My dad does not swear. He says things like "Potlicker!" or "Son of a gun!" Growing up, even saying "God" (replaced with Gosh), "Hell" (replaced with Heck), or "Damn" (replaced with Darn even if you were talking about Hoover's) could get you a disapproving look and sent to your room.
When I was in grade four, my mom picked up my brother and I at lunch one day. The plan was to have a quick lunch and buy some new runners. We got to the mall and hopped out of the car. My mom slammed my door and her and my brother started walking away. A blood-curdling scream stopped them in their tracks; my mom had slammed my thumb in the car door. She ran back, digging the keys out of her purse (this was long before you could press a button to unlock the doors), and fumbling to get the front door open so she could reach around and pull up the lock on the back door. She said "Damn." I stopped screaming and looked up at her like, "who the hell are you?" I was absolutely flabbergasted!
And then we skipped the whole shoe thing, went to the doctor, I got one of those nifty silver finger straighteners attached to my thumb, and then I got to spend the rest of the day playing with little kids at the playschool my mom owned.
To sum up: my mom said a bad word, I got a "cast," and I got to play with play dough instead of do math. All in all, a pretty fantastic day.