One of my more obvious human failings is my mouth.

No, not that it’s crooked (although that keeps me from smiling for pictures, which makes people think I’m grumpy and torpedoed my dream of making big bucks doing toothpaste commercials).  It is, linguistically speaking, pretty filthy.

I don’t know where I got it.  My Dad was not particularly foul-mouthed (rather surprising, since he was a Marine and those guys aren’t known for delicacy of language).  Nor was he a prig.  But he had a positive horror of the F-word.  He thought people who swore were ignorant and too intellectually impoverished to express themselves without profanity.

But for some reason, I’ve always figured profanity was my friend.  I prefer to think of my language as “colorful” rather than “vulgar,” but unfortunately, the color is often just shades of blue.

It has, of course, occasionally gotten me in trouble.

I remember the first time I ever used bad language in front of my family.  I didn’t get in trouble, but it was a bit embarrassing.

I was in fifth grade.  My fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Baden, was a real harridan.  I don’t remember specifically what she did, but I remember spending a lot of that year in tears.  We were sitting around dinner one night when the discussion turned to her.

“Yeah,” I said, “she’s a real (anatomical reference to the male organ that rhymes with ‘click’).”

All conversation suddenly stopped.  Forks clattered onto plates.  It was like that moment in “A Christmas Story” where Ralphie drops an F-bomb, although I didn’t wind up biting into a bar of soap. My father looked at me sternly and said, “Do you know what that means?”

“No,” I said weakly (which was true).

He told me, using the real word for it.  Needless to say, I was a bit more careful in future discussions about Mrs. Baden. 

Actually, while I continued to cultivate the color of my vocabulary, the next time I got in any real trouble for swearing – I’m not talking about putting my foot in my mouth, which I did so regularly I had permanent shoeprints on my tongue – was years later, as an adult.

I went off on a tirade in the middle of the newsroom after an editor of mine accused me of blowing off work.  I lost it.  I remember, very clearly, having a sort of out-of-body experience where I thought, “don’t swear, you’ll make it worse,” but my brain disconnected and I dropped several F-bombs.  That resulted in a three-day suspension, apparently one for each use of the word.

At that same place, we once had a meeting with the HR director specifically about not using That Word.  I was so tempted to ask her specifically what word she was talking about, but I was a good boy, for once.

I suppose the occasional blue word or two is my style of aggression.  I haven’t been in a fistfight since seventh grade (it was a draw); I’m not much of a fighter.  I can’t even throw a decent punch.  And during my days when I was often seen in bars, I generally frequented places where fights weren’t part of the floor show.

In fact, I could be fairly creative in avoiding physical conflict.  Two days before my college graduation, I was in a bar with friends when a fellow walked in who had once dated, and frequently beaten, the guest of honor in my group.  One of the other guys turned to me and said, “If I start something, will you back me up?”

I suddenly had a vision of going through my college graduation with two black eyes and no teeth.  I thought for a moment and came up with perhaps the most diplomatic thing I’ve ever said.  I told the   guy, “Well, if you do, I guess I’d have to, but I’d really rather you didn’t.”

“Okay,” he said.  I looked lovely at the graduation ceremony.

So, failing an increase in physical courage and ability, I’m left with bleeding off any anger or aggression through profanity. I find it’s particularly helpful with computer issues.  That’s even true when it’s my fault.  It’s as though a good swear jars something loose in my brain and the solution presents itself.  That isn’t always true, but it’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Still, that excuse only goes so far.  I mean, I don’t think I’m a particularly angry guy, although I have my moments.  I’m one of those stew-and-explode people.  Fortunately, I own a car, so I usually wait until I’m driving somewhere alone to let loose with an expletive-filled rant.  Usually.  When I don’t, I get three days or so off of work.

And as filthy-mouthed as I am, I usually know when to ratchet it down.  I don’t attend a lot of White House state dinners, but I’m fairly confident I could sit through one without saying anything horribly offensive.

I also know when to warn people that talking to me may mean they hear something they don’t want to hear.  On the first day of the semester, I warn my students that they may once or twice hear some not-appropriate-for-church language.  Oddly enough, I’ve actually had students tell me they like the way I talk, which gets them big points with me.  And for a semester or two, there was a tradition in my classes that one student would keep track of weird (not just vulgar) things I said and then read the list aloud on the last day.  Needless to say, I didn’t remember a lot of what I said, but I don’t doubt I said it.

But if nothing else, if you’ve read this far I’ve proved one thing:  I don’t have to swear.  I just prefer it.