dear gutter cleaners

Dear Gutter Cleaners on the Roof of the Elementary School,

First of all, I'd like to thank you for doing the important work of cleaning the gutters at the elementary school. It must be physically difficult, not to mention annoying, to spend your entire sunny July Saturday up on a hot roof, cleaning gutters.

Second, I'd like to examine and explain the following incident, from my point of view.

Chicken, Ryan, Buster and I were hanging out, doing some low-level chillaxin' at the toddler park. Tossing wood chips around, calling for ladybugs, leaning on playground equipment and just taking in the day. Then, from up above, we heard the following exchange:

Dude 1: Hey Steve! Steve!
Steve: Yeah?
Dude 1: Hehehe... are you... hehehe... are you a melonfucker?
Steve: What?
Dude 1: Are you. A melon. Fucker?
Steve: Haha! YEAH, dude! You KNOW it!
Dude 1: I told you Steve was a melonfucker, dude!
Dude 2: Haha that's awesome!
Steve: I fuck the shit outta those melons, dude!
Dudes 1 & 2: HAHAHAHA!
Steve: I fuck those melons all NIGHT!
Dudes 1 & 2: HAHAHAHA!
Steve: I am a melonfucker!
Dude 1: Legendary!
Dude 2: Yeah, man. Legendary!


It was at that point that I decided I'd heard enough, and collected my family to leave.

When you saw us leaving the park, you all fell silent, and then started giggling and snorting. I can only assume that you knew I'd heard your banter, had gotten righteously offended (as moms are wont to do), and had to storm off in a huff to save my two precious angels from your crassness.

I would like to make one thing very clear.

Yes, we left because I would hate for my son to one day talk like that. But it's not for the reason you think.

I'm not here to tell you to watch your mouth. I don't patrol the schoolyard with a bar of soap. You're grown men, among a work crew of other grown men, on a Saturday, when school isn't in session.

I didn't want to expose my kids to you anymore because guess what, Shit Brick 1, Shit Brick 2, and Steve?

You aren't fucking funny.

You're like one half of a micro-step above 12-year-olds playing the penis game.

That shit is not fucking legendary. It's fucking stupid.

If you wanted "melonfucker" to ascend to the stuff of legend, you have to go harder than just repeating "melonfucker" over and over again. You have to get creative. What kind of melons? In what positions? Under what circumstances? Did you take a honeydew to prom? Was that sweet little watermelon all up in her apple bottom jeans and the boots with the furrrrr, knew the whole club was lookin at herrrr? Up the ante, boys. Raise the stakes. Get crazy.

You know who would actually sound pretty funny saying "melonfucker?" My two-year-old. Because he'd pronounce it like "meyyin-bocker," and that would be adorable and probably get us on the Ellen show after our YouTube video went viral.

You know what else my two-year-old does that's funny as fuck? He pretends to carry soup around in the palm of his hand and takes sips from it periodically. Also, he pees in the bathtub while whispering "Chicken peein." He also likes to spin around till he falls down on the ground. That shit KILLS at Gymboree.

Oh no! Did I just ruin Act II of the Rooftop Hilarity Guild's weekend matinee? I guess you'll have to follow up that legendary melonfucker routine with "potatoschtupper" or "portobelloblower." Abbot and Costello, eat your romaine hearts out, right?

My stance on profanity is this: swear words are first and foremost words, tools for communication like any other word. When used appropriately, they can communicate an idea or feeling, help enhance the humor in a joke, or stress the intensity of the situation. When used lazily, like, say, when attached to an innocent piece of produce, expletives become just another piece of verbal rubbish.

I don't give a flying fuckity fuck how many fucking times you say the fucking f-word. Go for it. Carpet-bomb the playground. Just don't call yourselves legendary because you did it. Call yourselves what you are: operating at the level of pre-pubescent rebels whispering in the back of class.

And don't congratulate yourselves on putting off the delicate sensibilities of a young mother of two. In 5 years, my boys will be able to cuss you under the table. And they'll have come by that shit honestly.

PS - It's entirely possible I didn't sleep at all well last night.


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