Well, maybe not, but that’s what it’s about. Now that I’m blogging, I check out some others from time to time to see what people are writing about.
One of them is Colin McEnroe’s blog, because he’s smart and funny, even if I need a dictionary sometimes when I’m reading him.
In one of his posts today, he used the word s**k, and it’s not that he’s alone in using the word. We see it in print everywhere now.
But even though I use it liberally in conversation, I can’t use it here. There’s no prohibition…nobody’s going to tell me not to use it.

I just don’t want to.
It’s not that it’s offensive, unless you’re really sensitive. It’s just that it’s…I dunno…base.

It is in the dictionary.
"Vulgar slang: to be disgustingly disagreeable or offensive."
That kind of sums it up. I use it, I just don’t want to read it.

I feel that way about most profanity. I use all of George Carlin’s seven dirty words, and I use them in most of their variations. I’m not proud of it, nor am I ashamed of it. Sometimes I swear to vent over a bad golf shot. I always end up using bad language when I have any kind of tool in my hand. And I can’t begin to tell you how effective profanity can be when someone I don’t know really well sets me off.
Wow, the anchorman said “(fill in the blank)!!!!”
Rarely happens, but it’s never forgotten.

But I do try to be careful about profanity, because there’s something I’ve never forgotten. The taste of a bar of Ivory soap. As shoved halfway down my throat by my mother the first time I said something worse than s**k without evening knowing what it meant. Rhymes with it, though. And boy, did it s**k.

Some lessons last a lifetime.