By McAvoy Layne — Having never been seriously hurt before, it came as quite a surprise when my back fired a lightning rod down my right leg, dropping me like a stone to the floor. Luckily my bones are made of Indian rubber, and I was able to gather myself and let loose with a litany of curses. Then, having been in the Marine Corps, I threw in a few expletives that I didn’t know I had in me, but felt some relief in the discovery.
There is something about cursing that provides immediate assistance. As our mutual friend Mark Twain reminds us, “When it comes to pure ornamental cursing, the average American is gifted above the sons of men. Our dear friend, ally and thirty-year housekeeper, Katy Leary, wrote about me in her book, ‘Mr. Clemens swore like an angel.’”
I had an embarrassing thing happen to me this past summer when it rained on our cute little outdoor amphitheater at St. Pat’s and we had to move inside, where I had to speak from the pulpit. And it was there that I stuck my big size eleven boot into my mouth.
“I have found that there are times when profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer.”
In the next moment there was a loud thunderclap and the lights went out, leaving us in the dark. I raised my finger to the heavens and whispered, “I’m sorry.” And just then the lights came back on with a gentle titter from the audience.
I suppose now that I’m retired, I can safely say I will never speak from a pulpit again.
And now that I think of it, I have a friend whose wife sets a jar out whenever I stop by, and the jar advertises, “One Dollar for Each Swearword for Charity.” I always carry an extra twenty dollar bill with me when visiting them, because, yes, I am a charitable person.
But getting back to my bad back, I suspect my bed is to blame. It’s too soft. It’s nothing more than a large pillowcase stuffed with chicken feathers, and when I climb into it, well, it swallows me up to where I can’t be found. I heard from an old Gypsy woman who told my fortune once, that I would someday be eaten by a large animal, and that it would happen in a foreign land, New Jersey. I understand now what she was talking about.
I encourage you to check your bed. Just toss your cat gently onto the bed, and if that cat disappears, well, you’ve got yourself a future trip to the physical therapist my friend. And that just happens to be where I’m heading right now.
As we are wont to do, we shall leave the last word to Mark Twain.
“When angry, count four; when very angry, go ahead and swear. It’s the people’s poetry.”
— For more than 35 years, in over 4,000 performances, columnist and Chautauquan McAvoy Layne has been dedicated to preserving the wit and wisdom of “The Wild Humorist of the Pacific Slope,” Mark Twain. As Layne puts it: “It’s like being a Monday through Friday preacher, whose sermon, though not reverently pious, is fervently American.” Want to hear McAvoy Layne tell it? Go here for an audio version of this column.
