FUCK!

What is fuck? Fuck is a wonderful fucking word. It is a noun. It is a verb, it is an adjective. Simply put it is FUCKING AWESOME! Fuck, fuckitty, fuck, fuck fuck. Fuck you, fuck me, fuck him, fuck her, fuck it, fucking fagetaboutit and fuck it all. Fucking sick in the head, fucking out of sight, fucking retarded, fucking out of control, fucking for procreation, fucking for pleasure, fucking for sin, and fucking perverted lovers. Fuckers fuck people over, fuckers are bad drivers, fuckers probably shouldn't be reading this, but fuck them. Fuckhead, fucknut, fuckbag, and fucktard (fucktard is perhaps not appropriate in this fucking politically correct, watered-down version of America). Fuck out of control, until fucking is fucked and all you can think about is the fucking, because fucking is a wonderful fucking thing. Fucking is not making love. Fucking is fucking primal, messy, hot, sweaty, biting, teasing, aggressive, playful, fucking! It is what it is plain and simple. It is fuck, it is fucking, it is being a fucker, and it is being fucked. So fuck what you heard, and act like you know..fuck like everyone is watching, and you want to put on a show. Fuck the fuckers who try and fuck you over. Fuck the fucking politicians and their bullshit money-making ventures while in office. Fuck the fucking corporations for buying and selling us without fucking telling us. Fuck we the people, who slowly get led to the slaughter by the fucking people they put into office. Fuck out-of-control spending by the left and the right. Fuck the haters and the fucking people who don't like swearing. Fuck Jersey Shore, and certainly fuck Snookie. I guess what I'm trying to say is fuck it all, the little, the small. Fuck the dumb bullshit and the people who create it. Fucking is fucking fun when you let it be. Fucking letting your guard down, fucking hard exterior, hard fucking days and nights, and a hard fucking life. So FTW, and certainly fuck people who use WTF, they're fuckers anyway.

HOME

It's quiet. The world still isn't quite awake yet--except for the few men who need to be off to work early. They may be harpooning their wives under the covers, before they head out to miserable jobs at the salt mines, all the while thinking about having a pint with their buddies. The morning explosion inside his women will do for now. It will get him through his hard day, until he can have that first drink or three or ten, or whatever it takes to wash out the taste of the shit he's just had. As he's leaving, he digs through his old lady's purse to find a pen. He scribbles her a note and thanks her, hoping he'll see her tonight, but telling her not to wait up. He'll just slip into bed and into her when he gets home later. His work is horrible, a grunt for the local electric company. He goes into tunnels under the city, repairing frayed electrical lines. Some days his stench is so bad he takes two showers before he slips into bed with his wife. She’s a saint for dealing with a smelly husband. He leaves his work clothes in a garbage bag outside each night he gets home from work-- she hand-washes them, the grime cannot go through a normal wash without ruining the next cycle. Sometimes, she'll just say “fuck it”, and go to a laundromat to throw ‘em in a machine, bringing them home to line dry. Washing clothes by hand is not fun to her. Certainly not her husbands shitty work clothes. His day ends. He throws his clothes in the trash bag, and meets the men at the local watering hole the most fun since he pulled out of his woman. He bellies up to the bar, and they order him a IPA-- he says “no thanks man”, still nursing yesterday’s IPA hangover. He takes a shot of whiskey, then a beer. They talk of how work sucks, but the pay is good, the benefits okay. They'll get to retire at 50 with a nearly full pension. He'll be able to finally start his own electrical business, while collecting a nice pension from the city. So as shitty as things are now, the future always looked promising. After the next set of rounds, he bids the men goodbye for home, to the only woman he's ever loved. While some may be off to see their mistresses, he's going home, like he does every night. He arrives and dinner is waiting for him. His wife is folding clothes. Again. Works 9 - 5, comes home after her day-- cooks, cleans, does laundry. All she asks is the love of a good man. He greets her with a tender kiss on her neck; asks about her day, and listens. Eating a perfectly cooked dinner, he listens to her go on about her day, how her office is so full of assholes, if they could fly, she’d work in an airport. They keep hiring young, know-nothings out of college, because they work on the cheap. She knows her boss is sleeping with one of the new girls, but no one dares to speak of it. He just takes it all in, throws a remark to let her know he is paying attention, but genuinely cares. He finishes dinner, and tells his wife he’s taking a shower. He rinses his dishes, puts them in the dishwasher, heads upstairs. He slips into bed with his wife, hoping to encore the morning. But as they spoon, she asks him a bizarre set of questions: "Honey, why do you stay with me? I mean, I know some of your friends cheat. Why do you stay?" Without thinking on it he says, "I guess I could, but I love you. I have since the day we met. Being with you feels like home. There is no safer, no warmer place than home. It’s how I knew we fit. It's right. You're right. This, this right here, is right." With that, and the honesty in his voice, the sincerity in his eyes, she knew this was a connection. She respected and loved him even more for not having to think his answers. She didn't have to ask, and he didn't have to reassure her. She knew her place in him. Always first. Now she knows, even as they age, home will always be where her heart is-with him