My Wife as a G-Dawg

I suppose, like me, you have all noticed the vast proliferation of electric products surrounding us these days. Is this getting ridiculous or what? When did all of society become mechanized overnight? Now you can't even go to the bathroom without finding some sort of electric toilet waiting for you.

Before you get worked up in my diatribe, I should let you know that won't be what the column's about this week. It was going to be, I thought I'd give everyone a double-dose of old school Rok Finger, but that was before my wife started swearing like Slappy White. It's her who deprived you of that joyful raving against electricity, good people, so direct those complaints to her. She'll call you the F-word, surely, and then make some gang sign. But it is something I must address, for the world is not spinning on the right axis when Rok Finger, paragon of virtue and stodginess, has a foul-mouthed immigrant wife.

It all began when I kicked up my English-as-a-Second-Language program a notch. I decided it was way past time Felchyana learned to speak like an American, as I was getting so tired of the neighbors asking what was that god-awful screaming in a funny language they kept hearing while I was away at work. If she's going to make a racket, at least make it in English, as the saying I just said goes.

I figured we could share in the learning process together, and she would learn English the same way I learned everything growing up: television. I introduced her to basic cable, with its 60+ channels of day-filling programming. I'm not much on TV anymore myself, except for those delightful rerun channels like TV Land and Nick at Nite. If only life could be like that! A rerun. She took an immediate liking to The Jeffersons, and I was delighted to hear her assemble her first full English phrase: "Look, little man is like you." Her darling laugh is so infectious I let it slide, even though, of course, George Jefferson is far from like me; he's a diminutive black man who yells about everything. I am white.

How this led to the swearing I'm not entirely sure. They do allow a lot more saltiness on basic cable than I remember. Some of those channels even make references to birth control and anal leakage—in commercials! It's pandemonium. I think commercials were her downfall, particularly when I noticed she kept gesturing to this commercial for a CD called "The Best of Gangsta Rap, Vol. 13." With Stony Ass-Whippin', Killer D, MC Grabass, Master Cock, and all your other favorites. Of course, I knew she already had my credit card, but I didn't put two and two together until later.

In fact, all the relentless barrage of swear words didn't clue me in at all, and I thought the fact they rhymed was just delightful coincidence. None of it dawned on me until I noticed she was wearing work-out suits and gold chains, or bling-bling, as she referred to it. I confronted her about it, asked her if she was getting involved with a new culture and she insinuated I prefer the company of men.

I can't take her anywhere until I get this fixed. She came to work with me one day when I hoped Stigmata Spent could straighten her out, and she referred to new reporter Shabozz Wertham with a very negative word. I tried to tell him she meant it like he was her homey, but I think I only succeeded in making yet another lifelong enemy. When I make them myself, that's one thing, but I can't have her going around doing my work for me.

This will work itself out, mark my words. TV got me into this mess, TV will get me out. I'm hoping to wean her off onto other niche cultures. I'm convinced if I can get her to sit down for Seinfeld long enough she will lose this whole swearing problem. Or at least offend me in brand new ways. Anything would be an improvement at this point.

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