The Handwriting's On the Wall

I may have told you this story before, but even if I did, stay with me, because everytime I tell it, it just gets better. Also, by the time I'm done here, I think you'll find a little nugget that might be interesting.
One thing that should be perfectly clear is that a lot has changed over the past half century. You probably would not have noticed that had I not called it to your attention. Anyway, back when I was a fifth grader at Boones Mill Elementary School, in Franklin County, Virginia, my teacher, Mrs. Gruver, was the wife of the school principal, who, interestingly was named Mr. Gruver.
One day Mrs. Gruver told our class, "I want you boys to help Mr. Gruver out. If you see any dirty words written on the walls in the boys' restroom, let Mr. Gruver know so he can wash them off before the little kids see them." The Gruvers were very religious people. They were sincerely interested in protecting the little six-year-olders from the dirty minds of the ninth graders, some of whom were in their early twenties.
I was always very diligent about doing what I was asked. Or, at least, I loved getting others in trouble. So I regularly scoured the walls (visually) looking for dirty words. I knew two or three dirty words, so, of course, they were the ones I was looking for. One day I saw two words I had not seen before. Although I recognized one as being, in normal usage, a clean word, I immediately realized that I must be looking at dirty words. Actually, this was my first encounter with the grand daddy of all dirty words. I didn't know what it meant, but just the sound of it told me it was dirty. At that moment, however, I had no idea how dirty.
So, up the stairs I went (the boys' room was in the basement) to the principal's office.
"May I see Mr. Gruver?" I asked his secretary.
"Why?" she asked me.
I want to tell him about some dirty words," I replied. I was immediately ushered into Mr. Gruver's little office. Dirty words were being given top priority at the time.
Every time I went in Mr. Gruver's office, I would look around for his electric paddle. I had never seen it, but the older kids had assured me he had one, and he wasn't afraid to use it. Just the idea of an electric paddle kept me in line through my early, formative years. Anyway, I looked around, searching for the paddle, while Mr. Gruver finished reading some letter or something he had in his hands.
Finally, Mr. Gruver looked up at me. He was a bald, little man, but very stern. He sort of resembled Don Knotts, who had not yet become Barney Fife, but was still seen often on TV. "How may I help you?" he asked me. He always sounded so authoritative, that I didn't even want to imagine what he must sound like when he was hooking a kid up to the electric paddle.
"I found some dirty words on the wall in the bathroom," I told him. "At least I think they're dirty words."
He just looked at me with his beady little eyes. He didn't say a word, and I suppose I should have remained quiet until he asked me for more information.
But, if you know me, you know silence is a great inducement to get me talking. If I were being interrogated, the police wouldn't even have to say a word to me...just bring me in a room and stare at me and I'll tell everything I know.
So, after waiting for what seemed like an hour, probably only three seconds in actuality, I continued. "The words are 'BLEEP' and 'BLEEP.' Are they dirty?"
Mr. Gruver didn't say a word. But his face turned a bright red, from his pencil-like neck to the tip of his bald head. He made a little face like he'd just eaten a very sour lemon. I knew I must have hit the curse word jackpot. And, to tell you the truth, I was scared. I was wondering if maybe he might reach into a drawer and pull out his electric paddle and use it on me right then and there.
Finally, after several seconds (two hours in fifth-grader standing in front of the principal time), Mr. Gruver spoke. Or, to be more precise, he squeaked."
"Yes," he gulped. "They're dirty." I don't remember what he said after that. I was just glad to get out of there.
That event was ultimately good for me. I've never been able to use those words, especially the number one dirty word in the entire universe, ever since then.
That was in the mid-fifties. Today, everyone uses the word. My wife was telling me about a conversation she had with one of the big-wigs in her company. The guy was not mad at her, but was expressing his irritation with another worker. "I'm BLEEPING tired of this," the guy said. My wife only used the first letter of the word. I won't even go that far, here.
"What!" I exclaimed. You should report him for using such language. My wife looked at me as if I had just stepped off the Gerber Creamed Banana Boat.
"Everyone in the office talks like that," she said.
What a difference a scant half century makes. In the fifties, only those filthy-minded ninth graders would use such words, and they probably wouldn't even say them, just write them on a dirty bathroom wall.
Today, everyone says it, or so I'm told. What has happened to Beaver Cleaver? Even Eddie Haskell would not have said "BLEEP." And, while I was trying to help the Gruvers protect the first-graders, I bet the first graders are using those words today. In fact, every one from the President on down seems to be using such language.
I think we ought to pass some sort of law that allows us to wash people's mouths out with soap. Mr. Gruver sent someone down to the basement to wash off those walls. It's a shame washing people's minds is not so easy.