Take heed, all you cynics. Do stodgy attempts at scurrility vex you? Do you
long to give someone a piece of your mind without stooping to whey-faced banalities? Does the F-word seem just a wee bit hackneyed these days? Then take inspiration
from Shakespeare, who lived during a time when insults were an art form. Let
him show you how to fulminate fulsomely.
The problem with our current stock
of insults is that most of them are banal, bland and boring. Maybe this is the result of
overuse. Like angry bumper stickers, we’re exposed to so much profanity these
days that the shock value is gone. Sprinkle generous doses of it throughout movies
and books, and it starts sounding lame, not edgy. To revive colorful cursing, we need to go back in time.
In this endeavor I refer to an article on
Shakespearean insults that crossed my screen some years ago. It included a table with three columns, two listing adjectives and one
listing nouns. Readers can choose a word from each column and string them
together to create custom invectives for any occasion.
As I waited in line at a busy store recently,
I overheard this exchange:
Guy
#1: Man, I hate my boss. Total *#$&@.
Guy
#2: Sucks, man.
Guy #1: Yeah, well,
*&?@ him.
Now let’s run it through the patois
of 16th C. London:
Guy
#1: My boss is the veriest onion-eyed scoundrel.
Guy #2: What, such pernicious outrageous fortune!
Guy
#1: A pox on him, the knavish rugheaded
pantaloon.
Consider the many situations where such purple prose would be useful, such as in the workplace. When a
crafty coworker steals the promotion with your name on it, try muttering “Thou whoreson dogheaded cutpurse!” instead of
an ordinary “Why, that S.O.B.” When your
boss turns down your request for a raise, think “grizzled sour-faced minimus” instead of whining to yourself about
the unfairness of it all. Not only will you feel righteous but you’ll add the
sort of element of high drama to office politics that makes mundane jobs lively.
What would a breakup be without
passionate recriminations? Surprise your soon-to-be-ex with a parting shot like
“you wenching lily-livered miscreant!”
or “If I’d only known you’re a total wanton
empty-hearted scullion!” and I guarantee you won’t be soon forgotten.
Possible uses for creative cursing
extend beyond the personal into the public arena. Take political campaigns, for
instance. The quality of insulting exchanges
has sadly deteriorated since Spiro Agnew coined his famous “nattering nabobs of
negativism” Royenish mottle-minded
jackanape sounds more villainous than liar
or idiot. If candidates widened
their vocabularies and polished their imaginations, televised debates might be
entertaining again.
Children could be taught
Shakespearean as a second language, thus giving them a sophisticated tool for
battling verbal bullies. “Leave me alone, you reeky motley-minded hedge-pig” would confound playground and locker room harassers used to “I
h8 u” and other semiliterate sentiments in textese.
It may take awhile to become accustomed
to linguistic flourishes. However, after a certain amount of practice, phrases
like gleeking clay-brained clodpole and
spongy milk-livered measle will
probably come tripping off your tongue. The use of Shakespearean insults is
limited only by the imagination of the user. Try it the next time someone cuts
you off on the freeway.
Fie,
rapscallion!
