I was raised as a Roman Catholic. I say this, not because there’s anything particularly special about being a Catholic, but rather because its context is important to this article. Things will become clearer shortly.

 

Another bit of important groundwork that I must lay out for you is the fact that, growing up, we “kids” had to abide by our father’s rules—the one wearing the belt, not the “nice” dude allegedly in heaven.

 

He was the ABSOLUTE ruler of the house. His rules were NOT appealable. He was RIGHT, not because he was unerring, but because he was the FATHER!

 

At one point, he had ME convinced that he retained the authority of Roman law wherein children were the father’s property and he could kill them if he wanted to.

 

My mother was not nearly as hard-nosed about things. She had a reasonable sense of humor, not to mention, was a decent amateur ventriloquist. In fact, at times, back then, I was convinced that the dog was telling me to kill my father. But that’s another story.

 

Anyway, while awaiting my turn to go back to Doctor Mengele’s chamber of medical torture, I overheard two older women discussing today’s diminished state of human intercourse as compared to what THEY experienced when they were young.

 

The first part of the conversation was about the atrociously foul language people—youth in particular—use today. “If I ever used that language, my mother would have walloped me all the way to my room,” said Rose.

 

“YES,” Marge chimed in, “I said ‘God darn’ in front of my father one time and I couldn’t sit down for a week,” she continued.

 

Just as the guard (I mean the nurse) was dragging me back to Dr. Mengele’s “lab” for my “procedure,” I heard them talking about a friend of theirs: apparently a Jewish mother of three grown children upon whom “she heaps tons of guilt on a daily basis.”

 

So, let’s deal with the foul language issue first and then I’ll discuss that Jewish guilt business.

 

Admittedly, the level of verbal discourse has diminished the last few decades to say the least. However, it also pays to remember that teens using terms like, “gosh” and “gee whiz” routinely had their mouths washed out with soap in the early 1900s.

 

My parents always taught me that using foul language was a crutch used by the linguistically challenged. But, throughout my 67-years, I’ve learned that even educated people are not immune to using foul language, especially during childbirth. Oh, and also when no one else is around to hear it.

 

To wit: with my wife’s first pregnancy, I began researching everything there was about childbirth. I read every piece, every brochure, and every pamphlet on those childbirth classes. I wanted to be an ACTIVE participant.

 

In order to get myself ready, I attended every coaching class. I was doing “coaching” and “breathing” exercises in my sleep. And, I did all of this for the honor of being present and totally supportive of my wife during her painful ordeal of childbirth. I WAS READY!

 

First, let me tell you for a fact that REAL contractions hurt a lot more than the pretend contractions that women experience during those classes. Oh, and during those REAL contractions, there is no lighthearted banter between coach and mom-to-me, either.

 

The third contraction was a doozy. I’ll never forget it. I could see it coming on the fetal monitor.

 

It hit! Her upper body stiffened as she arched her neck. Flames seemed to shoot from her eyes. And then, I, genius that I am, told her that I know the pain she must be experiencing.

 

BAD move! “NO YOU DON’T,” she screamed. She reached up; grabbed my right eyelid and yanked it down over my right cheekbone.

 

“Does THAT hurt?” she shrieked. Before I could sob through an answer, she hissed, “NO, it doesn’t, not compared to these @*#&! contractions.

 

Another contraction hit almost immediately. She gripped my eyelid tighter and, just before I passed out, I distinctly heard her imply, using only THREE nasty words, that I engage in a certain homosexual act and that my parents were NOT married at the time I was born.

 

And, oh yeah, did you know that when the doctor says, “push,” sometimes a woman may lose bowel control. I DIDN’T, probably because not even ONE of those “INFORMATIVE” brochures EVER mentioned it!

 

Boy was I ever surprised when THAT happened. “@*#&!” I exclaimed. I didn’t mean to say it THAT way; it just came out.

 

Realize, now, that because of my father’s insistence on proper language, as well as my own quest to keep things linguistically sophisticated, I’ve always tried using more esoteric terms (such as pshaw and others like it) to express my dismay.

 

Over the many years of having growing children in the house, I’ve lost count of the excruciating foot pains I endured from blindly stepping on all sorts of things: small, sharp-cornered Tonka trucks, assorted Lego pieces, and myriad Star Wars characters.

 

Ages ago, I stopped counting the many spine-shivering episodes of stepping in nocturnal piles of cat puke and dog crap, not to mention propelling myself clean across the kitchen floor on my ass after slipping in water that various pets had spilled from their water dishes.

 

One night, in the pitch dark, I stubbed my big toe on SOMETHING—I never did find out what it was—as I went through the dining room to the kitchen.

 

It took the usual few milliseconds for the pain telegram to travel from the point of impact to the brain and back to the point of original impact, but I KNEW it was on the way!

 

“HOLY @*#&!,” shot from my vocal chords and loudly echoed off the walls of the dining room. “PSHAW” never crossed my mind.

 

In fact, as I now recall, I’ve expressed my alarm, shock, rage, scorn, and sheer nausea using various, shall I say, vivid words. But—trust me on this—I do NOT recall having EVER said pshaw.

 

But FINALLY, it doesn’t matter anymore. There is scientific evidence that cussing is OK! Click here to read about it.

 

Wow! What a streak of good luck I’ve had lately. First, I found out (later than I would have liked to) that the nuns lied to me: masturbation does NOT, and NEVER DID, cause blindness.

 

While no big deal to YOU, embarrassment-wise, it would have been a Godsend to ME back then, since I’ve needed to wear eyeglasses since I was 8-years old.

 

Then I found out that there is also scientific evidence that men NEED sex EVERY day.

 

And, there’s nothing carnally selfish about it, either; it’s a matter of keeping the sperm count healthy… possibly a matter of human long-term survival. It’s all right here. Read it if you don’t believe ME!

 

And now THIS! It’s OK to @*#&! cuss! After sixty-seven years, life is finally @*#&! good!

 

Now, let me turn to that Jewish-mother guilt that Rose and Marge were discussing at the time Fraulein Helga came to drag me back to Dr. Mengele’s torture chamber.

 

At best it’s BUNK, I mean @*#&!—I forgot; it’s OK to cuss now! And, for the record, there is NO comparison between Jewish and Catholic guilt. The former is not in the same league as the latter.

 

Jewish guilt is more a violation of established ethnic conduct, like when some devoted Jewish daughter marries an electrician or a plumber instead of a successful surgeon. “What an awful thing for her daughter to do,” a Jewish mother might say.

 

But Catholic guilt… that’s something else. It’s dogmatic, culturally endemic to the very essence of being a Catholic.

 

Think about it. We Catholics MUST, by dogmatic decree, believe that WE, (or, at minimum, our sins) helped kill Jesus Christ, the kindest, most gentle, totally innocent being—the absolute personification of love—who ever lived among mortal beings.

 

That’s right; God sent His only son to die an excruciating death in atonement for the sins of the entire human race: ALL who ever lived, ALL who are alive now, and ALL who will EVER live.

 

We’re useless, undeserving scum. We don’t deserve to live at all. Even our babies are born with the stain of SIN and they have NO idea who Adam and Eve were. Now THAT’S guilt.

 

And, NO amount of money we put into the weekly offering—but don’t stop giving it—can EVER make up for it, either.

 

OK, I’m out of here for now. Meanwhile, cuss away, folks; it’s good for you. And you men out there, don’t ASK your wives/girlfriends for more frequent sex; DEMAND it… daily rations of it!

 

Your sperm count… NO, the very survival of the species depends on it! And remember; YOU have the advantage. Even if she refuses, you have a hand; you WON’T go blind. DAMN, those @*#&! nuns!

 

Joe Walther is a freelance writer and publisher of The True Facts. You may comment on his column by clicking here.