I think I might be in for a wake-up call… I have a funny feeling that the same language spoken in another country is not necessarily the same language.  Point in case:

queen-elizabeth-horrified-2Apparently in ye olde English, the “F Bomb” amounts to a concrete-filled 250-pound bomb, whereas us Yanks know the “F Bomb” to pack a 1.5 kiloton nuclear yield (that’s quite the discrepancy!).  In fact, I think the only thing that beats the mighty Yankee F-Bomb would be the even mightier Yankee “C Bomb.”  Oh, the horror… My disclaimer: if you haven’t figured it out by now, don’t waste your time asking me what the F-Bomb or C-bomb is; just use your imagination or go with my favorite philosophy: ignorance is bliss.

Ok, ok… so I can’t necessarily blame the Red Coats – in truth, this came about whilst speaking ye olde Irish in the Republic of Ireland, rather than ye olde English in the Queen’s Country.  But Protestant?  Catholic?  I have a funny feeling that the Queen’s English is pretty influential, even to the next island over.

Chopping a Tapered Mortise
Newborn Irish CalfSo we’re enjoying this awesome vacation in Ireland (this was over Thanksgiving).  We stayed off the beaten path to avoid the touristy thing; Pam had found a farmhouse out in the middle of nowhere.  The place was awesome.  Our kids are in the stage where they LOVE animals.  Everytime we came back “home” from visiting some castle or something, I would walk around with the kids to show them the cows and chickens.  One of the nights we came back, the lords of the manor were back in the barn (near our guest house) making a big commotion… I’m talking like the scene from Jurassic Park at the beginning when they had the velociraptor in the cage and it went amuck.  So I took the kids over to see what all the commotion was about.  The following conversation ensued:

Petting the Irish CalfMe: “What’s going on?

The Lord of the Manor (using a derivation of the Queen’s English): “This f*@king calf was just born 24 hours ago… have the kids come in and pet it!

Me: “Come on kids” (as I purposefully ignore the F-Bomb in hopes that the kids completely pass right by it)

The Lord of the Manor: “Don’t worry, it can barely f*@king walk and it won’t kick… it’s almost like a f*@king dog!  Go ahead, pet it guys!

Me (speechless): “So… how often do you guys get baby calves?

The Lord of the Manor (looking at the kids to ensure they’re out of earshot and then whispering in my ear): “This is the first bloody one we’ve had in a while because we had to get a new bloody bull.”  (now in a normal voice talking to the kids:) “Would you guys like to feed it some milk?  Here, hold the f*@king bottle right here like this…

Milking the Irish CalfMe: “They don’t bite do they?

The Lord of the Manor (again, making sure the kids can’t hear him): “Nah, they won’t bloody bite…

Me: “Sweet” (it’s a good thing the kids are just engrossed in this right now)

So what’s the moral and point of this story?

  1. Marissa is definitely our animal person.  She was obsessed with the baby calf.  Brenden?  After giving a few pets, he was more interested in jibber-jabbering and chasing around their Irish Hound.
  2. Marissa declaring the calf her child

  3. Apparently, “bloody” is a word that you should avoid using in front of the Queen…
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