It’s my job to live my life uncensored and say “fuck, shit, balls!” in front of your children; its your job to teach them that those are bad words.

My mother has always said that her daughter had “a mouth that could make a sailor blush,” an adage I have always cherished, embodied and flaunted. Ever since I could talk I‘ve been cursing up a storm. At the age of one, my first words were “cupcake, bitch;” at three I learned how to flip the bird; and in kindergarten I was sent home with a pink slip because I had given my best friend a black eye. Why? “Because the bitch said she had more Barbie’s than me.” (And the bitch lied.)

While I kid (except for the Barbie thing, that actually happened), I know that’s how some of you envisioned me as a young whippersnapper. The truth is, I got popped one for saying a “bad word” as a child and I learned my lesson… that is, until I grew up and no longer gave a fuck about such shit.

“You’re a kid. You can’t say shit.”

One day, the eight-year-old daughter of my friend Robyn heard me say “fuck,” or “shit,” or some other popular expletive frequented by charmers such as myself. Just as annoying as me at that age, the girl and I had the same name, some junk in the trunk, and an identical hair cut (the cursed little copy cat). She was basically my mini-me — only clad from head to toe in purple, like Violet Beauregard (“Violet, you‘re turning violet, Violet!”).

“Oooohhhh, you said a bad word!” the chubby cheeked cherub lisped through missing teeth. “Yeah… and?” I replied. “You’re not supposed to say bad words,” she proudly informed me, quite the know-it-all. “No…” I pointed at her, “You’re not allowed to say bad words.” I then pointed at myself, “I can say whatever the fuck I want because I‘m an adult. You’re a kid. You can’t say shit.”

“Uh!“ gape-mouthed and offended, she stared at me for a second — the expression your parents wear while giving an, “I’m disappointed by your behavior” speech. She immediately called to her mother to tell on me, the little narc, and I watched with a grin on my face. Her mother Robyn gave me a face reading “You’re an asshole,” but said nothing. Aggravated that I had not been punished for my crime, the dwarfish purple people eater’s immediate response was to test the boundaries and say “Shit!” It was at this point she was punished.

You are so grounded!

While I may be presenting an obstacle with my dirty little mouth, isn’t the joy of being a parent teaching your child right and wrong, and making sure you don’t create a monster? C’mon, you know you love a good challenge. And, when it comes down to it: It’s your choice to raise children; it’s my choice to raise hell.

If a little smack is not your style to keep your kids from saying "fucktard," "douchebag," or "dick smack," lock the little ankle biters in the closet or something; I don’t know… is that legal? Either way, it depends on your discipline style,I suppose. Perhaps you can get tips from The Dog Whisperer. Cesar is brilliant with animals of all sizes. If all else fails, just pretend I have Tourette’s Syndrome and tell your kids I’m a sick, sick person. You won’t necessarily be lying.

Now, on a side note: Anyone need a babysitter?