F-Bombing as a Second Language

It’s finally summer. I can enjoy the warm embrace of June days. I can throw the windows open to fill the house with the sharp perfume of fresh cut grass. I can enjoy my morning coffee to the symphony of birdsong and the rustle of leaves. I will wake leisurely to drag my fully Lebowskied carcass out onto the porch and chat with the neighbors as they pass by. I can’t wait.

4:25 am: I’m enjoying a spectacular dream when I’m interrupted by:

“F-BOMB”

I recognize the voice of my son, but the words are perfectly articulated inmate.

“—YOU F-BOMBING JERK! PUT THE F-BOMBING! GUN DOWN! DO. NOT. F-BOMBING. SHOOT. ME!”

I race downstairs ready to throw myself in the path of a bullet to save the fruit of my loins.

I kick his door open and behold a scene so vile, so perverse, so saturated with horror, I hesitate to describe it. My son, still in his school uniform, wearing nine-million dollar noise cancelling headphones, is furiously pounding his controller, eyes bugged out, bleary and bloodshot, glaring into his monitor, screaming into his microphone.

“I WILL F-BOMB YOU UP YOU F-BOMBING—”

“Roon!”

“—I’M GONNA SKULL F-BOMB YOU, YOU F-BOMBING—”

“ROON!”

“—DROP A GRENADE! DROP A GRENADE! OH MY GOD YOU’RE A F-BOMBING IDIOT!—“

I touch him on the shoulder. It’s like I tased him. He rips his headphones out of their jack, unleashing the booming cacophony of online gamers from three continents through his desktop speakers at a level I would judiciously describe as “earthquake”.

Roon is yelling something, I can see his lips moving, but I can’t hear the sound over the  conflagration of f-bombs and vile slang pouring out of his game. I scramble to find the volume button, finally get the thing shut off as bedroom lights flicker on up and down our street, only to have the sudden silence filled with:

“DAD! WHAT THE F-BOMB?!”

My glare snakes up from somewhere deep in the animal part of my spine, grabs my cheek bones, and hauls itself out into the air between us dripping with ruthless malice and dangerous intent.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“FOUR THIRTY IN THE F-BOMBING MORNING!”

“Stop saying F-BOMB”

“You say it.”

“Not at 4:30 in the f-bombing morning.”

“Are you f-bombing kidding me?”

I reach down and slowly wrap my fingers around his power chord like I’m gripping the handle of an axe, fixing him with a neolithic glare.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I said you f-bombing—”

I tense up like I’m gonna pull.

“I’ll shut up.”

A few hours later I’m on the patio with my coffee when my neighbor Bob walks by.

“Morning, Bob.”

“Top of the f-bombing morning, Garlington.”

Oh summer. Oh joy.

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A fan of DBC who had a similar problem and wishes to remain anonymous sent this in. She put a note up in front of her son's computer instead of telling him to stop swearing because . . . .

. . . the kid was skyping a raid and I didn't want to embarrass him in front of his guild.

That is a super cool mom. Here's to you, anonymous person!