SALT LAKE CITY — It started when some Cub Scout spewed on me what looked like had once been a three bean salad, cheese lasagna, several garlic bread sticks and cottage cheese.

Two cups of lime punch. Maybe ice cream.

Apparently I was a little curt in my response as I stood there dripping in someone’s recent dinner — not as “genteel” as people thought I should have been as I responded to a gut load of fresh puke applied.

In short, I freaked out. My Cub Scout leader gasped.

My father told me later (I must have blacked out) that I went down in a blue streak, using truck loads of words and phrases that none of the other children or their parents had ever heard — that my dad only recognized from his days in the military.

Their ignorance/innocence is what kept me from being voted out of the neighborhood. I was 8.

My physical appearance was mild mannered enough that such words coming from me would take folks completely by surprise. When I started adding "please" or "thank you," people would stand there baffled.

“Did Dr. Cheney's boy just say to take a flying blanket-y leap?”

“Yes, Madge, but he said "please.”

I would like to say, parenthetically, that if anyone is to be blamed for my foul language, it would be my sainted mother. However, my father paid me money to say otherwise, so officially I don’t know where on earth I could have garnered such a worldly mouth, having been born of the goodly parents I was blessed to have (and the check better clear).

If said check bounces, then I will shout from the rooftops that my mother had a mouth like a second-generation Mormon — which is to say that when she swore (which wasn’t common but influential as all get-out) it would make your eyeballs boil.

She was my hero. I always knew where I stood with her — even if I was over her knee.

My kids should be so lucky.

If I only spoke like Mother Teresa from this moment on, I would still have an entire wall in the Inappropriate-for-the-Moment-Word-Use Hall of Fame.

I have tried to change how I verbally respond in an emergency these last few years — mostly for my wife, who is my polar opposite. She has pointed out that my ranting was much like an errant car alarm; listeners got so used to it that it was easily dismissed.

That is why I developed my patented, energy saving, “power nice” voice.” I practiced it in the mirror. I went through three mirrors.

It was based on George Clooney’s voice that he used in the ER. Calm, yet in control. Authoritative, but one of the people. I thought it would be good to have such a loving power voice for when there was blood or protruding bones.

“Annie, my daughter, place your hand just so while I remove the spleen.”

This hyper-nice voice hasn’t been doing the job. It’s been several years since I developed it, and my wife tells me that when the children hear me using it, their blood pressure goes off the charts. It, apparently, is worse that any slip of the tongue, and worse that any sudden explosion. It is calm and controlled and completely psychotic.

Related:

Prodigal Dad: Dad's secret code

Parents having a private code is great once you get the hang of it — remembering that it is all contingent on the sophistication of the cipher itself. Once the kids learn the language, the game must be abbreviated or aborted.

It has sent people to therapy.

I have decided to try one last method of vocal emergency management. I will use my own voice — my dad voice — without negative augmentation or superfluous use of pejoratives in strong anger or frustration. However, I will leave nothing out. If I feel it, I will find an appropriate way to say it.

July 31, 2012, brings the first test — post-dad voice decision — when the toilet overflows.

Everyone else in the family knows this is happening because Annie, my youngest daughter, has messaged all by means of her pretty purple phone that never leaves her hand.

She has banked on me not knowing where my cellphone is, and she is right. Only later would I read, “Not my fault, but the toilet in my parent’s room has been spewing for an hour. Good thing there is a bath tub directly below it in the basement.”

Looking back, I think that rather than a text, I would like, oh, a quick heads-up — something like “Hey, Dad. You and the plunger are needed in your bathroom.” Preferably, this would be done in person, leaving the QWERTY keypad alone for other happy exchanges.

I suppress my "emergency Clooney." I set aside the tongue of my ancestors (mother) and the military (father). I speak from the heart.

“What are you doing in our bathroom in the first place? Just because there are three rolls of TP doesn’t mean you have to use them all! Get me towels, I need towels! For heaven sake, where is everyone? And put the phone down! No one wants to get this update on Facebook.”

Freaking-out like a normal dad. Works like a charm.

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Main image: Cheney family towels are good for cleaning up bad language and bathroom floors. (Photo: DCheneyStudio)

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*Davison Cheney writes "The Prodigal Dad" series every week on ksl.com. See his other musings at Davison at davisoncheneymegadad.blogspot.com.**

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