I Swear
I am intimately familiar with the nuanced flavors of Dial, Zest, Tide, and Palmolive, to name just a few. My mother had used all of them in a vain effort to wash “those dirty words” out of my mouth before the tender age of eight. Even the twenty-mule team of Borax didn’t stand a chance of pulling out the cantankerous roots of my heathen vocabulary. At nineteen, I found myself sitting across the desk from my supervisor in a major retail chain, being lectured on the inappropriateness of a sailor’s…
