My upbringing was pretty conservative. The worst strong language I remember hearing in my house as a kid was when my father would yell bloody hell. That doesn't sound very strong now, but back then when that was what was yelled in the worst situations, like that time he ran his thumb through the electric garage door opener chain, it can seem pretty powerful.
"Bloody hell!" he bellowed, clutching his shredded thumb and bleeding all over the side of our yellow station wagon. "Grab a tea towel or something!"
I remember wandering off to get a towel to staunch the blood flow and mentally filing bloody hell away for a time when I wanted to sound like I really meant something.
So, when I say Bloody hell! Shanan is a kicker of many asses!, you know that I mean it.
She is the first person outside of my apartment whom I told about my new quitting drinking thing. I kind of wedged it in between paying for our restaurant bill and walking to the car, because I was nervous about it and was subconsciously trying to make it look smaller by sticking it in the middle of our bustling around with coats and bags and whatnot.
She looked a little shocked but behaved exactly as I thought she might, which was with a measure of positive matter-of-factness. I needed positive matter-of-factness. It helps to have swollen, turbulent-seeming things laid more plain.
Also, when I ask her if I can put stupid pictures like the one above on the internet, she says yes.
Bloody hell! Shanan is a kicker of many asses!
PS. My father's thumb is much like any other thumb now, to ease the minds of those who were worried. I know that the state of my father's thumb is of great import.