Oh, PSHAW! Huh?

Watch Your Language, Eldorko!
By Joseph Walther


Just about forty-five minutes ago, I overheard two college-age women using a word that normal people never use in public. I suspect that they were merely repeating something that one of their professors had said. But still! People use this word to express irritation, disapproval, contempt, and disbelief. Yes, all of you readers have heard the word, at one time or another, but have far too much self-esteem to use it in public. I want to get this out in the open. So I’m just going to come right out and say the word: PSHAW! Can any of you imagine using this word under any circumstances other than to appease some poor, demented grammar Nazi?

This made me think back to a few of those momentous occasions when I felt a need to verbalize my irritation, disapproval, contempt, shock, and disbelief. I am also going to combine these kinds of emotional states with the myriad of stupid things that I have heard people say and do over the past forty years.

Two weeks ago, a friend of mine died in a skydiving related accident. Don and I had known each other since our respective senior years in high school. I started skydiving on June 18, 1962 and continued doing so until my last jump on September 30, 2000. So, having hurled myself out of many jump planes over a period of thirty-eight years, I know a thing or two about it.

“You can all take a great deal of consolation in the fact that Don died doing something that he loved.” These words spewed from the mouth of a minister who had never met the deceased. For me, they had the same irritating effect as the sound of fingernails screeching their way across a slate chalkboard. How wonderful it must have been for Don to die skydiving. God must have thought him a very special person. After all, He could have let him die in an automobile accident, or as the result of some ridiculous, run-of-the-mill heart attack.

When skydivers leave a jump plane from about 14,000 feet, free fall, and deploy the main chute at about 2,200 feet, they are descending at terminal velocity—a rate of about 120 miles per hour. If the main chute does not deploy at the 2,200-foot point, the skydiver is approximately 12-seconds from the mother lode of sudden stops. Bear with me here. The application of some simple fourth grade arithmetic clarifies everything.

Let’s see. At 2,200 feet above terra firma, the jumper is falling at 176 feet per second. The jumper then deploys the main chute. It takes about 3 seconds for a main to deploy and fully inflate, during which the jumper falls an additional 528 feet and is now about 9-seconds away from that mother lode of all sudden stops. If the main chute successfully deploys, the jumper’s heart rate begins to inch its way back to normal. Simultaneously, the jumper begins to experience feelings of elation and guilt over having so much fun!

On the other hand, if the main chute does not deploy, all sorts of nasty things begin to happen. “Oh, PSHAW”, says the skydiver; as both bladder and bowel control begin to slipping away. “I wonder what has happened?” the jumper asks further. Another 2 to 3-seconds go by before the jumper gets it sorted out and decides to deploy the reserve chute. Yep, another 528 more feet have whizzed on by, not to mention that the jumper is no more than 6-seconds from that mother lode of all sudden stops. If this is the skydiver’s first malfunction, the urine has already begun its flow down the insides of both thighs and the bowels are definitely considering emptying themselves through the jumper’s anal canal.

“PSHAW”, exclaims the skydiver again! A quick pull on the reserve handle should open the reserve chute. By now, the jumper is 352 feet closer to mother earth: mere 4-seconds from that mother lode of all sudden stops. “PSHAW, that silly chute had better show itself”, exclaims the skydiver once again! If the reserve deploys successfully, the jumper regains a bit of that cockiness and hope in that a normal heartbeat will soon resume. Of course, reality has already set it concerning the underwear. They are beyond help and someone will have to burn them.

If the reserve does not deploy, there will be one hell of a thud. The impact will leave an indentation in the ground and the jumper will definitely slosh a bit while being carried away from the scene in the body bag. This will happen before the jumper can scream out another “PSHAW.” I even doubt that the jumper will have sufficient time to say, “Thank ya, Jesus, for letting me die while doing something I love!”

Readers, having experienced such events first hand, I assure you that I was able to express my feelings in precise, no-doubt-about-it terminology. Believe me when I tell you that the phrase, “OH PSHAW”, never entered my mind. Neither, incidentally, did I have any impulses to thank Jesus for anything.

Over the years, especially after the birth of my children, I experienced other emotionally trying events. I still cannot find the words to express fully how I felt when I received the first automobile insurance bill that included my son’s vehicle. I am sure that somewhere, some parent may have said, “Oh pshaw”, given similar circumstances; but it’s not what I said when I saw the humongous increase in the bill. Go ahead! Try to guess what I said.

No parent could ever forget how, out of nowhere, a ringing telephone shattered a peaceful sleep. On the other end was a female voice who said, “Mr. Walther, you need to come to the emergency room. Your son was in an automobile accident.” He’s fine” she continued, “So don’t worry.” “He’s just had a bit too much to drink. He lost control of his SUV, took out a telephone pole and seven parked cars.”

Now, I suppose that I could have gone to his mother and said, “Oh pshaw, that crazy young man decided to drink and drive. He totaled his car while simultaneously severing a telephone pole and damaging seven other parked cars.” Yes, I could have said this; but I didn’t say it. No one in the real world says, “Pshaw!” Use your imaginations. With a little effort, I’ll bet dollars to donuts that most of you parents can figure out what I said, though. When my wife asked me if he was ok, I said, “Sure, God spared him because He knew that I’d want to be the one to kill him!”

Then, just two days ago, I heard someone hawking cemetery services for Catholic Cemeteries, Inc. The dude said, “Love is more powerful than death.” This and others, in his considered opinion, is an obvious reason for considering a Catholic Cemeteries, Inc. location as a “final resting place” for our loved ones. Yes, he actually said this! There is a technical term for describing such statements. It’s a… um… stupid! Yes, that’s the term.

Ouch! Oh shi… I mean PSHAW! I just stubbed my toe on the leg of the chair I’m sitting on. Oh pshaw, it really hurts. Gosh, darn it, all!

Joseph Walther is a freelance writer and publisher of The True Facts. Send email to: TheTrueFacts@comcast.net