[ WP ] So apparently , I swear a ****ing lot .

So apparently, I swear a fuck of a lot. It ’ s not really my fault. I am a product of my environment. Or maybe that is just the hippy in me speaking. A lot of social workers types have taken a lot of interest in me over the years. As a result, I am pretty up to date in the latest `` its everyone else's fault.... not yours'' jargon. 
 
 The attention paid to me by these social worker types ( English as a Second Language teachers, counselors, state appointed officials appointed to make sure they were teaching and counseling me properly, along with the state appointed officials appointed to make sure the other state appointed officials were making sure that I was being taught and counseled properly properly ) resulted in my interest in social worker type work and a pursuit of a nicely printed piece of paper which would certify me to teach, council, make sure children were being taught or counseled correctly, or make sure that people were making sure that children were being taught or counseled correctly correctly. A Master's nicely printed piece of paper would do nicely to accomplish this goal. 
 
 Problems for me arose when I was finally forced to fulfill the practical application component of the required studies for my nicely printed piece of paper. Apparently, calling a professor `` a worthless fucking pile of anal leakage'' in front of your peers after a long and boring lecture is perfectly acceptable and even funny. Conversely, if a child in a special education class throws glue across the room at another girl in the same special education class, it is highly inappropriate for an adult observing the class to exclaim `` holly fucking flaming shit balls Batman!'' 
 
 The last incident will apparently get you a meeting with the dean and ensure you are not invited back to observe the special education class you were enjoying being a spectator to. 
 
 `` So apparently, you swear a lot.'' 
 
 The dean of the education department of the nice piece of paper generating institution I was attending was a short stalky man. He was almost a caricature of a dean drawn specifically for a bad cartoon about nice piece of paper generating institution. A handlebar mustache. A well-worn corduroy jacket. Wire spectacles and a pipe to emphasize a plump red face that was the result of drinking liquor like scotch that no one really likes but sophisticated people feel obligated to enjoy. 
 
 `` Apparently you are quite good at it... very colorful in your delivery.'' 
 
 `` It ’ s not my fucking fault!'' 
 
 `` Yes, this ability of yours to shift blame has also come to my attention'' he shifted forward to examine some papers on his desk. Apparently my behavior warranted a file of some sort. 
 
 `` This time it god-dammed sure as fucking hell ai n't my fault!'' 
 
 It is sure as fuck true that I am good at not taking the blame; years of special attention had done that to me. This was my standard response, but this time I felt it was not my fault. I was truly a victim of circumstance, no matter how many times I had used that excuse in the past. 
 
 `` Well, let ’ s hear an explanation then.'' His pink face smoothed out as he leaned back in his chair. I do n't know why, but the face just screamed at me to punch it. Another byproduct of being taught English by violent men. 
 
 I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, exhaled, and began. 
 
 `` I grew up in Iraq. Fallujah to be exact. A fucking shit town if there ever was one. Things went to shit quickly after the Americans showed up. The fucking cunt niggers killed my parents and I was left to my uncle. He was a cunt nigger himself. I was forced to leave school, not that there was one after the Americans came through the first fucking time, and work to help support my uncles shitty half of the family. The American Marines had a base there. All of them were shit heads who fucked donkeys but they were paid a shit ton and a half of money to come fuck up my home town. These assholes wanted cigarettes and candy and I could provide it. Every fucking day my uncle gave me candy and cigarettes to sell to the cunt niggers. I would be searched at the front gate by one asshole and walk around the base all day selling other assholes candy and cigarettes.'' 
 
 There was no change of expression in the dean ’ s eyes. This part of the tale usually got some kind of emotional reaction from people.... but the dean just seemed to say `` go on'' with his eyes as he adjusted the pipe from one side of his mouth to the other. 
 
 `` I picked up English from listening to these shit-birds speak. Let me tell you, their colorful use of the English language was fucked up! They called each other'asshole','shit for brains','mother fucker','nob gobbling ass fish', etc. So I called them by the same fucked up names that they gave each other. They would demand things from each other by saying'give me that fucking shit!' No matter if an encounter was positive or negative they departed with a healthy'fuck you!' followed up with a racial slur or colorful insult such as'dick faced cock munching fagot'. So my interactions with theses cock mongers usually went something like this 
 
 ``'Hey, hey, little dicked beaner, you want to buy my shit?' 
 
 ``'Na man, I ai n't got no fucking scratch' 
 
 `` Ah, fuck you clown fucker!' 
 
 `` They would laugh and the whole conversation would be carried out with shit eating grins and a light airy tone. I had no idea these fags were cursing. I thought they spoke like every other American. Through the years everyone laughed at my colorful language. I had no reason to fucking change. As you can see, this is definitely not my fucking fault. Talk to the cocksucking Marines I learned English from. Fuck!'' 
 
 That was the last day I spent at that nicely printed paper generating institute
