Swearing by levels...

Here is my first post regarding the Huckin Chicken ads from Burger King:

No offense to Slow Pitch's new employer, which has done some awesome, edgy ads for Burger King (the office space styled ads ruled), but I find the "Huckin' Chicken" thing a wee bit contrived. I mean, the play on words is weak because it's not a play on words at all. They just took a curse and changed a letter. It's not like people used the word huckin' previously, making the usage here witty. It's more like a third grader "technically" not swearing by saying "Fruckin'". By my third grade male standards this was among the least brave ways to address the all-important swearing issue (a controversy that can not be ignored without disastrous consequences in the rather volatile and high stakes world of geo-elementary school politics). The hierarchy, as I recall (on a scale of wiener to hero) was as follows:

Level one: Wiener. This kid had a pencil box that contained 400 pencils, all sharp enough to conduct rhinoplasty on an embryo, but the pedantic little pet of Miss Whatever would not dream of lending you one when you were at your desk and in a crunch. This person is now either a teacher himself or a millionaire virgin. In some cases they teach silly electives at engineering schools which should be easy A's but instead are used as a forum to punish students from the hard sciences for not being gay. At any rate, the wiener did not swear. He built a fence around all swear words, and then an outer level fence around anything even remotely risque or even rhyming with swear words. Wienerboy would rat you out with glee for saying "shut up", "crap", or "butt". Even "poo" would get a dirty look, which is insane because anyone who doesn't smile (at least inside), at any age, upon hearing the utterance of "poo" (including any derivative thereof, such as "poop", "poopy", or "poo-gas") is a humorless foreskin of a human being. Wiener was loathed by all non-wiener children, and was the social equivalent of a person with AIDS, the Bird Flu, Leprosy, and a New Kids poster in his room all at the same time. This was by far the lowest road to slog on the Cursing Issue.

Level two: Innocent Kid. Generally this kid had the same criteria for swear words as Wienerface, but without the inherent joy upon realization that he could sell you out for a shred more approval from that infertile wretch of a chain-smoking, child-hating teacher. This kid was perhaps the only victim of swearing, if one even exists, for he was sincerely, and in fact deeply, troubled by the immorality of taboo utterances. Abel, as I will call him, steered quite clear of any controversial phrases or terms, thank you very much. He is a moderately successful accountant with a loving wife and a child who will grow up to release a hail of gunfire on his unsuspecting civics class. This person generally was ignored by most non-abels, excepting only the more aggressive bullies. I remember letting a slightly older Abel listen to 2Live Crew cassette in eighth grade. I have never seen a human being become more nonplussed.

Level three: the Safe position. The safe position is that of our friends at Porter and Bigoski (the ad agency). They boldly uttered crap and butt with no fear of reprisal, inwardly feeling closer to the edge than they actually were. They changed letters in swear words and tried to de-emphasize the pronunciation of the spelling mutations so that your eyes would light up, thinking you had just been privy to a swear. Oh the cheapness of it! Here you were, thinking that this person had just shared one of the highest levels of comradery imaginable with you (a feeling akin to that of later middle school when a friend shared a magnificent columbus-like discovery of filthy magazines in the woods with you). Just as the words were still ringing in the air, as the mere ecstasy of the swear threatened to lift you right off of the ground, the "bastart" revealed that he technically had not sworn. I feel dirty just thinking about this betrayal. I must admit that I did try it myself a time or two (after all, one can't help but respect the ingenuity of it, at least) before moving up in levels. It was admittedly a cheap thrill, but rather hollow. This is mere pseudo-rebellion. This kid is a local level politician and stands for nothing.

Level four: the dog breeder. You know what I'm talking about. The joy in learning that "ass", if used meaning a mule, was allowed through some ridiculous oversight on the part of the grown ups. I can, even now, recall the spring in my step as I dashed home to yell "bitch" at my female Husky with impunity! Do the British really refer to a cigarette as a Faggot?!!! This is too good to be true!

Level Five: TI-30 joy. Paul Redlinger, you comedic stallion. Thank you from the depths of my very being for showing me that 58008 and 7734 typed into an unsuspecting calculator would make this wicked tool of the grown-up math-loving sons of female dachshunds instantly turn into a blustering ally. Hey... know what Jennifer is? Type in 55378008 in a calculator and turn it upside down.

Level Six: Captain America. This is it. Sure, most of us got there eventually, but he was the first. He felt no need for strength in numbers. He just threw them out there, boldly. While level Five-and-a-halves like me were only whispering these words high up in tree houses with lookouts posted, and to only our most deeply trusted confidants, you had the marbles to throw them out there on the playground, flirting with the earshot of a grown-up or even a wiener! You sir, are a champion. Thank you for letting me witness your boldness, your defiance. You were the Patrick Henry of the Kickball field. You shined above your peers, and were a titan among men. The courage, honor, and fierceness of your actions will never be forgotten, and when your illegitimate children look at you through the wired glass on visiting day, I think they will sense it too.