Imagine a bunch of drunken rightwingers having a riotous time watching paint dry. That is basically what the backroom at work was today, because of the rain. They watched golf on teevee and had Scotch and Tequila. Once every minute or so foul language erupted. Used rhetorically, for emphasis and to indicate a superlative of something.
As a Dutch speaker, who is very familiar with German, and conversant in Cantonese, I have a vocabulary of filth that's practically a superbeing in its class. I can translate the most unprintable things literally. As well as figuratively, and in context.
But I myself strive to be cleanmouthed.
Especially in social gatherings.
Swearing is much like religious worship and sexual misbehaviour; it's best kept private. Or at least discreet. I have no need to know about anyone else's bedroom or their church. Or their abiding interest in little white balls. One should not feel any need to exhibit or expose oneself. Practice restraint, decent behaviour, and self control. If one cannot handle Scotch or Tequila, perhaps one should for the most part avoid those beverages.
Rather than consuming both copiously in the middle of the afternoon.
Bad boys grown old and disqusting. The retarded retireds.
Delinquency does not improve with age.
I'll be there again in the middle of next week because a coworker is off in a tropical country, and has to stay there an additional week and a half because of medical matters, instead of being back this weekend. We didn't find that out until this morning. Spotty communications, combined with hippie tendencies. Don't ask.
He's missing out on some stupendous televised golf. Neatly dressed men whacking their little balls all over manicured lawns, while looking like they are posing for a sportive wear catalogue. Ooh, so exciting! Very bourgeois thrills!
Little white balls.
It is time to cuss and get blotto.
One unique brightspot is the neurosurgeon who is often there for a few hours in the morning. Well-read, well-informed, thoughtful, and clean of speech. Good man.
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