Bigmouth Strikes Again

I’ve borrowed my title from the beloved Pope of Mope and 80’s icon, Steven Morissey, but has anyone sunk a ship faster than the unfiltered ramblings of the “bigmouth”? Having fallen victim to this non stop yammering goofball several times during my life, you’d think I’d learn not to reveal life altering secrets or petty gripes to anyone without a full understanding of “the vault”. Like Elaine said, you lock that shit up and throw away the key.  When I was younger, far more volatile and in possession of tons of potentially destructive information on each friend (like a fiery dossier) I broke the seal once in a drunken stupor and revealed an explosive nugget to the wrong person. Needless to say, the cleanup after that one caused me months of brutal groveling and the urge to rip the big mouths throat open with my teeth to remove her larynx.

These days I find myself censoring the innocent ramblings of my three lovely, albeit talkative young kids. I know instantly when a sentence starts with “my mom says your mom….” that we are headed to a very bad place indeed.  Never make the very regrettable mistake of calling your husband a “Fucko” for a minor infraction if you don’t want the sing songy voices of all three offspring greeting him joyously at the door calling attention to your clear talent for profanity. Seriously, it really is an art form.

I will say that the only person who has never betrayed a confidence or terrified me with the fear of exposure is, in fact my very “unfucko” husband.  Tell that man something and it goes to the grave. So I raise my glass to the secret keeper, who keeps all our ships afloat.


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