The Hillbilly Viking

Growing up, I had an uncle with Tourette’s Syndrome. Sadly, however, it wasn’t the hilarious kind that made him spew the most inappropriate of words during the most appropriate of situations. Uncle Ron just made a repeated, disgusting nasal “honk” that forced you to involuntarily flinch in fear of being hit by the loogie that thankfully never released.

Lame.

Of course I realize that any manifestation of this disease can be a traumatic and humiliating condition for the sufferer, but as someone who grew up basically inured because of being Tourette’s-adjacent, on some level, I guess I also felt kinda’ robbed. I can’t even begin to imagine how much more satisfying Christmas dinners could have been if grandma’s wholesome queries of “More white meat?” or “Who wants to say grace?” were met with the always crowd pleasing, bitch-fuck-cunt!

I genuinely lament the potential for memories less Norman Rockwell and more Norm Macdonald.

Anyway, I may have experienced a bit of closure this afternoon on our flight from Porto to Sao Miquel Island. Sitting in the window seat in the row directly in front of me today, a young man who was flying with his elderly parents not only had the super-fun kind of Tourettes, but he was also bilingual. And although Patty and I have been studying Portuguese for a few months now in anticipation of this trip, I assure you that the words I learned today will never show up in our Duolingo App, unless that bossy, green owl develops a very reactive and toxic, alcohol problem. Personally, I was happy to take the advanced lesson where I found it.

By the way, before I get angry feedback, I think it is important to know that the prolific, potty mouth in seat 8A really seemed to be having a blast releasing a steady stream of naughty, non sequiturs. The parents were basically immune to their son’s ticks and outbursts, and the surrounding passengers were mature and fairly nonplussed. Basically, no victim, no crime. So am I cancel fodder because I admit that I sat there most of the flight with a big-ass grin on my face anxiously anticipating his next words while experiencing fond flashbacks of family members past? Perhaps we’ll never know, but I’m not apologizing.

Coincidentally, the Portuguese alternately refer to the city we flew from as either Porto or Oporto with seemingly no rationale for the additional “O,” and I feel like that’s a kind of Linguistic Tourettes. I found it odd at first until I remembered our own similar challenges with possum/opossum, and I decided I should probably reconsider my position (or op-position, as it were).

Alas, travel is often about personal growth.