I don't want to come across as some sort of saint, because I'm not. And, while this may be hard to believe, I have plenty of faults. But using profanity is not one of them.  It's hard to watch even the networks these days without hearing filthy language. And, when it is bleeped out, they only bleep out the middle of the word, so you may as well have heard it, because you're thinking it.

My revulsion to obscene language goes back to the fifth grade, at Boones Mill Elementary School. My teacher, Mrs. Gruver, was the wife of the principal, Mr. Gruver (as you could guess). Mr. Gruver was a very nice man, but he would have made Caspar Milquetoast look like George Carlin. He was a short, thin, balding man, who besides being the principal, was a lay minister at one of the local churches.

Anyway, one day, Mrs. Gruver told our class that since we were right in the middle, between the first graders and the ninth graders (all of whom attended the school), it would be nice if we would keep an eye out for any dirty words written by the ninth graders on the bathroom wall. She thought we, the fifth graders, could protect the first graders from being exposed to such vile words.

I always relished the class monitor role, so I would scour the bathroom walls (not literally) looking for dirty words. I didn't know many, but I was constantly on the lookout.  One day, I hit the jackpot. To be honest, the two dirty words written (and believe me, these would be at the top of the dirty word list) were words I was unfamiliar with. But, you know, a dirty word just sounds dirty. Plus, it was written on the bathroom wall, so I figured I had found me some new dirty words.

I went straight to Mr. Gruver's office. "Mr. Gruver," I said, "I found some dirty words on the wall. At least I think they're dirty."

He was sitting behind his desk, at the time. I remember the setting well. "What are they," he asked.

"They're 'BLEEP' and 'BLEEP,'" I dutifully replied.  As soon as the BLEEPs came out of my mouth I knew I had uttered something horrible.

 Mr. Gruver's whole body seemed to tense up, as if he were having some sort of seizure. His face turned beet read, up to and including his scalp. His lips pursed and he just stared. I was petrified. Finally, after what seemed like thirty minutes (probably 10 seconds), he spoke.

"They're dirty," he squeaked out. "We'll get someone to clean them off the walls.

Needless to say, that was the last time I ever reported my findings to Mr. Gruver. It was also the last time I've ever said those words. I've was traumatized for life.  But, that's not such a bad thing, is it?