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Washington Post — When my boys are in the car, I occasionally play songs that contain bad words. It’s not a running theme; I don’t buckle them in shouting, “Who wants to hear Death Certificate?” That’s for my drive home. But if a song comes on that drops a bomb from any of the Bad Letters, I’ll offer only a flash of reaction, feel some burned-in but slight impulse to leap into the backseat and shield my beautiful boys’ ears from both obscenity and, you know, the horrors of the world we’ve made. Then some other, broader impulse takes over and I think, “Wait, this isn’t really that big a deal, and also I should probably be driving.”
I’ve come to this conclusion for these reasons.
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