When I was six years old, my father, a newspaper publisher, took me into work to show off the brand-new, state-of-the-art layout and compositioning system that had replaced the gigantic, '40s-vintage printing presses that we'd had heretofore. Even at that age, my fondness for technology and science was evident; it was 1970, after all, and I had followed each and every Apollo flight with rapt, unwavering attention.

Glowing words were on the screen. A little blinking box was at the end of the line, and every time my father pressed a key, a letter appeared. It was ... well, I was a product of my era. It wasn't "like magic", but it most certainly was Sufficiently Advanced.

And then ... the blinking box vanished. And my father could not recover it. This led to a stream of the profane invective for which he was infamous ... and that, in turn, led to my response:

"That must be why they call them 'cursers'."

This was no innocent comment, no fodder for Mr. Linkletter's program. Oh, no. This was a clear and present pun, delivered in full knowledge of the depth of my crime.

And he had only himself to blame.

You see, my MOTHER raised me on the Apollo Program.

My FATHER raised me on Rocky and Bullwinkle.

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