Prior to my move to Paris, you might be forgiven for ever thinking that I grew up in a Christian family from a small town in the South.
Now that I don’t have to drive anymore, my swearing has dramatically decreased. The idiocy of that BMW driver who cut me off on the interstate off-ramp or the timidity in turning during the yellow light at the intersection by the SUV driver obviously talking on the phone would send me into apoplectic bouts of road rage.
A sailor could reasonably suggest that I might want to dial it back a bit. My parents never swore. Or rather, they did, but they used the kind of bland Protestant curses such as “shoot” and “crap” that had all of the heft of a bag of cotton candy.Read more on thegavoice.com