Fuck Off, I’m Articulating

(A Tactical Guide for the Verbally Fluent and Spiritually Done-With-Your-Shit)

There’s a certain type of social hygiene twerp who likes to repeat that old saw: “Swearing is the sign of a limited vocabulary.” 

You’ve met them. When female, they’re called Karen. When male, just assholes—though they inexplicably object to the term.

The same people who clutch their pearls at a well-placed f-bomb wield passive-aggression like a goddamn martial art. They don’t fear profanity—they fear honesty without a napkin over it.

But here’s the truth: swearing isn’t a symptom of verbal poverty—it’s the flagship of linguistic abundance. I know the “better” words. I just prefer the ones that scorch the earth properly.

Where others reach for “heck,” I reach for the blowtorch.

And it turns out science agrees with me. (Fucking finally.)

In a study conducted by psychologists Kristin and Timothy Jay, participants were asked to rattle off as many curse words as they could in 60 seconds, then perform a general verbal fluency test. 

The kicker? 

Those who swore the most creatively also scored highest on verbal fluency across the board. Turns out people who curse well tend to speak well—period. 

Swearing, it seems, requires precision, timing, tonal dexterity, and a working emotional barometer. It is not, contrary to suburban folklore, the grunt of the inarticulate. 

It’s jazz. It’s Carlin. Bruce. Pryor. 

But it’s also operational language—and I say that not as goddamn theory, but from field experience. 

In my former life as a street cop—uncivil civil servant, thank you—I learned early that “Excuse me, sir, would you kindly adopt a sedentary respite at curbside?” might look great in a deposition, but it won’t get you a damn thing in real time. 

“Sit your fucking ass down” gets the job done. 

Not because it’s aggressive—because it’s clear. It’s the lingua franca of the street, where ambiguity is dangerous and de-escalation begins with conviction. The more florid the request, the less likely the result. That’s not vulgarity. That’s translation.

Because the street doesn’t speak PC.

It speaks intent.

Profanity, it turns out, doesn’t just express emotion—it commands reality.

And that reality has biological teeth.

In 2009, degreed sadist Dr. Richard Stephens put people through a simple experiment: stick your hand in ice water and time how long you can tolerate the pain. Half the group swore. Half didn’t. 

The ones who swore? 

Held their hand in nearly 40% longer. 

Why? 

Because swearing triggers the body’s fight-or-flight response, floods the system with adrenaline, and serves as a neurological release valve. It doesn’t just sound good—it hurts less.

And emotionally? Profanity is not chaos—it’s catharsis.

Studies have shown habitual swearers tend to be more emotionally resilient, more direct, and, wait for it—more honest (exhibit A: moi).

There’s a correlation between taboo word fluency and lower deception rates. Apparently, people who say “I’m fucking pissed” are far less likely to stab you in the back than those who say “I’m disappointed” while grinning like a Botoxed televangelist.

So let’s be clear: profanity isn’t proof of moral decay.

It’s a sign that someone’s not only awake, but paying goddamn attention.

The real obscenity isn’t profanity—it’s how terrified we’ve become of unfiltered language. We’ve created entire professional dialects dedicated to saying absolutely nothing while sounding compliant, inclusive, and non-litigious.

People will recoil at “bullshit” like it’s a breach of decorum—yet sit rapt for an hour of the real thing, so long as it’s dressed in Helvetica and ends with a quote from Maya Angelou.

They’d rather hear “collateral damage” than “we vaporized a family.” They’ll flinch at “fuck” but not at child sterilization framed as inclusion or state-sanctioned despair packaged as self-care.

Get this straight—this is not civility. It’s anesthesia.

Sanitized language is a corporate leash. A moral smokescreen. It exists to smooth over exploitation, absolve cruelty, and make it sound like your trauma is a branding issue. 

Profanity, by contrast, is refusal. It says, No, I won’t play dress-up with language while you fuck me with a smile (“Don’t piss on my back and tell me it’s raining”). It is, in its purest form, a linguistic middle finger to the performance of decorum over substance.

The truly dangerous aren’t the ones who curse in public.

They’re the ones who sterilize their speech, weaponize ambiguity, and suffocate dissent under a weighted blanket of appropriateness.

Let’s bring religion into this—because it’s usually hovering nearby with a censor stamp and a disappointed look.

The Bible famously commands us not to “take the Lord’s name in vain.” But what most people miss is that this isn’t about muttering “Jesus Christ” after smashing your thumb. It’s about invoking God’s name for false, manipulative, or self-serving purposes—you know, like wars, political endorsements, or multi-level marketing schemes.

In other words, it’s not “Goddamn” that breaks the commandment.

It’s “God told me to annex your oil field.”

And yet whole swaths of religious culture have become obsessed with verbal hygiene, acting as though God needs a chaperone every time we get emotional. 

The real moral crime isn’t cursing. It’s co-opting God’s authority for selfish ends—which happens with alarming regularity by people who would never dare utter “shit” but have no issue laundering their bigotry through the Book of Psalms.

Jesus Himself didn’t walk around quoting embroidered pillows. He insulted the pious, called the elite a brood of vipers, and flipped tables like a man who understood that sometimes a physical expression of wrath is the only honest response to spiritual rot.

So maybe the problem isn’t profanity.

Maybe the problem is propriety weaponized to uphold hypocrisy.

Maybe the most sacred language left is the kind that makes people squirm—not because it’s crude, but because it refuses to lie.

I don’t swear to be edgy. I swear because the world is a flaming porta-potty, and “golly” doesn’t quite cover it. I swear because “goddamn” lands, and “goodness gracious” sounds like I’m about to catch the vapors and ask for smelling salts. I swear because there’s a synergy between censorship and civility—because every time a real thought gets muzzled for tone, something hollow gets promoted in its place. That shit pisses me off—all the fucking time.

Profanity, in this context, is purgative. It’s how the body spits out cultural toxins when the polite words start playing dress-up for the executioner. It’s not rebellion for rebellion’s sake—it’s a form of accuracy. A clarifying scream in a roomful of muffled euphemisms. It says: No, I will not pretend that this shit sandwich is a charcuterie board just because you’ve plated it in a PDF with pastel graphics.

And maybe that’s why they hate it. Not because it’s crude, but because it’s clear. Because it short-circuits the performance. Because if we don’t start calling bullshit bullshit, we’ll be up to our necks in “problematic material by legacy stakeholders”—smiling politely while gagged with a market-sanitized mission statement.

Profanity isn’t moral decay.

It’s moral clarity—with a little spice and the volume turned up.

So the next time someone gives you the squint and says, “Language,” just lean in close, smile warmly, and say:

“Fuck’s a language. I’m fluent.”

Then walk away like a poet in steel-toed boots.