Everybody Curses, I Swear!

by Carrie Keagan

  Drew: Or he says, “Oh, I give a shit. I really do.”

  Jennifer: Yeah, yeah.

  Drew: But then he’s acting like he doesn’t—guess what. He doesn’t!

  Jennifer: That’s it!

  Me: What if …

  Jennifer: Pay attention to the actions …

  Drew: Not the words.

  Jennifer: Not the words!

  Me: Kevin Connolly said there are times when he says, “I don’t give a shit” but he doesn’t mean it?

  Jennifer: But he does give a shit, so that’s what I’m saying is the … I don’t know anything!

  Drew: Interesting. Kevin …

  Jennifer: Kevin just threw us a curve ball.

  Just like with the guys, a rare few girls are not comfortable going blue. Also, like clockwork, some women turn into schoolmarms right after they have babies, in my opinion. I think they probably feel like now that they’re mothers, they have a responsibility to be proper upstanding citizens. Courteney Cox was the exception to the baby-birthing rule. She held her five-month-old baby, Coco, on her lap while cussing up a storm, no big deal, and when I interviewed her the next time, she cemented it: “This is my favorite thing that I get to cuss and talk about drinking. I mean why don’t we just do the rest of the interviews this way? CNN, fuck YEAH! What? OH! I thought that’s the way we did it now.”

  My girls will always return to the dirty hive, and more often than not push the limits of my interviews even further. Secure in their sick sense of humor, here come three more super-cool chicks who are just blowing up right now. No inhibitions, ready to have fun, and totally comfortable diving into the deep end of the pool are Elizabeth Banks, Rashida Jones, and Emily Mortimer. It just took a mere hint from me about the grundle that made its theatrical debut and they were right there when I sat down with them at the junket for Our Idiot Brother:

  Me: Now Steve Coogan introduces something into this movie, and possibly, into the world …

  Elizabeth: His balls. Yes.

  Me: I don’t know if we’ve seen the back of anyone’s balls in a while.

  Rashida: The taint.

  Emily: His arsehole, in other words.

  Me: He did introduce that as well.

  Emily: Yeah.

  Me: The full-on. We got everything.

  Rashida: Yeah. There was, like, taint and ass crack, maybe, like, a little sphincter even.

  Me: We may have gotten a little hole.

  Rashida: It was pretty graphic. I was like “AAHHHH!!” when I saw it.

  Emily: His hairy balls and his A-hole.

  Elizabeth: His ball work in this movie is …

  Me: Genius.

  Elizabeth: Really good.

  Emily: Totally fucking awesome.

  When it was time to promote the movie, the ladies did not disappoint.

  Elizabeth: You fucktards better go see this fucking movie!

  Emily: Our Idiot Brother does the opposite of chafing my anus. It’s the film that least chafes my anus of any film I’ve ever seen.

  Rashida: I really like the word. I like ass bag. I like ass rash. Ass rash is a good word, right?

  Me: Maybe you won’t get an ass rash if you see Our Idiot Brother!

  Rashida: No, more like … Paul Rudd is an ass rash! In Our Idiot Brother. Not in real life, in the movie. Ned is an ass rash. Ass bag.

  Me: I like it.

  Rashida: Dickhead.

  I will never forget the day I sat down across from actress/comedienne Mo’Nique for her movie Welcome Home, Roscoe Jenkins. She would go on to win an Academy Award for her powerful performance in the movie Precious and host her own talk show on BET, but before that she brought down the motherfuckin’ house with me. Making such a stir that her costar Martin Lawrence stormed into the room to see what the fuck was going on. She was paired with Mike Epps, but poor Mike didn’t realize that he was about to be sucked up into the one-woman-whirlwind called “Hurricane Mo’Nique.” Why this was so special to me was that it perfectly illustrated why No Good TV connects with so many people … because we were familiar, or should I say familial, just like your fucked-up dysfunctional family:

  Mo’Nique: See what you’re doing right now? That is exactly what we went through every day, every second of the day. A ball of laughs, a good time, and it was just family. I feel like you just family! You just came right in. You a cousin … through marriage. We gon’ have to explain some shit. But through marriage, you came on into the family and we love her. (Looking at Mike.)

  Me: I’ve been accepted! (Hand on my heart. Mike makes a displeased face.) What? What was that face? You’re not accepting me!

  Mike: Yes, I am. I’m just … whooo. (Looking at me all leery.)

  Mo’Nique: He wanna see your ATM card.

  Me: (Looking at Mo’Nique.) He’s just pissed ’cause now I’m in the family. It’s like blood. (Looking at Mike.) Now he can’t have any!

  Mike: (Unhappy look.) No, I can’t!

  The interview just took off from there and continued to escalate. The cussing was outta control, and the room was on fire. As I looked around I could see there as not a single person who wasn’t just dying with Mo’Nique and Mike’s tour de force, wall-to-wall “fuck” fest. And just when I thought it couldn’t get any more insane, Martin Lawrence blew in while Mo’Nique was motherfuckin’ the room like a T-shirt cannon:

  Mo’Nique: Welcome home, Roscoe Jenkins is the best muthafuckin’ film you’ll ever see in your muthafuckin’ life! (Mike’s arms are crossed, and he’s looking menacingly into the camera.) If you’ve never gone to a muthafuckin’ film, this is the muthafuckin’ film to go to!

  (Mike loses his shit, laughing, and starts slapping his knee and laughing ’cause he sees Martin Lawrence has just run into the room.)

  Mo’Nique: ’Cause we do it the muthafuckin’ … haaaaaa!

  (Martin runs into the interview and jumps in the middle of them. He sits back and puts his arms around them in a tight embrace and they’re all fuckin’ losing it as the room explodes in chaos, screams, and laughter. Across from them, I’m laughing my ass off, stomping my feet and clapping like a damn fool. It was awesome!)

  Mike: (Screaming while Martin is squeezing them.) What’s up! We got Martin Lawrence in the muh’fucker!

  Mo’Nique: (Screaming.) It’s the muthafucka who did this muthafuckin’ thing! Come on, baby!

  (Martin kisses her on the head and fucks with Mike.)

  Me: (To Martin:) You couldn’t have picked a better motherfuckin’ time to come in!

  (Martin starts to leave.)

  Mike: (Screaming.) Where you gonna go, Mar?

  Martin: (Screaming from across the room.) Is she lettin’ you cuss as much as you want?

  Mo’Nique: (Screaming back.) As much as we muthafuckin’ want to!! (Mike is just laughing and clapping.) I appreciate this muthafucka right here! (Adjusting her hair and looking to the camera.) You see I’m staring into this muthafuckin’ camera! Keep it on me! When you say “muthafucka,” there’s a way you got to say it to mean dat … okay? See (softly) motherfucker … that don’t mean shit … you say MUTHAFUCK DAT!! I meant dat shit, you feel that? You see how I’m turnin’ ’round in this chair. Getting my body situated right. Putting my leg up. When you do dat shit, MUTHAFUCK DAT BITCH! Das’ gon’ make him come back in that muthafucka more!

  Mike: (Looking down at her ass in the chair as she’s positioned herself on her side.) And look, there’s a little bit’a ass jus’ hangin’ out over the side.

  Me &

  Mo’Nique: POW!! (Everybody is laughing and clapping and almost falling off their chairs.)

  There’s no denying it. Girls can hang with the boys in every way imaginable. They can hang, and they’re better than any pair of balls THIS girl has ever seen. Hell, we’ve always been able to. We just haven’t always been allowed. We were raised to think that boys are supposed to act a certain way, and girls are supposed to act another way. But that was then and this is now. People didn’t think women could
be funny.… Well … Amy Schumer is one of the most bankable comedy assets in this town. They thought a woman couldn’t headline a hugely successful primetime network show alone … well Kerry Washington is about as hot as they get. There was always a stigma that a woman couldn’t be the lead in a movie and have it be a huge success … uh, Melissa McCarthy has firmly planted her foot into the ass of that idea with four number one movies: Identity Thief, The Heat, Spy, and The Boss. And, of course, there’s the enigmatic gem that woman will never be able to host a successful late-night TV show … Chelsea Handler was not only better than the men but can also probably drink them all under the table. Do I need to go on?

  Of course, the problem with late-night TV is that it’s still stuck in the seventies. The rest of television has changed—the rest of the world has changed—and yet, somehow, women are still a question mark when it comes to late-night. Well, this little lady brain is mad as hell and not gonna take it anymore.

  Don’t get me wrong: I love the seventies. I never experienced it firsthand, but I love almost everything about it. The music was awesome. The clothes were fabulous—from the four-inch-thick belts that were basically a boob job for your pants to the terry cloth leisure suits that were hip to wear even if you weren’t in prison. Random sexual encounters were totally copacetic, and the term “big bush” didn’t refer to George W.’s dad. The hair didn’t stop there, either, because there was shag everywhere. They even made shag toilet seat covers—because nothing absorbs pee like a nice luxurious coat of carpeting.

  Okay, so the seventies weren’t perfect, but everyone sure had a great time, right? Actually, to truly appreciate the decade, I guess 50 percent of the population would have to first get past the rampant sexism in the media, misogyny in the workplace, and general treatment of women as second-class citizens. Television, in particular, was a man’s world. Everything you needed to know was presented to you by men. Middle-aged white men. They were the voices of authority. They were the voices of reason. They represented all that was white—I mean right—in the world.

  And yet, things looked a lot different at the end of the seventies than they did at the beginning. This was the decade when Barbara Walters became the first female co-host of the Today show; Katharine Graham, of the Washington Post Co., became the first female Fortune 500 CEO.; and Gloria Steinem founded Ms. magazine. They were women—hear ’em roar!

  And look how much has changed since then! We’ve had Diane, Katie, Oprah, Ellen, Christiane—the list goes on and on. Somehow, though, none of that change has trickled down to network late-night TV, a place that is clearly in need of a little facial reconstruction. And while it doesn’t have to be surgical, it certainly does feel like pulling teeth. Having said that, I have a sneaking suspicion that a powerful storm is coming. I’d say we’re in the early stages of a full vaginal penetration in late-night.

  The days of networks claiming that there simply aren’t any women with the right experience for the job after hanging yet another late-night show on yet-another Y chromosome are long fucking gone. Ignoring the cornucopia of killer female talent “engorging the business” right now and clearly visible to anyone whose eyebrows aren’t in desperate need of threading is about as intelligent and well thought out a move as when guys attempt a quick and stealthy crotch-swipe and butthole-check when they think no one’s looking. And, unfortunately, there are still quite a number of television execs in high-ranking positions who continue to ignore the obvious female currency right in front of them, opting for further self-analysis of their bonch. Apparently, they remain convinced that the next big thing is hiding out on the ball-side of ass-berg, so while no one’s looking, they continue to hit the durf.

  Newsflash, motherfuckers!! We’re always looking! Women don’t have the luxury of turning away. That’s when stupid shit happens. Usually involving you … with your hand … going where it’s not supposed to be. In fact, we’re born with a built-in motion sensor that alerts us when a guy in our vicinity is dry-scrubbing his taint. And yet, regardless of whether you’re at your niece’s dance recital, your sister’s wedding, or just waiting in line to buy popcorn at the movie theater, you can’t help but double check the fine shellac on your rusty sheriff’s star. And don’t give me your hair-brained bullshit about how it’s Tourette’s or OCD! What it is, is a fecal injustice that needs to end. It’s so fucking disgusting, and no matter how many times you get caught, and I tell you women are born with buttfingersniffing peripheral vision, you can’t help yourself. Why can’t you be more like us girls and sniff the whiff in private?

  Today, we’re living in a bit of a renaissance for the “dirty” girl (or the Keaganaissance, as I like to call it). It’s awesome to watch more and more talented and brazen women like Amy Schumer, Jennifer Lawrence, Taraji P. Henson, Sandra Bullock, Aisha Tyler, Tina Fey, Kerry Washington, Amy Poehler, Queen Latifah, Emma Stone, and Wendy Williams, to name a few, cut the umbilical cord of “reputation” and forge forward. But there is no progress without consequences. So we can’t forget that while Joan Rivers broke all sorts of barriers, her success placed her reputation in the crosshairs of a high-powered rifle named Johnny Carson. And while Roseanne Barr tore through all preconceived notions of female stand-ups on her way to becoming an icon, it’s hard to ignore the devastating public blows her reputation had to endure. And there are many, many more …

  It’s a dirty business that can be really daunting. There are plenty of women who are marginalized and manipulated by this very male attitude who then, unknowingly, contribute to it by perpetuating the reputation game to protect their territory. It’s a wicked cycle that has to stop. I believe that it’s every woman’s responsibility to cut that cord, if for no other reason than to honor the pioneers that came before us, like the very first female stand-up, Jackie “Moms” Mabley, who pushed the edge, in her own way, at a time when the edge carried a shotgun.

  I, in my own small way, have been in the business of not giving a shit what other people think for fifteen years and counting. Believe me, it’s very liberating. I couldn’t tell you whether it’s the courage of ignorance or stupidity that powers my undying conviction. But I can tell you that I’m not trying to be brave. I’m just trying to be me. A truth that is always worth fighting for.

  For I am not just the creator of the “Emancipation Dicklamation”; I am a card-carrying member. Never underestimate the power of a woman when she sets her mind to something. NEVER!

  EPILOGUE

  One night, a few years ago, I was in a bathroom stall at Club Cock, trying really hard to ignore the three guys engaged in a Devil’s pitchfork in the other stall, when something caught my eye that really bugged me. Right next to me on the wall was written “profanity is the linguistic crutch of the inarticulate motherfucker.” I’m pretty sure this phrase has been passed around, in one form or another, more often than Jared Fogle’s birdhouse (polite for gaping butthole) in federal prison, but you gotta love the motherfuckin’ irony. I remember thinking three things. First, that’s some heady shit written in a toilet stall that I doubt gets used as a toilet very often! Second, Jesus Christ! Is that an actual glory hole under it? And third, where the fuck am I? I’m going to punch Quentin for bringing me here! And, fuck my life! I think all three of these guys next door are cumming at the same time and Quentin better not be one of them!! Not funny! I mean, funny now but not funny then. Anyway, there was one thing about the saying that really bugged me; my hope is that, at this point, if nothing else, I’ve proven to you that I am not inarticulate!

  Language is power. Language is art. It can shape our experiences and the experiences of those around us. Cursing is a grand expression in the time honored tradition of challenging the norm. Possibly the single most important action humanity must never stop taking. Not to mention that it also happens to be the best fucking eighties high school party ever! I mean, was there ever another time where we were more culturally disparate and fashionably ridiculous? And yet we had so much fucking fun. That’s right, swea
ring isn’t just this amazing connective tissue that ties all people together; it’s also a constant reminder to fight the status quo. Every great accomplishment in history began with challenging that which was forbidden. And it is our responsibility to keep that candle burning and never surrender to the bag of dicks the so-called moral majority have deemed to be the rules of conduct. Every time those fuckheads rear their ugly heads, I get a bad case of Deja Moo—you know that feeling you get when you’ve heard this bullshit before! So now that you know you hold the future of progress in your hands, please curse openly, curse freely, and curse often!! And do me a fuckin’ favor: Swear with a some style, a little panache, and a fuck-ton of gusto!

  Believe me when I tell you, “Dirty words are sacred; dirty words endure. When your soul has constipation, dirty words are the cure!” I hope our little journey through my wonderland of very bad words further opened your eyes to the wondrous joys of swearing and unshackled your imagination’s untold, potty-driven potential. Between our tasty exchanges of “fucking” delicacies, your newfound verbal “fucking” dexterity along with the release of your inner dirty birds, I consider it the dog’s bollocks to have helped you laugh, cry, and kiss your preconceived notions good-bye!!

  Your new grasp of profanity will be your life preserver when you least expect it. Remember the time you took your parents out to a fine restaurant and ordered the duck butter and goose cheese for the table to impress them? How were you supposed to know duck butter refers to the thick and creamy emulsion found on the grundle and butthole created by the accumulation of sweat and filth from an unwashed ball sack and anus? It’s not your fault that you insisted the waiter explain everything. You could not have possibly known that goose cheese is its equally sinister counterpart but exclusive to the vaginal area, specifically the gooch, and best described as more of a rémoulade in both texture and appearance. Sadly, some nights last forever, and your poor mother may never feel the same way about a spicy rémoulade, but you will never look like a fucking asshole again! Like they say; the more you know!