willing to apply physical manipulations in order to extricate this intercoursal episode. I am also aware that you place penises in your mouth and use your tongue and a head-bobbing motion to give pleasure to the recipient of said oral sex. This might be an issue you want to address as well.”
A master like this also doesn’t have the insecurity that is often exhibited in a poet of lesser stature and experience, nervous about sharing his trade. Instead of a mousy, not-talking-into-the-mic reading, The Master bellowed out his lyrical lullaby, making it available to anyone and everyone who was in earshot, and beyond.
The Master pulled over his white pick-up truck and I rolled up to him on my skates. Words were flooding my mind as to what to say, as with someone of this caliber of mastery any misspeak could be my undoing:
“I believe we are wordmates and could live a happy life together conjugating profanities”…”I’d gladly be your bitch and let you beat the “fuck” out of me every day with joy”…”Has anyone ever told you that you are beautiful when you say “Motherfucker”?” None of these were good enough and all that came out of my mouth was, “Don’t let a jerk ruin your whole day.”
He told me he wouldn’t, especially if he caught up with said jerk. And now I was wondering whom the real jerk was, the cab driver that merely acted as a muse for my newly beloved, or was it me, whose eight words were five words more than I needed to say, “I love you!”
I used to consider myself a Master Wordsmith and just took it for granted that before 9:30 a.m. no one is capable of expressing profanities in a glorious manner reminiscent of a choir of singing angels. Reflecting on the short amount of time I had in the presence of The Master, I realized that what I mistook for love was really just the inspiration for greatness that The Master stirred in me to juggle profanities the way a martial artist from a Shaw Brothers film flips nunchukus. At my current level of curse-ory, I was a mere pronoun compared to His complete Strunk & Wagnall proficiency. Rather than let that bring me down, it only fueled my desire to live up to my full Mastery. “Pussy,” “prostitute,” cock,” “cum”–it’s only 10:00 a.m. and already doing backflips of bullshit!
With the determination of Wile E. Coyote after his latest Acme rocket launcher device designed to capture the Road Runner blew up in his face like his hundred attempts prior, I knew it was time to go “back to the drawing board.” Only now, rather than accepting my lot as a subpar Master Wordsmith, I was committed to put in the necessary work to live up to my legacy. I vowed to wake up each morning and the first thing to come out of my mouth, besides my gay lover’s cock, would be my new mantra, gifted to me directly from the mouth of my Savior:
“Motherfucker! I’ll beat the fuck out of you, cocksucker!”