My interests have changed over the years, but when I was little, I was captivated by swear words and crude stuff, because things that are forbidden become hilarious, especially in church. I specialized in the words, "sh*t" and "*ss," but farts could not have been funnier. These were the good old days, before the "f" word popped up on my radar screen. 

One Sunday, my dad and I were watching a Redskins game together, and after they scored, he leaned over conspiratorially and sang:

Rah rah ree, kick 'em in the knee.

Rah rah rass ..... kick 'em in the other knee.

Of course, I had fully expected him to say the forbidden word "*ss," which was beyond exhilarating on its own! But when he pulled that trickery at the end of his chant, the repressive world in which I'd lived for those nine long years was dead to me. I was literally sworn into a new dimension, where adults and kids shared off-color material and nobody got in trouble. 

I collapsed on the ground laughing and followed him around for the next few weekends, offering to hold his ladder, pretending to listen as he taught me how to paint a house correctly, and asking questions that might lead to another almost-vulgar bonding moment -- possibly involving my other, previously-cited specialty word, just for the sake of variety. 

It never happened, but it didn't matter. Having learned at the knee of the master, I was poised to go out on my own crude-sade.  Within weeks, I had discovered "Milk, milk, lemonade, round the corner, fudge is made," and was spending most of my free time trying to make it go viral. It was as though the people who thought that up were paying me to promote it. Then, after a long day of canvasing, I'd come home. And if my mom was super-occupied, which she always was, and if she couldn't see my hand gestures, I'd sing it sweetly when she was just steps away.