Daniel Conderman 
There’s a legendary bit by George Carlin—the “seven dirty words you can’t say on television.” He laid it out like gospel, a sermon of syllables that could get you fined, fired, or flayed in the press.
Well, I said them all. On air. At a real station. And not only did I not get fined or fired—no one even talked to me about it.
Let me tell you how I pulled it off.
The Setup
WSUM, the student radio station at the University of Wisconsin. A glorious little operation, funded by taxpayers, open to the whims of college creativity and FCC loopholes. I wasn’t a student, but I slid in at the start of the semester like a ghost with a class schedule. There was no rule explicitly forbidding it, and besides—I live here. I pay taxes. That’s my airwave too.
Eventually, they figured it out. But the guy in charge at the time, Dave Black, handled it like a total mensch. He told me, “Look, this place exists for students. That’s the whole mission.” Fair. But he didn’t boot me on the spot. He let me stay paired up with my buddy Matt (the guy from my “Front of the Line” story), who was a real student and our show’s official host.
Dave didn’t pull rank or make a scene. He just said, once Matt graduates, that’s your exit ramp. No hard feelings. That stuck with me. Dave Black was a class act. So if you’re reading this, Dave—thanks for letting the pirate fly the flag for a little while.
The Crime
We hosted a goofy talk show during Safe Harbor hours. That’s the stretch from 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. where the FCC loosens the reins, supposedly allowing for “adult content.” But even then, the station had a golden rule: Don’t say the C-word. Ever. No context. No exception. Full stop.
So I found a loophole.
I’d call into the show from another office, pretending to be a Canadian guy renting skates out on the frozen lake behind campus. Thick accent, exaggerated to hell. I’d talk about the “shit of ice”—as in, the sheet of ice—but with just enough slush in the vowels to raise eyebrows.
Then I escalated. Started working other bombs in. “You cahn’t fall through the ice… not if I make sure you cahn’t.”
We had a whole bit where I explained the safety setup. “We put up fags so you cunt fall through,” I said. Dead serious. Total monotone. Like a responsible skate-rental entrepreneur just looking out for the public good.
We never cracked up. Never hinted. No sex jokes. No wink-wink double entendre. Just four straight minutes of vocabulary terrorism cloaked in civic duty and Canadian charm.
We even framed it around FCC rules for underwriting and community announcements—just a guy trying to run a business on a frozen lake, eh?
The audience? Either they didn’t notice… or they really noticed. The students in the hall definitely did. Some of them gave me looks like I’d just dropkicked the Pope. But no one filed a complaint. No meetings were called. And the next show? Business as usual.
The Fallout (Or Lack Thereof)
There wasn’t any. Not officially. We didn’t boast about it. Didn’t post clips or push it too far. It was like slipping a signed confession into a pile of coupons—if you weren’t paying attention, it just passed through.
Eventually Matt graduated, and like Dave asked, I stepped out. No drama. No scene. Just a quiet nod and a weird little legacy left behind.
The Point?
Sometimes the rules are written in ink but enforced in vibes. And if you respect the stage, keep your timing tight, and never break character… you can say every forbidden word in the English language and walk out clean.
Just don’t laugh.
