Tony Soprano Is Ruining My Language

I don't know why I never got on The Sopranos bandwagon until this year. Maybe it was the extra money for HBO, maybe the lack of technological acumen (Tivo? On Demand? Huh?), maybe the contrarian impulse to avoid going along with the crowd. I don't know, exactly. It took the announcement that the series would be coming to an end for Kathleen and me to decide we had to make up six years of New Jersey gangsterism in two months so we could be up-to-date for the penultimate season. Or, perhaps, we were just tired of misinterpreting references to the "Big Pussy."

For eight week-ends I've been greeted at Kathleen's door by the smell of her delectable homemade sauce, or, as I've begun to call it, "gravy." Unless we are going out, we settle in front of the TV with plates of pasta and glasses of red Italian wine, primed for two or even three episodes. Let me tell you, that's a lot of Anthony, Carmella, and Uncle Junior, and way too much of Janice. We managed to finish just in time for last week's premiere, and now we can keep up with one hour per week, just like normal people.

But it may be too late. Last week, several minor frustrations occurred that, in the past, might have wrung forth a "gosh darn it," an "oh, my goodness," or even a "dammit." No more. Now, when I'm forced to slow down by an errant driver, it's "You Mutha-f@#$er!" If a job around the house doesn't turn out well, it's "C@cks&#@er!" I recently sat in the plush parlour of an exclusive country club and referred to someone as...well, a bag used to introduce vinegar solution. I can't go on like this.

Damn you, Tony. You ain't gonna be da boss a da way I tawk. This is Bawston, not New Freakin' Joisey. Keep your freakin' cigars and booze and broads away from me.

What? Ba-da-bing? Um, ah, okay, shoowah. See ya dere.