It didn’t matter who used profanity when I was growing up. Everyone had to kiss the top of the Palmolive dish soap bottle.
I remember once on a long weekend camping trip, the six adults in the adjacent site to ours set up and began partying around a large campfire. They were liberal and loud with their use of filthy language. Our father went over to their site and informed them that they would stop cussing in the hearing of his wife and children. He was polite, but used his Navy officer voice. Their response was to give him the finger and tell him to f-off among other unwholesome suggestions.
Dad said nothing, returned to our site where he took the large “brown water” pail from beneath the camper, added the used dish water, several generous squirts of Palmolive, mixed up the noxious brew with a tree branch, and returned to the dirty mouthed campers. He said nothing as he emptied its contents all over their campfire, dowsing it, and departed. It stank so bad simmering on the coals that the occupants of sites all around involved themselves in the matter. The end result was that the offending couples hastily tossed their tent and gear in their vehicles and left. It didn’t harm that one of the offended campers was a police officer who threatened them with arrest. I don’t know where they went, but next day, park employees cleaned the site and it was soon occupied by a family with a tent trailer and three young boys.
Problem solved. Dad thereafter refused to discuss the matter.
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