I’d like to be able to just go ahead and say, Shut the fuck up and not cause any trouble in the process. I mean no disrespect. That said, I write and say my own sentences, thank you very much, and it is not my fault that shut the fuck up is a phrase that can be very helpful on the emotion management front. One of my favorite lines in movies is in Midnight Run, when Robert De Niro’s character says to Charles Grodin’s character, I got two words for you. Shut the fuck up. A classic line, if ever there was one.
Shut the fuck up is a playful phrase with all kinds of fun potential. Just close your eyes (or not) and imagine yourself saying, Shut the fuck up to those you think might just benefit from the experience.
I’d pay good money to walk up to Trump and say, “Yo, orange boy, or whatever the fuck happened to you, shut the fuck up.”
I thank some members of Congress for helping me realize I’d best not to say, Shut the fuck up, because it is, if these folks are any measure, an apparently deadly form of nuclear-weapon English. After all, members of Congress cower in fear when faced with schoolyard tweet or taunt from Trump. Lyin’ Ted scare the shit out of you, does it? Little Marco, freeze you in place?
To these brave congressional few I say, I’ve got two words for you, shut the fuck up.
Every once in a while a commercial makes me want to yell and break things. Growl. Emit mighty harrumphs into the air.
I do throw a fit when I see A Place for Mom commercials with Joan Lunden (a fine person by any measure).
(What about Dad?! Who finds a place for Dad?!)
With its U.S. Headquarters in Seattle, Washington, A Place for Mom is essentially “400 Senior Living Advisors across the U.S. and Canada” who help you “transition [someone] into senior living,” according to the company’s website.
It may be the best darn company of its kind on planet earth, for all I know.
(I cannot comment on whether the company has expanded to extraterrestrial locations.)
The thing is, I don’t like the company name. Not at all.
Choosing to transition into senior living doesn’t transform an individual into a puddle of helpless flesh and bones. The last thing anyone needs to encounter at a time like that in life is condescension, intentional or not.
And, there’s something else. Best as I can tell, there’s no actual senior living community operated by A Place for Mom. And that’s not fair to Mom. (Or Dad!)
Marty knew it made no sense and couldn’t possibly be true. That it felt true was besides the point, (almost). Because oh man, were he to believe it, live it, and be wrong? That shit would knock him down. Like most, Marty was tired of getting up one way or another in life. I’ve donated enough to that cause. This is precisely what Marty thought when he realized some bizarre shit was going. Had to be. He’d fallen in love with Sheila and that couldn’t possibly be right. He’d known her for more than a decade for fuck’s sake. It wasn’t like her beauty — admittedly the kind known to buckle knees when first observed by even the most casual observer — was anything new to him. His rational side, what was left of it, understood this. But, there was a problem. You don’t know somebody for more than a decade for shit’s sake and suddenly, badabing-badaboom, you’re in love. It doesn’t work like that, or so he’d always thought, until now that is. Somehow and in some way she’d become an anomaly. What the fuck’s up with that? Had he missed something all these years? Did some part of his mind simply leave the area when he wasn’t looking, knocking his understanding of reality out of alignment? They need body shops for the mind, he thought, not for the first time.
And if all this wasn’t enough to make his head spin, a new Sheila reality was on the scene. She made his knees weak.