I've been having problems with my tongue lately. Nothing physical or medical. More of a slippage issue. Foul language, which I abhor, occasionally comes rolling out from some murky cesspool in my subconscious.

My verbal fumbles tend to happen when I'm alone, puttering about the house, and something goes wrong. Or I'm preparing a meal, with Wheel of Fortune playing in the background, and a misleading political ad pops up. These slips usually involve one of the milder epithets, but the impulse seems to spring from repressed anger; their expression, a show of disrespect for myself and the One who is always there to hear. And this disturbs me.

I blame it on toxic influences, like the writing trend of substituting profanity for creative word-crafting, and the effects of a wobbly moral compass that determines what gets spewed out from movie and television screens. But I also blame myself. No matter how much I try to avoid exposure to crude communications, the World encroaches, and I am still vulnerable to its influences. Increasingly numbed, I suppose, to the casual attitudes that allow the "s-word" to become a commonly accepted noun.

Along with millions of Americans, I recently got hooked on the network broadcast of Only Murders in the Building. It was entertaining, with a twisty mystery plot to keep viewers hooked. Steve Martin and Martin Short are talented comedic actors who know how to embellish a scene with quirky personality. But the language peppered throughout every episode flew in my face like an unexpected assault with icy water.

The most offensive words were bleeped out, presumably because ABC is accountable to the FCC. But every time a hand gesture got blurred or a bit of dialogue got bleeped, my mind filled in that blank. Yours probably did, too.

Interestingly, belching out Christ's name in frustration doesn't qualify as offensive to the mainstream entertainment industry. But it's a safe bet that the arbiters of okay-ness wouldn't even consider blaspheming the name of non-Christian religious figures.

I've railed about this stuff for decades, as I wrote in the "To Bend or Not to Bend" chapter of Loving Zelda:

During lunch at our favorite Chinese buffet . . . I feel protective of Z and watchful, emboldened to confront a boisterous Neanderthal holding forth a few tables away. “Do you think you could manage not to use the F-word eight times in every sentence?” I suggest, forcing a smile. “I’m here with my 82-year-old stepmother, and we would both really appreciate it.” Apparently stunned, McPottymouth blinks twice in response, and I escape without bodily injury.

Which is why I feel like a wretched hypocrite when my tongue rebels.

I wonder if I am alone in this struggle. And I pray that I will have the moral fortitude to walk away from so-called entertainment that ultimately horrifies—not because of the gruesome blood-stained murder plot, but because of the blotch it leaves on my soul, the anguish it inflicts on my conscience.