George caught his son Mark reaching for the last piece of cinnamon toast at breakfast. His cruel eyes narrowed. "Don't make me drop the f-bomb," he warned. His son stared back defiantly. "You won't," he said. "You won't because I'm the one's gonna drop the f-bomb on you."

"No son of mine is gonna drop the f-bomb on me!"

But then Mark dropped the f-bomb. It caught George completely by surprise, blowing him back against the wall. His arms splintered like green sticks. He slid to the floor like a blob of warm pink jello.

"Damn, you dropped the f-bomb!" His voice was full of pride.

"Yeah," said Mark eagerly. "At first I wasn't gonna. But then I did!"

"You're a man now, son." George winced as the pain from his broken arms shot up his spine and into his brain.

"Yessir," said Mark, munching the toast triumphantly. "I guess I am."

He got George into the truck and drove him to the hospital, where the doctor warned them never to drop the f-bomb again. But they didn't listen to him, and the next week both suffered severe facial lacerations during a nasty f-bomb exchange with their drunken neighbor, the petite divorcee Bernadette Saunders.

Some judge ordered them to take a politeness seminar, but they decided to emigrate to France instead. They could drop all the f-bombs they wanted over there because the French are notoriously laissez-faire about that sort of thing.

They didn't live too long, though. About three years, I think.

People are a lot less polite than they were a hundred years ago. I read that in a book somewhere.