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Potty Mouth

Friday, July 11, 2014

I cuss like a longshoreman. I grew up in a house where colorful language, even of the tamest sort, was strictly forbidden. (As was the devil's music, which goes a long way to explain my undying devotion to the worst sort of horns-up heavy metal.)
I started swearing as a teenager, any time I was out of the house. While other people's parents tended to be a little more relaxed about the less-offensive cuss words, they would still balk at the really bad ones. I had immediately jumped in to profanity with both feet and developed a tendency to use them with impunity. On one memorable occasion, around about the age of 13, I was walking down the road with my friend from down the block, and her dad appeared out of nowhere, popping his head up over the hedge.
"Stay away from that (my maiden name) girl!" he shouted. "She swears like a sailor!"
(If I didn't think it would work against me, I'd add this to my resume'. )
Last night my son (who's 16) and I went to the gym. As we were walking through the parking lot on the way in, I saw a political bumper sticker that elicited a rather visceral reaction, and commented that the owner of the vehicle could use a good hard kick up a certain body part.
I used the queen mother of cusses to describe this particular part; it's a word that nice ladies just don't say.
But I wouldn't know too much about that, on account of I'm not a particularly nice lady.
My son's response?
"You'd probably lose your shoe."