Things Really PC-ing Me Off; Volume One



Talking’s getting tougher. Uttering politically incorrect syllables is a sneeze which projects a microbe which causes The Great Ophobe Plague to wipe out entire auditoriums, dinner conversations, hootenannies, and stand-up routines. There are almost no safe subjects for debate or even idle chit-chat. Even that good old stand-by,  The Weather, is fraught with naughty climate change traps and denier accusations. Gossiping, for goodness sake, can no longer include words like “trimmed”, “bush”. “gay”, “jugs”, “my tools”, “booby”, “trap”, “hose”, “roller”, “right on the lawn” etc. etc. etc.

And work is now well underway to genetically re-engineer our oppressive gender pronouns, so that most of us won’t know who the hell anyone’s talking about. Some beer-swilling bloggers think that by the year 2021 – on a Tuesday – only eleven people on earth will understand the new vocabulary for PC conversation. and six of them will have to serve as interpreters for the rest of us. Those half-dozen will be putting in very much overtime.

Pretty soon, the only conversations we’ll otherwise hear around the house will be

Still Talking

between Siri and Echo.

So the collective PC mute button is a real threat. The only solution is not to call each other nasty, gender-neutral names in pitched battle on many fronts, but to re-map our entire campaigns to minimize the war zones.


Let’s get a few of the big ones out of the way early. And to save time and cause more bewildered confusion (which is the best kind) let’s combine them, and deal with this in one swell foop.

It even makes sense. Sexuality, faith and bowel movements do after all have much in common if you think about it. (And even if you don’t…I will.) All of them form parts of every day for every human on earth.

Lamb-less Druid

And – if done properly – all include some fairly strange body postures. (Especially in the spring, when I spend the day at our maple syrup shack, which doesn’t have an outhouse.) Sex, faith, and bowel movements are all also best practiced in some degree of privacy. You don’t see devout Druids sacrificing lambs on the park bench. Ditto the other two in public places. (Except for Göteborg, Sweden and Prague, Czech Republic: respectively.)  Additionally, the three usually feature parts of the anatomy,  strange sounds, ritualized accessories (think icons, condoms, Charmin), and much relieved contentment afterwards. Possibly, even a cigarette.

Etymologists will also point out that words used out of context from all three pursuits make up 98% of profanity in all world languages. (In English, the exceptions are “You’re a  housecat hairball”, and “You’re full of housecat piss.”)

There are a number of academics who have studied the startling correlation between hanky-panky, dumps, and religion (note: zero is a number, right?) They believe that since procreation and waste evacuation have been around much longer than religion (note: it’s no contest; 3 million years versus 70,000), humans are relatively blasé about the first two and much more likely to slaughter each other in droves over the newcomer.


So we’re agreed, right? Now….since the three are the same, let us sensibly just STOP TALKING ABOUT THEM! ALL OF THEM!

In neither activity do I care whether you choose to wear a yarmulke, turban, mitre, hijab, boxers, negligee, crucifix, long johns with a flap , dildo, collar,

Not Boone; just silly

colander, or raccoon-skin cap. (Although Daniel Boone did look a mite silly, and was hard not to notice.)

I don’t care whether you chant, dance, moan, swoon, pray, and/or clap when doing what youze gots to do. (Personal note: With age, incidentally, all of those are done in bedrooms and bathrooms. Especially pray. Or so I’m told.)

Surely it doesn’t make a whit of difference to anyone except those involved, so why in thunderation do we all get excited?

As an example, let’s examine bowel movements (but not too closely). If a right-hand wiper (which is – of course – correct) set out to eradicate all left- hand or non-wipers (which is – of course – absolutely incorrect and possibly heresy, but I’m more than more than willing to look the other way on this) on earth, he is not a Butt-Wipe Terrorist. He’s just an asshole. (See: entymology note, above.)

There’s no doubt that consensual faith and sex are pretty good shit.

But a good shit needs no elaboration. And certainly no further explanation. Please.



Okay. We have figuratively lynched and burned at the stake such wicked warlocks as Spacey, Weinstein, Luis CK, Dutoit and a dungeon-full of others. But the light from PC flaming torches have now turned to folk like the British MP whose hand(!) brushed a woman’s knee, and poor old Garrison Keillor, who touched a prairie companion’s bare back. If these are the new taboos, I’m getting closes to naming names, too.

Bare back
  • I lost my virginity to an older woman (she was over twenty, the predatory beast!), who simply undid my belt and pants without asking. Or permission. She wouldn’t stop, despite my protests that I had to be home by ten. Then eleven. Then midnight. I’ll never forget what she did to me. (Insert sobs here).
  • For a second date with a woman when in my mid-twenties, I’d reserved at a fancy Japanese restaurant where waiters threw food at the diners. (As I recall, it was named Pay-To-Be-A-Seal.) As I readied the bouquet and rang her doorbell, she called out for me to come in. She was lying naked on her couch. Without asking. Because of her inappropriate behaviour,  I didn’t get to experience having food flung at me for another thirty years, towards the end of my second marriage. That heartbreak’s on her.
  • In 1970 I was treading water in a public pool, minding my own business and
    My trunks

    pretending not to scope wet cleavages. Suddenly, a woman I hardly knew swam straight at me and plunged her hand into my trunks. This was very wrong. Because of the way I’m hung it was certainly horseplay, which big signs around the pool clearly said was not allowed. Her blatant aggression has cost me dearly through the years, since every time I move I immediately buy a pool.

  • In Grade Four the music teacher (I’m not naming names yet, but if I were. it would be Mrs. Smith) took me aside after a particularly successful choir practice where I had drowned out every other sound, except the air-raid siren. She asked if I could sing Goldfish.

“Of course,” I beamed, “When I learn the words.”

“No, No.” she smiled nastily, “I mean just mouth the words without any sound.” Then she patted my rump and told me I was a good boy. This was a horrible moment for me: a much older woman in authority both touching me inappropriately and telling me to keep quiet. Classic.

  • An older man whom I’d never met once approached me holding his thing in his right hand. “Would you like to feel this, young fellow?” he rasped with a sick grin.

“No, no, no.” I demurred, turning away quickly. “I’m leaving, officer.”

Thing-wagging Man

You see, I knew that Tasers hurt and wasn’t all that interested in the Old Montreal mob scene anyway. (OK, OK; That one’s a stretch, but it still illustrates an ancient human instinct to either handle or flee a threat.)

If a sleazebag goiter is masturbating while on the phone with you, haven’t you the option of – I don’t know – HANGING UP, maybe? How is that not an option? (Note: Here, you should also make a mental note never to borrow that phone. You know where it’s been.) When a single-cell Crustacean creep suddenly parades al fresco before your startled eyes, there are options way short of swooning. If the twisted toad is a male, simply point at the dishonourable member and:

  • laugh hysterically, or
  • say “You expect to stir up swirling eddies of purple passion with a fucking swizzle-stick?, or
  • both

To either response, the troglodyte will most certainly slink away, lock himself in his

Defeated Creep

bedroom, gorge on ice cream direct from the carton, and sob wretchedly through at least five innings of the ballgame. (Or so I’m told.)

If the reptile is female, just lift an eyebrow and ask: “Why the hell didja shave it? An oasis is way more attractive with lush vegetation around it. Nobody’s interested in a subway station in the desert!”

I can personally attest that this statement is 100% effective in discouraging any further sexual activity. And you do get to see the entire baseball game.

Hey, life’s better as an amusement park than as a cortege. And the bumping cars are way more popular than the swan boat rides.



































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