In the annals of political decorum, where stiff collars and stiffer upper lips have long reigned, the sudden eruption of a well-placed expletive is akin to a cannon blast at a garden party. On June 24, 2025, Donald Trump, ever the maestro of disruption, lobbed such a projectile into the staid air of CNN’s live broadcast, declaring that Israel and Iran “don’t know what the f*** they’re doing.”
The collective gasp from the chattering classes was audible from here to Timbuktu, but why? After all, what is a swear word but a linguistic Molotov cocktail, hurled to shatter the veneer of propriety? And who better to wield it than Trump, a man whose rhetorical style suggests a bulldozer piloted by a stand-up comic? So here, we shall trace the noble lineage of politicians swearing in public, celebrate Trump’s latest contribution to the canon, and invoke the wisdom of Billy Connolly, that philosopher of the f-word, to argue that such outbursts are not merely cathartic but downright essential.
Let us begin with the historical tapestry, woven with threads of profanity stretching back to the dawn of democracy. Politicians, despite their starched suits and sanctimonious speeches, have never been immune to the allure of a juicy curse. Abraham Lincoln, that sainted log-splitter, regaled his audiences with a ribald tale of Ethan Allen and a George Washington portrait in an outhouse, quipping that “nothing made an Englishman s**t quicker than the sight of the general”. One imagines the 16th president’s stovepipe hat bobbing with glee as his listeners roared. Fast forward to Harry Truman, the plain-spoken Missourian who dubbed General Douglas MacArthur a “dumb son of a b***h” and Richard Nixon a “shifty-eyed godd****d liar.” Truman’s folksy invective was less a lapse than a badge of authenticity, proof that beneath the presidential seal beat the heart of a barroom brawler.
The 20th century saw profanity creep closer to the public ear, often via the treacherous hot mic. John F. Kennedy, enraged by a $5,000 bill for Jackie’s maternity suite, branded it a “f**k-up” in a phone call with an Air Force general. Richard Nixon’s Oval Office tapes revealed a lexicon that would make a sailor blush, though he wisely kept his public utterances pristine. Lyndon B. Johnson, by contrast, was a virtuoso of vulgarity, his private tirades a symphony of scatology that mercifully stayed off the airwaves. Even George H.W. Bush, that patrician paragon, once apologized for calling Bill Clinton and Al Gore “two bozos” on the campaign trail, a rare slip that prompted much pearl-clutching among the punditry.
By the time Bill Clinton and George W. Bush entered the fray, the hot mic had become a politician’s nemesis. Clinton, unaware he was audible, grumbled about "not taking s**t” from critics, while Bush, in 2000 campaign moment, anointed a New York Times reporter a “major-league a**hole” to Dick Cheney’s approving grunt. Bush later turned the gaffe into a gag, dubbing the scribe a “major-league ass…et” at a press dinner, proving that a well-timed quip could defang a curse. Joe Biden, ever the scrappy sidekick, whispered to Barack Obama that the Affordable Care Act was a “big f**ing deal,” a hot-mic moment that endeared him to those who prize candour over caution. Obama himself, when asked about lowering the voting age, noted that “kids could spot a bulls*****r a mile off”, a remark that suggested the 44th president was no stranger to the art of invective.
Enter Donald Trump, the man who took the politician’s penchant for profanity and turned it into performance art. From his 2015 campaign trail, where he urged businesses fleeing New Hampshire to “go f**k themselves,” to his 2018 Oval Office lament about “s**thole countries,” Trump has wielded expletives like a verbal flamethrower. His 2005 Access Hollywood tape, with its infamous “grab them by the p**y” line, scandalized the sanctimonious but thrilled his base, who saw in his coarseness a middle finger to elitist norms. By the time he dropped his f-bomb on CNN, railing against the Middle East’s intractable mess, Trump was merely adding another verse to his profane anthem.
To understand why Trump’s profanity resonates, we must turn to Billy Connolly, the Scottish bard of the f-word, whose philosophy elevates swearing to a form of existential release. Connolly once declared, “The f-word is the greatest word in the English language. It’s a relief valve, a safety net for your emotions.” For Connolly, the f-word is not mere vulgarity but a linguistic catharsis, a way to “let the steam out before the boiler bursts.” Trump’s f-bomb, spat out amid the diplomatic quagmire of Israel and Iran, fits this mould perfectly. It was not a calculated slight but a visceral howl, a moment where the leader of the free world sounded less like a statesman and more like a bloke in a pub, fed up with the world’s nonsense. Connolly would approve, noting that such language “cuts through the b****cks” and speaks to the heart of human frustration.
The rise of public profanity, of which Trump is both symptom and catalyst, reflects a broader cultural shift. Data from Quorum shows congressional f-bombs on X skyrocketing from zero in 2015 to 205 in 2023, with Democrats like Rep. Jasmine Crockett and Maxine Waters joining the chorus. Michelle Obama, in a rare lapse, dismissed Sheryl Sandberg’s Lean In as “s**t that doesn’t work,” promptly apologizing but proving even first ladies aren’t immune. This coarsening, decried by the priggish, is better seen as a democratization of discourse. As Connolly himself might put it, “Everybody swears, from the queen to the quayworker. Why should politicians be any different?” Trump’s genius lies in embracing this truth, using profanity to signal he’s one of us, not one of them—the preening elites who’d rather choke on their kale than utter a four-letter word.
Critics, of course, clutch their pearls and wail about decorum, as if a swear word were a greater sin than a drone strike. They forget that politics is a blood sport, its practitioners human and fallible. Trump’s f-bomb, far from a scandal, was a moment of clarity, a verbal middle finger to the absurdity of endless war and broken promises. Clive James, with his wry grin, might have written, “In a world of polished lies, a curse is the closest thing to poetry.” Trump’s supporters hear this in his profanity, a rejection of the sanitized cant that passes for political speech. They echo Connolly’s belief that swearing is “the language of the soul when it’s had enough.”
In conclusion, Trump’s f-bomb on CNN is not an aberration but a milestone in the grand tradition of political profanity, from Lincoln’s scatological jests to Truman’s blunt barbs. It is a cathartic cry, endorsed by Billy Connolly’s gospel of the f-word, that speaks to a weary world’s need for unfiltered truth. As Clive James might have further quipped, “If you can’t say ‘f**k’ when the world’s on fire, when can you?” Let the puritans tut and the censors bleep; Trump’s swear is a reminder that sometimes, only a four-letter word will do. And in that, he is not just a president but a poet of the people’s rage.
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