“Thou shall not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.”

Yikes, I am in deep trouble navigating that commandment.

Let me explain.

Cursing was not tolerated as I was growing up. Not out of respect or good manners, but because it was a sin. As in, if you add up enough of those violations, the pearly gates close and you are left with the harsh taste of sulphur in your mouth. Forever.

Sure, you could purchase indulgences, do good deeds, confess your sins to a priest, but it might only get a leg or an arm into the fresh air. Even a toe left behind is not a good thing. Trust me. 

“Bless me father for I have sinned. I cursed three times in the last week.”

Let’s make that 30 times because cursing is a little tricky. In my family, there were gateway curse words.

“Geez, you smell like a pig.”

Listen, you might actually smell like a pig, and I did live for a year on a pig farm and did smell like a pig, but “geez”? You guessed it, a slippery slope that begins with “geez” and inevitably ends with “Jesus.” A major violation with major consequences.

Mmmm . . . is that burnt toast or your future?

But then I started teaching cops about search and seizure, interrogations, and charging decisions. How do I hold the attention of a student who the night before class faced down a crazy husband who hit his wife? Or a cop who walked into an active burglary not knowing what to expect in the back room? Or a cop who approached a car on the side of the road unable to see what the driver grabbed under the seat?

A smart audience weary in body and world weary in spirit. 

So I started swearing. I knew that this was a cheap teacher trick. I knew that it was not creative. I knew the shock was double-edged in that it could grab their attention but it could also rebound negatively on me. But it worked. 

And my favorite curse word was one that sounded nothing like “foos” as in foosball.

“What the ‘foos’ were you thinking to give chase to that person merely because he ran?”

I liked the soft beginning and the hard guttural at the end. Short and sweet. And bracing.

No gods were invoked. No gender was slandered. No body part was emphasized. As the years passed, the word became innocent with my overuse. Almost a lazy “golly gee whiz.”  

And it started popping up in my everyday speech outside of the classroom.

“‘Foos me,” as I turned on the wrong street.

“That fooser,” I’d say to describe someone who displeased me.

“Foosing right,” I’d deliver with a high five. 

Then I went to the Netherlands. My word of choice had zero shock value. Old Dutch ladies, little kids, nuns — nope, the word was water off their backs. Foos meant nothing in that world. 

So foos disappeared from my vocabulary. But I discovered something far worse in that world. The word “kanker.”. You guessed it, “cancer.” The word makes a hardened Dutch criminal turn Delft blue. It is one of the very worst word in Dutch. Horrible to say. Horrible to even think. Nasty.

And you know what? It is the worst word.

Last night, I talked to another friend battling cancer. One of a growing list. How can this be? How can people live six or seven or eight decades in good health and then WHAM — cancer? Isn’t there a point where people get a free pass? Haven’t we all escaped car accidents, falling bricks from buildings, electrocution while doing home repair? Doesn’t our rewards card gives us a discount on cancer free zones?

Apparently not.

So, here’s what I have to say about that — foos cancer.

Bless me father for I have sinned . . . 

Joe