Startled, I looked up from the monitor and glanced towards the end of the bar. Sitting there was a teenage girl, a teenage boy, and their dad. The boy is actually fifteen and is probably 6’3″ already. He is a brawny young fellow, for sure. He and his dad visit my bar every two to three weeks, usually following a baseball game he was just in.
I guess his statement towards his dad shouldn’t have surprised me considering his “You just scared the f*©*ing sh!t out of me!,” he exclaimed when his sister showed up and jabbed him in his side a few minutes after they had arrived. However, it did irk me a bit.
Don’t get me wrong. I cuss. I learned to cuss in the fourth grade. Just about every curse word I needed to know, I learned from Jimmy B. He had been held back the year before, so he had an upper hand in the swearing business, I suppose.
Let’s just say this…there has to be a line drawn somewhere with your children, or they will walk all over you. Somewhere down the line, somebody, somewhere, should have maybe informed this young man when and where and to who it’s OK to cuss.
In my house growing up, the worse I ever heard my dad say was “crap.” That didn’t necessarily mean it was OK for ME to say it, but he could. My mother did not. In school, I was a rather flamboyant expletive thrower. I don’t recall ever being taught, per se, when, where, and who to cuss…but I think the little voice in my head knew better than to do it towards any authoritative figure. I especially knew to never cuss anywhere near the same block my dad was on, let alone while I was sitting right next to him at a restaurant!
Maybe I’m just being a silly nilly, and maybe I’m just behind the times…either way, I know I better not be hearing “f bombs” dropping out of my kid’s mouths until well after their 15th birthday.
Oh, and the reason why dad was being so f*©*ing annoying, you ask? Why, because he was stealing his son’s french fries. That sh!t is pretty f*©*ing annoying…