I remember the days when ‘fuck’ was a word that, if used, would equate your mouth getting washed out with soap.  As kids, we were never permitted to use this word, and if we did, it would almost be a blood-swearing process of cutting our thumbs in a soulmate’s promise of death do us part not to tell anyone we used the F word.

Fast forward to years later, and it is on t-shirts, jeans, sweatshirts, tote bags, postcards, and neon lights highlighting the emphasis of expression to the max.  In the past months, it has become elevated to the taxonomy of everyday nervousness paralleled to the inflammatory political climate of mayhem, and ‘fucks’ have run amok.

The resin-coated ‘fucks’ are meant to look deliciously colorful with the whimsical irony of a swear word gone pop culture until it is now almost entirely benign.