Some people swear because they are angry; others swear because they are stupid.

That at least is my opinion, though I state it merely for shock effect, and half expect my editor to delete the remark. (I deserve it, of course, for calling someone stupid is practically the same as swearing at them.)

Angry swearing I can understand. I can see why, for some, “shoot!” just doesn’t capture the moment of frustration. For my part, the guilt of saying something unseemly would outweigh the satisfaction in saying it. Ned Flanders would be proud.

Mindless swearing is simply ¼ mindless. It’s the kind used so commonly that it loses all meaning, the kind that merely evidences a lack of vocabulary, the kind that loses all sense of propriety in a public place.

I encountered it while traveling home from vacation yesterday. We stopped into Arby’s for a bite to eat. The gentleman in front of me, and I don’t dare try to publish the words he used, was frustrated because the person across the counter didn’t catch his order the first time.

In edited form he asked, “Isn’t there an American who works here? Someone who speaks English?”

The manager came to the rescue of the flustered clerk. She, too, was Hispanic. Not yet mollified, he continued his profanity‑laced tirade about the decline of our country before placing his order.

Ignoring the personal affront, I was impressed at how she kept her cool. Handing him his order, she said, “Would you like some Horsey or Arby’s sauce with that?”

He, fittingly enough, did not understand the question. 

I was riding my bicycle up Cave Creek road a while ago. Crossing the intersection at Tom Darlington road, it was my responsibility to stop at the sign.

But I’d already been riding six miles uphill and the hardest miles were still ahead. I assumed, as is sometimes done, that no one would mind if I continued through the intersection without stopping.

Boy, was I wrong! (“Boy” is a Ned Flanders‑type invective, I know. Okily‑dokily.) Anyway, the driver of the truck whose turn it was sped up, honked, and called me many nasty things.

I was sufficiently chastised.

He had made his point. I just wish he’d done so without bringing my mother into it.

None of this is very surprising. We are a nation with few taboos. Once the domain of trashy magazines or seedy theaters, lewd pictures are now a simple mouse‑click away. Television advertisements remind us to drink responsibly, to gamble responsibly, and to fornicate responsibly. Conversation once kept inside the locker room is now spoken at fast food counters.

Which reminds me: when the girl at the counter repeated the question about sauce to my fast food neighbor, he said, “No. Just send me to a blankety‑blank country where they still speak English.”

I guess you know what I think about that.