Profanity is blue-collar expressionism, treasured art passed down like an heirloom through Murphy generations.
Growing up in an extended working-class Irish family, decibels were the only way to be heard above the din. Timely, properly conjugated swearing could command the floor and strip conversation to its studs.
In Detroit, I understudied with master craftsmen inspired by the self-destructive traits of the Motor City and its inane NFL franchise.
My hometown. My team. The Detroit Lions. Sigh.
Mere mention elicits eye-rolling, a chuckle, resignation. The city exports vehicles for millions of people to go places while its professional football team -- owned, operated and enabled for five decades by the Ford automotive family -- spins its wheels deeper into the proving-ground muck.