You know what I hate? Anyone over the age of six who uses nursery words to describe their body or its functions. There’s something unfathomably creepy about a middle-aged man saying he has to make potty, or a woman of similar age referring to her happy pouch. Happy pouch, dear God! Even vajayjay‘s better.
You don’t have to say piss, shit, cock, or cunt. You can say use the toilet and genitals. Private parts, if you’re shy. Just, Christ, don’t say front butt in bed with me. That’s some paedo-ass shit. Do not want.
Speaking of shit, there was this guy in my home town, ah…he’d ring up your house and do one while you listened. He must’ve stuck the phone between his legs, because you really heard it all, the gas and the plopping, the odd belly-burble. I took it quite personally the first time. I thought he was specifically shitting at me. I yelled so loud my father picked up the other line. Then he started yelling, and it was like…oh, it went something like this:
“Jesus H. motherfuck! You shit at me? What’d I ever do to you? You gotta shit in my ear? Who the fuck is this? What the fuck? What the fuck?“
“Get off the line! Both of you! Off the line!“
“Sod off, Angus. This fucker just shit at me.”
“You go to your room. Don’t answer the phone!”
“I’ll find you! I’ll—“
“HANG UP THIS MINUTE!“
That was the first time. The second time it happened, I wasn’t so offended. By that time, I knew he’d been ringing all over town with his bowels on the go. It wasn’t directed at me, or at least, not specifically. It was probably some kid thinking he was funny. Or a pervert, y’know, one of those exhibitionists. A telephone coprophiliac exhibitionist. (Is that a thing? Was it ever a thing?)
(Many years later, I did a stint with a phone sex line. One time, this drunk called up, and a dog kept barking in the background. It kept interrupting his train of wank, and he finally exploded, like “fuck, can you hear that shit? That’s my neighbour’s dog, one of them German ones, what ya call…like a Budweiser.” And I did this silent scream, just my mouth gaping open in a great hiss of laughter. A Budweiser! A Budweiser! I even named my cockatiel after his penis, or his hot rod, as he called it. That’s another reason you shouldn’t use kiddie words for your junk. Folks’ll name birds after it. And don’t call it your birdie.)
You know what I always wondered? Who has a phone in their toilet? Or who had, in the eighties, when this was going on? Were there cordless phones already? Or did people wire phones in there, so they could…do that, I suppose?
(Another guy from the phone sex line wanted to hear farts. I downloaded a bunch of fart sounds, but I forgot to turn off the, ah…the thing, you know, that auto-advance, where it finishes one sound and goes to the next. So I put on a fart and I didn’t press stop, and this DEMONIC FUCKING LAUGH went cackling down the line—my e-mail sound, at the time. The guy was not impressed.)
Anyway, nothing interesting happened today, so this is what you get. Sorry, not sorry. Pthbbt-GA-HA-HA!