Is George Carlin my Real Daddy?

Last weekend, John and I split a bottle of wine with my parents and, for about the 80th time, my dad—as of February a cable TV subscriber for the first time in his life—waxed on (and on and on) about his newfound love of Inside the Actor’s Studio. Punchy from the pinot noir, I peppered everyone with James Lipton’s questions.
“What sound or noise do you love?” (Yeah, yeah, children’s laughter.)
“If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?” (Surprise! You made it!)
“What’s your favorite curse word?” (Dad/Fuck, John/Shit, Me/Cocksucker.) My mom looked thoughtful and uncomfortable when she announced,
“I don’t have one. I really don’t like cursing.”
Wait, what?
“Really, Sara. Swearing is a habit of your generation. My peers, particularly girls, did not use bad words.”
I took that in and considered briefly that I had been adopted and was, in fact, the progeny of a whore and a sailor, or maybe the love child of Phyllis Diller and some well-endowed young extra from Love, American Style. Because the thing is, I adore swearing. Adore. It’s virtually impossible for me to carry on a five-minute conversation without gleefully utilizing at least one four-letter word. My staunch feminism doesn’t keep me from calling people pussies on a daily basis. During my formative years, I shared a bathroom with an ultra-cool older brother who listened to hardcore rap and kept tapes of stand-up comedians in a milk crate under his bed. When, at roughly age 10, I first heard George Carlin’s “Seven words you can never say on TV,” I scoffed. Child’s play, Georgie.
Okay, that’s an exaggeration. In fact, I remember being blown away by the first Carlin routine I heard. People actually talked like this? Growing up in Nebraska, I felt isolated from the “real America” by a divide far larger than the Missouri River. I was acutely aware that our clothing was dated and uncool, our taste in music provincial and our accent flat-affected and lacking the charm of a southern twang, the hipster cache of a Southern California surfer drawl.
To combat these deficiencies, I became a language sponge, soaking up verbiage as though my life depended on it. I copied down new words in a notebook, often stumbling when I first spoke them aloud—malapropism? Archipelago? Sanguine? Give a 4th grader a break.
I read my way through the entire young adult section of the library then moved on to Henry Miller and (ahem) V.C. Andrews before I could even write in cursive. Suddenly my eyes were opened to the tawdry sophistication of the world outside of the Beef State. Incest and blowjobs and something called the g-spot. Oh, my.
From Roddy Doyle, I learned to rely on “fuck” when I needed a smooth segue, and Jean M. Auel’s Clan of the Cave Bear series taught me all I needed to know about the finer points of lovemaking (all before I’d even had my first kiss.) From my brother’s 2 Live Crew albums I developed a disturbing comfort with the word bitch. From the zines that populated my high school years, I reclaimed every word ever used to insult or diminish women. And from Carlin, Sam Kinison, and their brethren I received a priceless education—Question authority. Swear often and joyously. Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.
In my twenties, I was lectured—on more than one occasion—by well-meaning friends who told me I would “seem more adult and professional if I swore less.” Well, no shit. But wasn’t that the point? As we all traded our cut-offs and Chuck Taylors for Ann Taylor blouses and slacks, and shuttled off to cubicles on gorgeous summer days, weren’t we already giving up enough? I’d gone to college, and to grad school, and I paid my taxes on time and took out my nose ring—for good—when I got my first “real” job. Jesus Christ, let me retain one tiny fiber of my edgy, fuck the establishment self!
I’m pleased to report that, in the face of much adversity, I have done just that. John tells me that he knew I was the one from our first phone call, when I offered to put out in return for his technical assistance with my Powerbook. It was not the half-hearted promise of nookie that caught his attention, but rather my uninhibited use of “dirty language.” I quit the grown-up job, took a pay cut, and settled in to a new gig in an office where jeans are encouraged and I can say pretty much anything I want. I routinely drop turns of phrase that make my mom shriek with horror, and those moments give me the same thrill at 31 that they did at 13.
And so to you, George Carlin, wherever you are, I know you are not wincing as I say, with admiration and appreciation, I’m going to fucking miss you like a motherfucker. Thanks for the life lessons, you brilliant son of a bitch.