In kindergarten, circa 1983, my and the guys all had a plan that we were each gonna say one cuss word at the dinner that night in front of our parents, then come back to school the next day and, like men, boast of our accomplishment.
My word was
.
I can still remember like it was yesterday.
We were something on the small rabbit ear TV in the kitchen while we ate. The signal got a little messed up.
I just went for it.
“What the
’s wrong with the TV!?!?!?”
The sound of forks hitting plates. My folks look at me dumbfounded for a moment. Then the moment passed and mom grabbed me by my arm and started yelling while she hauled me to the bathroom.
Now, getting my mouth washed out with soap wasn’t like in the movies where they just stuff a whole bar in there. You do your time, then it’s done.
No.
My mother took my toothbrush. Wetted the soap. Brushed the soap with my toothbrush until it was good and lathered. Then proceeded to thoroughly take an in my dental hygiene. Teeth. Tongue. Roof of the mouth. It was awful. And that flavor lingered on the toothbrush for the next couple days.
Went back to school the next day quite proud of myself. Us men reconvened. Well, actually, I, a man, reconvened with what I thought were men a day earlier. Turns out, literally every single one of these non-men puny weeny boys chickened out. Except me. And rather than receive a hero’s welcome, they all agreed that I took an incredibly stupid risk that they were all intelligent enough to think better of when it came to it.
I wish I could say that’s the only time Dial and Oral-B got together in my mouth. But my dad was in the navy. So literally, a sailor. And early on, I picked up some of vernacular. And my mother faithfully cleaned my mouth until it started to get the idea. And it took quite a few cleanings.