Fanny Linguistics: How to Say What You Mean

If angry, simple—say, That really pisses me off. But just frustrated? That burns me up. Or if that lawyer is after you and he’s all bent out of shape, you might decide not to pick up the phone, cause the more you stir shit, the more it stinks.

If your daughter finally did something right, like fix the cable box, say, Shoot fire, bout time, or you may want to give encouragement (you want her to hook up your VCR too) so snap your fingers, exclaim, Handle it, Roy! Handle it!

If someone tries to deceive you—a car dealer, rolling the Caddy’s odometer back, or your granddaughter, blaming a dent in that new car on a mango that fell green from your tree—say, Don’t you piss on my head and tell me it’s raining.

If winter, leave one window open, because you can’t stand being closed in, but make sure to fuss—It’s cold as a witch’s tiddy, and if below zero, the witch should be in a metal bra. If hot, you’re flashing, which happens most year-round, it will likely be hot as a dick, hot as piss, somebody get me a fresh Pepsi, crank up the air, quick.

If hungry, this one’s easy—I’m bout to starve—but if really hungry, add to death or my ass off. After two bowls of pinto beans and cornbread with green onion and sliced tomato and Frank’s Red Hot, you’re full, ask for your Tums, make a metaphor of your bloat to a tick, high up on a hog, about to pop.

If a lamp’s expensive, say, Shew, that’s high, and use the card, but if you could never afford it, not in a million years, that lamp’s as high as a cat’s back. Say, You can keep your money, I won’t let the back of your door hit me in the ass.

If a girl’s got pocked skin, buck teeth, and stringy hair, say God bless her, but if she’s gone off and given head to every boy in the eleventh grade, the whore’s heart might be pea-picking, little, or worse—both—as in, God bless her little, pea-pickin heart.

Now, if something real sad happens to the lady next door—the cancer took over, there’s nothing left the doctor can cut away—say, Ain’t that a cotton-pickin shame, but if her husband’s running around while she’s pumped with chemo, close the door, talk only in a whisper, even if no one else is in the whole house. Start the conversation with I ain’t one to say nothing, but you wouldn’t believe; end with We better not say nothing, no, not a word.

If you’re the one brought low because that neighbor is your sister and you heard what’s in her tumor-blocked bowels has started to come out of her mouth, It ain’t worth going into, there’s nothing to say. Best to make the girls ammonia the chandelier and fluff the couch pillows and brush the shag rugs and windex the mirrored backsplash and take all the just-cleaned crystal down to clean again—This house is filthy. We ain’t discussing it. Now, leave me be. Hey, I bet there’s something good on the tee-vee. Don’t give me no shit now, really. Don’t you know Grandma’s had enough—enough of tears?