This week I had an unexpected moment of self-discovery...an epiphany if you will. It was a heightened sense of self-awareness about something I subconsciously knew always existed, but never gave much thought to. It's something I know I've always done, and have done so fairly liberally in the right place and time...although many times in the wrong place and time...many times...too, too many times.

And like anything done with obsessive frequency, the more it's done more its impact diminishes. Desensitization begins wrapping itself around the shriveled remains of your what was once known as your conscience, your moral center, the place Father O'Reilly told you God loved you most. Engulfing it, digesting it, and letting gravity bring down the brown. After nearly a lifetime of doing it, it's pretty commonplace in my world.

It was only until it was brought to my attention (as only a wife can do...a smokin hot wife I might add) that I began to think of it consciously, resulting in this little revelation of mine. For those of you who are taking the sick and twisted direction with this ("He's probably talking about jerking off!!"), I say to you...well done. I probably would have done the same thing...Although I wouldn't have used such an obvious choice. Masturbation is so cliché.

No my friends, what I am referring to is my profound ability to incorporate obscene language comfortably amidst the nouns, verbs, adjectives, and prepositions that litter our everyday English vernacular.

I am a Cursing Connoisseur, The Sultan of Swearing, Sir Cuss-A-Lot, Johnny Expletive, The Prince of Profanity, Mean Green & Obscene...I'm the guy who gave Samuel L. Jackson the wallet that said "BAD MOTHER FUCKER" in Pulp Fiction. (I didn't get the wallet because I thought I was a Bad Mother Fucker; I got it because it had bad words. As it turned out you really should be a Bad Mother Fucker when carrying a wallet like that. At the time I didn't feel I could back it up in the manner that is fitting of a Bad Mother Fucker wallet. So I gave it away. As it turned out it was to Samuel L. Jackson. Long story, but in the end he truly is a Bad Mother Fucker and is more deserving of such a wallet than I. The rest is movie history.)

Now naturally your first instinct would be to think, "Christ, what a dip shit this jackass must sound like. He must sound like a complete fucking moron using foul language all the time. Like some punk ass bitch on a street corner turning tricks like a little whore trying to scrape together goddamn nickels & dimes to buy his next score." You of course would be wrong. And a hypocrite.

I'm not the type of curser(?) who falls in the same category as the stereotypical fat greasy New York cab driver whose every other fuckin word is fuckin littered with fuckin fucks and too many "yous" and "dat son of a bitch asshole stole my fuckin cannolli". Not quite. Even though I'm a huge fan of stereotypes. No, I'm a little more tactful and selective in my usage of these words. A good portion of my day is actually expletive free; but when I'm around my friends its a natural part of our dialogue. It's not regarded as offensive or derogatory, nor is it viewed in a negative light. It simply blends in with all the others. Equal opportunity verbiage...the integration of words.

There are however, times when obscene words fill the air like the thick cloud of bullshit that hovers over Washington D.C.

Sporting Events:

This time of year is saturated with all kinds of great sports. The NFL is in full swing, I'm losing everything I own on college football, the baseball playoffs have started, and a new hockey season is here. The air begins to chill...as much as it can in hell...balls begin to swell and testosterone begins to peak. Beer becomes a food group and bitch becomes the equivalent of "man" in every day language. "How's it going bitch!" "Hey bitch, pass me the pretzels." "Awwww Bitch!! That sucks!"

Standard obscenity etiquette dictates that everything is fair game when watching sporting events. Racial slurs are optional so long as all races are equally bashed with the same conviction. Although bashing Mexicans more than others is sometimes prohibited...if not encouraged. Some of the most raucous, vile, uninhibited, primal, morally, ethically and religiously abhorrent language can be found on what is ironically the day of the Lord...Sunday. Few things elicit an obscenity-laden fuckfest like a Sunday afternoon football game.

If your team is sucking balls...lookout. Hide the children, close the windows, and remove any religious idolatry from the walls. Shit's going down and the walls will need to be cleaned with holy water on Monday morning. Typically the resonating waves of hatred are directed toward opposing players in hopes of smiting them to failure. In fact, just this afternoon as the Saints were about to kick the game winning field goal with 3 seconds left to defeat my beloved Eagles, I engaged in an overt wish that a sniper would blow the kickers head off. I even attempted to strike him down on the spot with a plea of The AIDS. It wasn't until he made the kick and we lost that I realized The AIDS would not have killed him instantly, rather slowly over a prolonged period of time. At least I know where I went wrong and how to correct it next time. Even when players on my own team fail, they will hear my wrath. No one is safe. Not even you.

In my mind, a word is a word. Sure, there need to be words to appropriately reflect the severity of a thought or feeling. Foul words are essential to our language. But in my world they are more essential to my language than they may be to others. And because others may not use it with the frequency and ease that I do, does it mean I am wrong in doing so?

The biggest culprit in my arsenal is apparently the word Fuck. Versatile word that can be used in more ways than you might imagine. Therefore it finds its way into a wider array of sentences. Law of averages and probability I say. Had I not been asked to pay a quarter for every time I said it, only to be down 4 dollars over the course of an hour, I wouldn't have realized how much I say it. And I was consciously trying to avoid it during that hour. Fuckin-A.

And so as I now possess a strong awareness of this "habit", I now begin to ask myself...do I continue to be me and stick with what I know? Or do I try to pull back on "the language"? My initial thought was naturally "fuck it". It's who I am. But the more I thought about it, the more I began to realize it might be a bit too much. I have been very successful in being completely void of foul language around my daughter, and while I do have the occasional slip (which she emphatically brings to my attention), I keep myself in check. But I know she knows the words. Last weekend we were playing mini-golf and I could have sworn I heard "Goddamn it!" when she missed a shot. I asked her what she said and she backed off in the same manner I do when she catches me. What could I say? I let it slide because who am I to correct her? And more than anything I was in denial that I even heard those words come from her mouth.

Fuckin bitch.

I guess my minds made up.

I'm probably going to hell for this...but that wouldn't be the first time those words have been uttered by myself or countless others, and it won't be the last. (Although overall, I still think my shot of landing upstairs is better than average. I know the bouncer...and he's fucking my sister. So I get in on a technicality).

Ty Pennington...what an obnoxious self-righteous piece of shit. Most of you may know him from "Trading Spaces", and his most recent endeavor as the host of ABC's "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition". You know, the show where they find an unfortunate family who are going through a crisis or hardship. An "EXTREME" crisis or hardship...thus keeping with the title of the show. (Yes, I know you've never heard of it, let alone seen it. Just go along with me on this one, would ya?)

The show features stories like: Husband loses both thumbs after a "trick-shot" at the local bowling alley went horribly awry ("The 2 Ball Helicopter Throw" - degree of difficulty: pain), thereby making his manual dexterity comparable to that of a llama. A llama with no thumbs. Or the story where they relocate a middle class, suburb-dwelling black family with a "slow child", to a bigger, more "menti-capable" modified house on the edge of the hood. The family -and most of the naive middle American viewers- see generosity and kindness. But ABC sees it a bit differently. According statements released by ABC, they are "...preserving the integrity, safety, economic stability, and racial harmony of suburban white America by keeping it...white."

Regardless of the storyline of the week, ABC and the heroes of "Extreme Makeover" come to the rescue to rehab or build new homes for families in need. (Extreme Need)

Let me start by saying that I think the concept of this show is exceptionally giving, caring, and inspiring. It exemplifies something television lacks these days and desperately needs. The stories and the end result often give you goose bumps, and depending on your sensitivity and emotional state...can bring a tear to your eye. It's an hour-long display of major karmic penance. So, with that said...back to Ty.

Let me first put a face to the name:

Here's the smug little bastard in front of a project in progress and well underway. It's the demolition of a large portion of a home in preparation for a generous expansion loaded with padded floors, walls and rubber eating utensils. The project is dirty, dusty, sweaty and exhausting work, but the cause makes it all worth while. Blood, sweat and -

Wait a minute...what's up with Ty? Perhaps its just me, but Ty's looking might crisp and clean for a guy who's taking all the credit for a massive construction project. I mean, there is obviously work being done, and from even a limited glimpse it appears they're well into it. Hell, there's even a cone! Orange cones can only mean one thing...DANGER! Heed the cautionary glow of the orange cone mother fuckers, for DANGER is nigh!! So obviously some serious shit is going down. And Ty is primped up like a preteen girl at the Thursday night church social and bake sale.

Ty is essentially the Second Coming of Christ to most middle-aged, conservative, white women who live on Dr. Phil's every word and eat ice cream by the pint...Lane Bryant shoppers you might say. How can you fault them? After all, the producers of "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" play this chump up like he's the miracle love child of a Gandhi, Mother Theresa, Pope 3-way. For every act of heroic generosity this prime-time messiah grants the poor destitute souls, another gift of equal or greater proportion follows it. The deep, soft, compassionate voice Ty uses to sympathize with the struggle and grant light to the plight. It's this moment that inevitably precedes the next surprise up his sleeve (1st 2 seasons of "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" on DVD anyone?).

The task of building a 4000 sq. ft. lead reinforced concrete structure for a boy who fears aliens are reading his mind, is a painstaking and physically demanding task. Workers forge on intently day and night to meet the deadline. And amidst the fervor of this endeavor, where is Ty you ask?

The pious jackass is standing on the sidelines polluting the environment with his "Fran Drescher sodomized by a lawnmower" voice blaring through a bull horn. You spineless whore. Don't be fooled when they throw some raggedy clothes on ol Ty and give him a hammer and a ham sandwich. Much like a dog working off signals from a trainer off screen, Ty has been known to watch reruns of Tim "The Tool Man" Taylor on Home Improvement behind the camera. Mimicking his every move. Laughing at every "HUUUUH??? ARR ARR ARR ARR". Oh that Tool Man!! Have another line of coke Man. Ty then retires to the comfort of his trailer where "Queer as Folk" plays repeatedly on the TV.

Ty's a glorified cheerleader. Like the male cheerleader on the high school squad. He claimed he did it "to touch chick's asses without getting in trouble", when the fact of the matter is, there is no ass on this earth worth touching for that shit. And this cheerleader, the pansy ass who is put on the pedestal...HE is the one who claims the glory, and collect's karma points. Ty is the one they embrace an praise. He is the one who gets hand jobs in the trailer from grateful fathers and brothers. It's Ty....it's always Ty. Glory stealing swine.

Here's Ty on the last Extreme Makeover project. It says here he's laying cement for a pool deck. Oh my bad, he's laying ON a cement pool deck. How cute. Asshole.

How about showing us the real heroes? The men and women who do the actual work! Not the surfer dude who sticks his ugly mug in the camera with all the charm and charisma of Carrot Top on a meth binge. Humility apparently wasn't taught in the Pennington household. (Although they could show the real workers throughout the show...I wouldn't know, I didn't actually watch it.)

Son of a bitch, if I didn't watch it, then where the hell am I going with this? What just happened? It was just 8pm, now its 12am. How the hell??

Awww man, I just wasted my night!