ManFAQ Friday: Who’s the Asshole Now?

Happy Solstice!  We’re taking advantage of the extra daylight today, on this longest day of the year, and making sure that Friday is once again answer time at the ManFAQ.  It’s been a while, for reasons good and bad, but we’ve been getting actual questions – sometimes from actual women – and the start of a new season is reason enough to start answering them.   Mind you, we can’t answer questions we don’t get – send yours today! 

Today we turn to a question from my own father, FOBUMD, who, despite not being a women, posed a pretty good question.  Thus inspired, I don my manly mantle as Sage of the Sexes, helping demystify the more malodorous gender for those of the gentler, as we add to the list of questions women have asked about men over the years.  Actual questions, posed by real women (and sometimes my dad), and answered by a REAL man.  Like Dad used to say, “What could go wrong?”


Question:  The instructions on your MANFAQ tab clearly indicate that this section of your blog is dedicated to answering questions from women.  I’m not one!  In fact BUMD, it’s FOBUMD here and I have an English grammar question related to gender.

Being nearly 70 years old and having grown up on the streets of Chicago, then spending 26 years in the military including 12 months in Vietnam, I believe I’ve heard every curse word in the book.  I’ve heard them used in almost every conceivable way, correctly and incorrectly I might add.  In fact, I’ve probably used every curse word in the book and could give lessons on their proper use.  That’s why it surprises me that I have never before pondered the question that struck me several days ago.  I’m wondering if the word “asshole” is male specific.  Now I’m not talking about sphincter muscles here.  Both sexes surely have those.  I’m asking about using the A-hole word pejoratively to describe a person that… that… that… well, you know, “is an asshole.”

I guess I started to ponder that because it dawned on me that I’ve never used that term for a woman, only for men.   Now, I might have shot that term out there a few times to other drivers, not knowing the driver’s gender.  That’s different, of course.  So, you being both the English major and the ManFAQ person, I was hoping you could shed some light on this topic, unless this is where the sun don’t shine.

Answer:  In keeping with the serious and erudite nature of this blog, and particularly the ManFAQ, we will constrain our reply to refrain from gratuitous, puerile, prurient profanity and turn to that mighty (and somewhat phallic) pillar of erudition, History.  We shall start with History’s Arse. 

As one of those great four-letter monosyllabic words for which English has become so famous, arse has been with us since way back in the day.  As with many other words for the buttocks, tail, rump, or base of the spine, it came from the Proto-Germanic, and has cognates in Old Saxon, Old High German, Old Norse, Middle Dutch, Greek, Hittite, Armenian, and Old Irish – and of course in modern German, Arsch.  (“Wenn’s Arscherl brummt, ist’s Herzerl g’sund!”)  Near the start of the 1400s, someone stuck a hole on the end of it:  arsehole!  At the time this was pronounced arce-hoole, presumably at the top of ones lungs while shouting at someone who’s donkey had just cut in front of yours on the way to the market.  It wasn’t until the early 1700s that we lost the “r” before the “s” – as we did with many other words (burst/bust, curse/cuss, barse/bass, and, in Texas, horse/hoss) – and our old arse became our ass.

Now, in addition to losing its Rs (thank you, thank you very much), English has long since lost most of the genders on its nouns, so for clarity we’ll look to a language that hasn’t suffered this loss.  Specifically we shall turn our gaze on the German asshole, which, like all good German nouns, has a gender.  Or does it?  It turns out that das Arscherl is, in fact, neutral – presumably since, as noted in your question, everybody has one. 

The donkey, on the other hand, der Esel, is masculine, as it was in Latin – asinus, from which all our asses are descended.  (Also, note that unlike assholes, not everyone has a donkey.)  Since English has been politely interposing “donkey” for ass since Shakespeare transmogrified Nick Bottom in 1594’s Midsummer Night’s Dream, it is not surprising that we would subconsciously bring over the sense of masculinity from the donkey. 
 
The other reason that we tend not to use asshole when specifically referring to a woman may have to do with the plethera of richer choices of epithets that are usually specific to the feminine gender, which I will here gleefully enumerate for the sake of my ratings on internet search engines inner George Carlin: bitch, slut, whore, Ann Coulter…  Well, you get the idea.  Suffice it to say that the list tends to be  longer for women than it is for men.  Interestingly, in researching this, I ran across a note that the term “douchebag” tends to be more often directed at men, despite its obvious association with women. 

Looking briefly at pop culture, Hustler magazine has a regular column featuring people they don’t like, called the “Asshole of the month.”  For the record, they’ve included women in that list over the years, so certainly Hustler believes that there’s nothing semantically incorrect with calling a woman an asshole. 

Mind you, they might simply not care, either, and I hesitate to put words in their mouth lest I make the list.  Not that it wouldn’t be a great honor to be Hustler’s Asshole of the Month.

A brief review of the vast literature on the topic shows that you are far from the only asshole to ponder this, and that most people concur that the sense of asshole is masculine – saying something like “Jane’s an asshole” comes out sounding wrong to most ears.  At the same time, the concurrence is that intellectually, it should be gender neutral – it’s just seldom used so.   As to why, I think we’re left with our residual sense of old Asinus the Donkey taking the masculine form, and transposing that gender onto its cognate, ass, within the asshole in question. 

But I could just be an asshole here.

 


 

Now you know.  Please, feel free to comment!  Also, forward any questions you’d like answered to BUMD – at – biguglymandoll.com!  As always, your anonymity is guaranteed!

 

 

 

 

A Happy Teenaged Birthday

It’s June again, and that means birthdays at the BUMD house – there are more than 5 of them!  As usual, around the start of summer, Number One Son has one of them – and today, he is a teenager.  Today, he is 13.  Honestly, I think he’s as surprised as the rest of us.  Following the infamous episode of Screw the Song, we’ve learned to just press on and go straight for the cake – or in this case, cupcakes! 

So Happy Birthday, Big Man – you made it another year!

Do you know what today is? You should.

Hi, yeah, I know, it’s been a while.  Things are busy, and the usual flow of humor seems to be constipated – an uncomfortable blockage if ever there was one.  We’ll try to get back here a little more often in the coming weeks.  

In any event, that’s not a reason to miss a decent shout out for Convoy Day – I posted this once before, but hey – that was 5 years ago.  It’s worth repeating, fer sure fer sure!

 

————————————————————————————-
Uh, breaker one-nine. This here’s the Rubber Duck
You gotta copy on me Pig-Pen, c’mon? 

Uh, yeah 10-4 Pig-Pen, fer sure, fer sure
By golly it’s clean clear to Flag-town, c’mon? 

Yeah, that’s a big 10-4 there Pig-Pen, yeah
we definitely got the front door good buddy,
Mercy sakes alive, looks like we got us a convoy. 

Was the dark of the moon on the sixth of June
In a Kenworth pullin’ logs
Cabover Pete with a reefer on
An’ a Jimmy haulin’ hogs 

We’s headin’ fer bear on I-one-oh
‘Bout a mile out a’ Shaky-town
I sez Pig-Pen, this here’s th’ Rubber Duck
An’ I’m about to put the hammer down 

Cause we got a little ol’ convoy, rockin’ through the night
Yeah, we got a little ol’ convoy, ain’t she a beautiful sight?
Come on an’ join our convoy, ain’t nothin’ gonna git in our way
We gonna roll this truckin’ convoy acress the U.S.A.
Convoy, convoy… 

Uh, breaker Pig-Pen, this here’s th’ Duck
an’ a-you wanna back off with them hogs? 

10-4, ’bout five mile or so, 10 roger
Them hogs is gittin’ in-tense up here. 

By the time we got into Tulsa town
We had eighty-five trucks in all
But they’s a road-block up on the clover-leaf
An’ them bears was wall to wall 

Yeah, them smokies as thick as bugs on a bumper
They even had a bear in the air
I sez, callin’ all trucks, this here’s the Duck
We about to go a-huntin’ bear 

Cause we got a great big convoy, rockin’ through the night
Yeah, we got a great big convoy, ain’t she a beautiful sight?
Come on an’ join our convoy, ain’t nothin’ gonna get in our way
We gonna roll this truckin’ convoy across the U.S.A.
Convoy, convoy… 

Uh, you wanna gimme a 10-9 on that Pig-Pen?
Uh, nega-tory Pig-Pen, yer still too close
Yeah, them hogs is startin’ to close up my sinuses
Mercy sakes you better back off another ten 

Well we rolled up Interstate forty-four
Like a rocket sled on rails
We tore up alla our swindle sheets
And left ‘em settin’ on the scales 

By the time we hit that Chi-town
Them bears was-a-gittin’ smart
They’d brought up some reinforcements
From the Illinois National Guard 

There was armored cars and tanks and jeeps
‘An rigs of every size
Yeah, them chicken coops was full o’ bears
And choppers filled the skies 

Well we shot the line and we went for broke
With a thousand screamin’ trucks
And eleven long-haired Friends O’ Jesus
In a chartreuse micro-bus 

Uh, Rubber Duck to Sod Buster
Come on there, yeah, 10-4 Sod Buster
Listen, you wanna put that micro-bus in
behind that suicide jockey?
Yeah, he’s haulin’ dynamite and he
needs all the help he can get 

Well we laid a strip for the Jersey shore
And prepared to cross the line
I could see the bridge was lined with bears
But I didn’t have a doggone dime 

I sez Pig-Pen, this here’s the Rubber Duck
We just ain’ta gonna pay no toll
So we crashed the gate doin’ ninety-eight
I sez let them truckers roll, 10-4 

Cause we got a mighty convoy, rockin’ through the night
Yeah, we got mighty convoy, ain’t she a beautiful sight?
Come on an’ join our convoy, ain’t nothin’ gonna git in our way
We gonna roll this truckin’ convoy across the U.S.A.
Convoy, convoy… 

Uh, 10-4 Pig-Pen, what’s yer 20? …Omaha?
Well they ought know that to do
with them hogs out there fer sure
Well, mercy sakes, good buddy, we gonna back on out a here
so keep the bugs off your glass
and the bears off your…tail
and we’ll catch you on the flip-flop
This here’s the Rubber Duck on the side…we gone..bye, bye…

 

Driving for Fifty

Fifty years ago this past Saturday, SOBUMD’s parents got married.  Fifty years later, the fact of this event on this date remained sufficient to propel us out the door and into the car, facing the open road again – facing our destinies, our destinations, our debts, and our dreams.  After the last few months, it required Jimmy Buffet at an unreasonable volume to help us reach escape velocity, rocketing us out of the existential horror of our suburban Margaritaville and onto the open road, but we did it. 

It was a good weekend for gambling. The powerball was at 600 gazillion bucks, and the Preakness was running that night.  For our part, we were betting that we could get three lunatic children and a lot of beer up I-95 to PA in time for the anniversary party at 3pm.  The highway traffic was betting against us, and I didn’t like our odds.

Of course, on a larger scale, SOBUMD and I were betting that we will someday have kids setting up a 50th anniversary party for us.  Higher stakes are there none, but I like our odds.

Jimmy Buffet and the soundtrack to the Broadway musical “In the Heights” got us in range of the only decent radio station left on the East Coast, Philly’s WMMR.  Thanks to MMR, the Gin Blossoms, the Ramones, Led Zeppelin, and a host of others rocked us through the overcast miles, past bathroom breaks, past pit stops and snacks, past road signs and portents, and past a police-escorted motorcycle processional that blocked I-95 northbound for 25 miles or more.  By the time we lost MMR, we were within hailing distance of our goal, by which I mean a few well placed Billy Joel songs saw us pulling in just in time for lunch.

Lunch was preceded by hugs and Christmas.  As this was our first road trip in quite some time, there were Christmas presents that had been sitting under the metaphorical tree for so long, they’d had to be dusted.  I remain grateful and thankful for my big present, which turned out to be a case of exceptional beer, from the Breckenridge Brewing Company, called 417.  It’s a double IPA, bottled on the lees, and it’s truly great beer. 

But where was I?  Oh yes, heading over to the party down the street at SOBUMD’s sister’s house.  We brought in the beer (though not my Christmas present beer – it was not cold, which mercifully saved me from considering bringing it for the party), a few errant bottles of wine, and the revelers.  Revelling was again preceded with hugs, the aforementioned beer was quaffed, and the revelry commenced forthwith.  All the kids were there, and all the grandkids, and the bride and groom’s best man and his wife, and the groom’s sister, niece, and a friend they’d brought with them.

Immediately on the commencation of revelry, I spotted that friend – the one and only Dandelion Deb.  Alert readers will remember Deb from a post many moons ago; I was delighted to have her make a repeat appearance. The party and the social requirements kept us from picking dandelions, abut there might have been a dandelion or two rolled into the cigars we smoked on the deck.  And when I say we, I mean her, with the Human Tape Recorder and I merely enjoying the aroma. 

Such delights cannot last forever, of course, and the revelry soon devolved into more base pursuits, centered on the words “There’s a full sized ping pong table in the basement!”  Uncle Jeff and I battled valiantly, then acquitted ourselves admirably against the 13-and-under crowd.  All too soon, it was time to toast, time to tell tales, and time to head home. 

The Sunday dawned with a minimum of fuss, fond farewells were exchanged, pictures were taken, and cars were loaded. 

I’ve written before about the hell that is the PA Turnpike, but I’ll repeat it – there is no nastier stretch of road to be stopped on that the PA Turnpike.  Luckily, we had the radio on and Tom Petty wouldn’t back down.  (Every time I hear that, I flash back to a few days after Sept 11, when a group of musicians and celebs put together a fundraiser concert to raise money for the victims.  Paul McCartney wrote a new song for the occasion, which was pure money.  Tom Petty realized he’d written one already, and sang “Won’t Back Down.”  Priceless.)

Eventually, we got off the Turnpike and made it to I-95, with an eye toward Baltimore, because it was time for a pit stop. In this case, a very literal pit stop. 

Chaps Pit Beef is coal fired.  Chaps Pit Beef has been written up on many sites and foodie shows.  Chaps Pit Beef is as good as they say it is.  Is it in a nice part of Baltimore?  No.  There were two billboards next to it.  The near one explained the schedule for the Gentleman’s Club next door.  (“Daddy, what’s a lap dance?”)  I was just glad she didn’t ask about Swinger Saturdays.  The other billboard advertised Tyrese Orr, who’s wanted for murder.  They even had his picture.  He looks like such a nice guy – I’m sure he couldn’t have done it.  Except a quick search turns up that they evidently want him in Chicago as well; I don’t know if the Chicago cops think he’s in Baltimore, or he’s just on an interstate inner city murder spree.  Regardless of the local sights and sounds, Chaps Pit Beef was everything everyone has said about it – worth the stop, if you’re ever up near Baltimore with your appetite. 

Our need for good road food thus satiated, we wound and wended our way the rest of the way home.  In doing so, we passed an old brick trestle bridge, that with the aid of the amazing iThingy I was able to find out about.  It crosses the Patapsco River in Elkridge, and is part of a State Park.   http://www.dnr.state.md.us/publiclands/central/patapscoavalon.asp  http://www.patapscoheritagegreenway.org/history/HistPersp.html Barring anything else, it’s probably a great place to hide if you’re wanted for murder in more than one state. 

Home at last, we stretched our legs and checked our bets.  Oxbow won the Preakness, dashing the chances of a triple crown winner again this year; the winning Powerball ticket was sold in Florida, dashing my chances of immediate and wholly unnecessary wealth; and SOBUMD and I were on our way to our 50th, coming up in what is really not all that many years.   Until next time, we will continue to dream of the open road, and wish you fair skies and following winds.  Bet on it!

 

Oh Really?

Yeah, I know, I’m late on the ManFAQ.  It’s been busy around here, and I’m running out of questions anyway.  In the mean time, I thought most of you would appreciate this exchange.  

Merchant’s Tire and Auto of Springfield called me a few minutes ago about my car.  It’s happy fix the damn cars day here at the BUMD house, and in addition to the internal work the Blackfish needed, three different organizations had told me I need new tires, badly.  So, since they’re cheap when it comes to tires and within reasonable walking distance, Merchant’s Tire and Auto of Springfield is putting new tires on for me.  The phone rings:

BUMD:  Hello!
MT&A:  Hi, we’ve looked at your 2006 Outback, and it looks like you need some work.  The front left wheel bushing is cracked, and if that breaks your wheel could actually come loose while you’re driving.
BUMD:  Really?  Oh wow.
MT&A:  Yeah, your car looks like it’s never had a tune up.  Your spark plugs are rusting out, and you may want to replace some of the hoses.
BUMD:  Do you know, I’m REALLY surprised to hear that.  I mean, I picked it up from the Sheehy Subaru dealership in Springfield just this morning, after they did a 60,000 mile tune up on it, and you’d think they’d have noticed those things.  I drove it straight from there to your place for the tires.  I really don’t know much about cars, though – could those plugs have rusted out during that 6 mile drive? 
MT&A:  Oh, hold on – am I confusing your car with the other one?  I’m sorry, I’ve got two Subarus side by side in the docks, just one second while I double check that.
BUMD:  OK.
[Queue brief musical interlude]
MT&A:  Yeah, I totally had you mixed up with the other car.  Your car’s fine!  Sorry about that!
BUMD:  So, you’ll just be putting those tires on, then? 
MT&A:  Yeah, we’re going to put the tires on. 
BUMD:  Right then.

I can just see how someone could mix up two cars like that.  I’m $ure it happens all the time.