Toxic Shame and You Can Too
It’s around noon on a Sunday.
I’m 14 years old, sitting in my dad's Chevrolet work truck, which (and I don’t mean to brag too much here) is equipped with some fancy modern technology that I’m currently using.
An 8-track tape player.
Don’t be jealous.
The speakers are vibrating with the comedic genius of a couple of dope-smoking hippies.
I’m laughing and having an awesome educational enlightening time when quite unexpectedly, a short and very angry woman appears at the passenger door.
She stands (as best she can at 5 feet 2 inches) at the truck and proceeds to pound on the window. I pause the tape player and slowly roll down the window.
“A fine Christian you are listening to this crap.”
I am blindsided and speechless.
I’m just listening to a pair of entertainers do what they do and do not understand the need for a second sermon of the day.
Apparently, Cheech and Chong are not a welcome source of entertainment at the Swann household.
Who knew?
I was not a particularly rebellious teenager, but I loved listening to them.
