Even before a certain newspaper said certain things about the language on a certain blog, my dad has been chastising me for my “risqué” word choice and wayward subject matter. Last Sunday was no different, except for the menu, which was (I’m almost ashamed to admit) bacon, cinnamon buns, hash browns, and mimosas. It was the Lord’s day, after all. (Apparently, the Lord doesn’t like vulgarity or vegetables.)
Me: So let me get this straight. You’re trying to censor me? On my own blog?
Him: I’m just saying you might want to tone it down a little.
Me: I am toning it down a little.
Him: No, the bad language has definitely gone up over time. If I were to go back to your earlier posts…
Me: Please don’t.
Him: …and chart a graph of profanity…
Me: A graph of profanity?
Him: …yes, a graph of profanity, I think you’d see that it has steadily gone up over the years.
Husband: It has.
Me: (to Husband) Oh, like you should talk. (to Dad) So what? It’s not like I’m using the f word in front of the kids. We’re all adults on my blog. With the possible exception of me. I think I’m rather elegant in its usage?
Me: Or something.
Me: Maybe I like to swear.
Me: Or maybe I’m rebelling. You know, you did get off easy when I was a teenager.
Him: Rebelling? What could you possibly have to rebel against? You have the perfect father. Modest, too. The best kids. The best…
Him: …fine, the best husband. See? What’s to rebel against? Everything’s coming up roses.
Hmmmm. That’s a toughie. I wonder what in the fuck I could possibly be rebelling against?