I Am Wondering If You Know What

You know what?

I’ll tell you what.

I’m sick of you know what.

That’s what.

I’m fed up with hearing radio commentators, sports heroes, average Joes and my own family members punctuate their sentences with you know what.

You know what I’m talking about?

The rich and famous, the poor and bedraggled apparently can no longer begin a statement without you know what.

Why and how and when did what make such an emergence to the front of the pack of most abused words in the English language?

I’ll tell you what is literally driving me crazy.

In the good old days, we kept things simple when we mumbled. To get from one part of a sentence to the profound thought that was going to be unfurled in the second part, we used a sturdy little bridge known as you know.

“So I stopped at the light, you know, and finally it turned green, you know, and this guy in a big truck, you know, well, he just, you know, pulled out in front of me. You know?”

You know, it took me many, many years to get used to you know. But at last I realized it was just the short form of do you know what I mean to say and I was grateful that at least I didn’t have to listen to people use the entire expression.

But then some wise person somewhere decided he or she had gotten too good for you know and so added one more little word into the mix. And presto, up from obscurity rose our first annoying expression of the New Millennium.

The first person who can go a whole day without either using this little bit of verbal dribble or hearing it spewed by some unthinking character, can send in two box tops and a loonie and I’ll send you …. No, you know what? Make that three box tops. And I’ll send you a framed portrait of Gordie Howe. Heck! You know what? I’ll send you two framed portraits of Gordie Howe.

This is how it goes down.

“I’ll take out the recycling in the morning. No. You know what? I’ll do it right now, and then it’s done.”

So, we use you know what to indicate that we have changed our minds. We are not really curious as to whether or not the person with whom we are conversing knows what.

But more often, we use it as a statement of defiance. So, you know what, I am going to do what I want to do in spite of your objections or the possible repercussions to myself.

So, as the linguistic Luddite that I have become, ever critical of new expressions that are foisted on us from who knows where, I have been fuming over you know what all winter.

Where did you know what come from?

Who first used you know what?

And as I sat depressing myself with such questions one morning, while my children watched a kids’ show on TV, I heard the words coming out of the little black box that sits on top of my Mom’s old sewing machine.

“You know what?” said a girlish voice in the TV. “I’ll tell you what.”

Pulling my head out from under the cushion where I was hiding it, I leapt from the couch and stared at the screen.

You know what?

There she was. The one responsible for all this mess.

Her name is Marigold and she’s a character on a Canadian show called Polka Dot Shorts. She’s a big, flat-faced ragdoll that looks like the flower from which her name came.

I sat and watched.

Twenty times in one show she said, “You know what? I’ll tell you what,” all the while skipping about like she had to go to the bathroom really badly.

Could it be, I wondered, that a ragdoll with a bothersome bladder could be responsible for causing such leading lights as Wayne Gretzky to sprinkle you know what over his dialogue like he would salt on his eggs?

But, you know what? I’ve decided it just doesn’t matter any more.

I’ll tell you what.

I’m just gonna go with the flow.

If it’s good enough for famous people then, you know what?

It’s good enough for me.

That’s what!

©2016 Jim Hagarty

Author: Jim Hagarty

I am a 72-year-old retired journalist, busy recovering from a lifelong career as an unretired journalist. This year marks a half century of my scratching out little fables about life. My interests include genealogy, humour and music. I live in a little blue shack in Canada and spend most of my time trying to stay out of trouble. I am not that good at it. I also spent years teaching journalism. Poor state of journalism today: My fault. I have a family I don't deserve, a dog that adores me, and two cars the junk yard refuses to accept. My prized possessions include my old guitar and a razor my Dad gave me when I was 14 and which I still use when I bother to shave. Oh, and my great-great-grandfather's blackthorn stick he brought from Ireland in the 1850s. I have only one opinion but it is a good one: People take too many showers.