When you work in a factory, fitting in is a very important.  Getting along with your fellow blue-collar workers is your job, moreso in a union joint.  Thankfully, I’m no union man, but I do have the pleasure of working in a dirty, dusty plant.  Now, I don’t actually work down on the floor, I just take pictures and measure stuff, but I watch the guys mill about, talk crap to one another, and swear like sailors. I like to think that they’re not muttering things under their breathe about me, but I know they do, because I do the same about other office workers, dog eat dog.

That’s where workplace swearing comes in.  My supervisor is dominican and swears in two languages. He’s been nice enough to teach me a little bit of spanish (a little more than I already understand, which is half of what he says to his mother) and a little bit of golf (avid golfer, handicap of 7). No terms are off limits in the office, so long as no one is present and that’s the same way that I am with my close friends, no words are out of bounds, speak your mind, let me know how you really feel.

And in that regard, people where I work don’t let me know how they feel, but word gets around.  I say the same for some of the other office workers who’ve never lifted a finger, but when shit hits the fan, I, like my boss, get down and dirty.  I once had a foreman who loved to belittle his crew by making them sweep the walkway.  It wasn’t a matter of punishment or a shot at your pride, but the one time the old man storeroom keeper spoke up and complained, that foreman had that old man in tears after his eruption of off-color language.