I understand the power, the rush, the instant gratification that pandering to an audience has for a speaker; fortunately, I outgrew this slippery slope that feeds to narcissistic tendencies that may be hiding in the dark places of the human mind, back in the primordial roots of our so-called lizard brain.
I was only nine or 10 years old when I discovered the very adult word “shit”. I did not quite understand the full meaning of the word, but I did grasp its range and how easily it fit into any niche I could imagine.
One day, when we were particularly bored as young children are apt to be, my friends and I gathered in the carport of my house where I proceeded to tell well-known and well-worn fairy tales liberally sprinkled (ugh) with the word “shit” to the amusement of all.
Once upon a shit time there were three little shit pigs. . . you get the idea.
Everyone was rolling with laughter and eventually the noise attracted the attention of my mother. She exited from the back of the house and approached the carport through the breezeway, unseen by me, but quickly noticed by my adoring fans.
Like a switch flipped to off, the laughter stopped to be replaced with gaping mouths and wide eyes. As my friends jumped up and ran, I felt the tiny hairs on my neck rise and then the tightly controlled voice of my mother — who used my full name, including my middle name — which as we all know means the “shit” was about to get real.
As if by magic, I was swiftly whisked up by mom and promptly frog-marched to the bathroom, where not unlike that famous scene in “A Christmas Story” I found myself with a bar of soap shoved in my mouth; However, unlike the character Ralphie, whose mom used the bad-tasting Lifebuoy, I had the workingman’s grime-buster Lava with its gritty pumice particles grating against my teeth and rasping my tongue like sandpaper making me salivate like a rabid dog. As I stood drooling over the sink, I considered my predicament prompted by my poorly-performed profanity-laced prose.
So ended my nascent and short career as an orator, but luckily, I learned that pandering to an audience and saying what they want to hear to garner acceptance is an illusion that leaves you hollow inside — with just a feint trace of a floral bouquet.
I understand the power, the rush, the instant gratification that pandering to an audience has for a speaker; fortunately, I outgrew this slippery slope that feeds to narcissistic tendencies that may be hiding in the dark places of the human mind, back in the primordial roots of our so-called lizard brain.
I was only nine or 10 years old when I discovered the very adult word “shit”. I did not quite understand the full meaning of the word, but I did grasp its range and how easily it fit into any niche I could imagine.
One day, when we were particularly bored as young children are apt to be, my friends and I gathered in the carport of my house where I proceeded to tell well-known and well-worn fairy tales liberally sprinkled (ugh) with the word “shit” to the amusement of all.
Once upon a shit time there were three little shit pigs. . . you get the idea.
Everyone was rolling with laughter and eventually the noise attracted the attention of my mother. She exited from the back of the house and approached the carport through the breezeway, unseen by me, but quickly noticed by my adoring fans.
Like a switch flipped to off, the laughter stopped to be replaced with gaping mouths and wide eyes. As my friends jumped up and ran, I felt the tiny hairs on my neck rise and then the tightly controlled voice of my mother — who used my full name, including my middle name — which as we all know means the “shit” was about to get real.
As if by magic, I was swiftly whisked up by mom and promptly frog-marched to the bathroom, where not unlike that famous scene in “A Christmas Story” I found myself with a bar of soap shoved in my mouth; However, unlike the character Ralphie, whose mom used the bad-tasting Lifebuoy, I had the workingman’s grime-buster Lava with its gritty pumice particles grating against my teeth and rasping my tongue like sandpaper making me salivate like a rabid dog. As I stood drooling over the sink, I considered my predicament prompted by my poorly-performed profanity-laced prose.
So ended my nascent and short career as an orator, but luckily, I learned that pandering to an audience and saying what they want to hear to garner acceptance is an illusion that leaves you hollow inside — with just a feint trace of a floral bouquet.