“Seventy may be the new sixty, but 80 is still 80!” (Gary McMahan).
I did it again. Used some bad language at the wrong time. My Dad was a minister and I only heard him use smut once. We were washing the parsonage windows, he was outside, I was inside. I had somewhere to be fairly soon that I alone deemed more important than the Baptist windows. The third time I barked “what time is it?” came the stunning answer: “Half passed the crack of my ass, fifteen minutes till farting time!”
At age 14 I already added profanity as a second language, but this coming from E.T. Parham shocks me in my 80th year.
My mentor in dirty language and impure thoughts began early. Billy Fulton. I think his source was Uncle Louie. My lately arrived at theory that an offshoot of WW11 was that dirty jokes, limericks, poems, etc. got spread at an exponential rate. I wrote this about Uncle Louie . (from PLAY IS WHERE LIFE IS):
“Billy had moved in with Opal and Woody into a nicer home, albeit further away. He also got us closer to “Uncle Louie”. Uncle Louie was a World War II Vet. It seemed like he was always under the hood of his car. Later in life I’ve decided World War II was the vehicle that spread various types of humor throughout the country. Uncle Louie was our source. He knew every dirty joke, limerick, ditty, titty, or whatever. (See page 24 Archibald Bearasshole). And I loved it.
Names of farts: Fiz, Fazz, Fizzle, Fazzle, poot, anti-poot, rip ass, and roar.
Sizes of brassieres: 32A, 34B, Hubba-Hubba, Oh Hot Damn, Here Comes the Showboat, and the F.O.B. Detroit.
“I saw her butt ……she didn’t see me. I saw her ass she crossed the street.”
I was becoming addicted to funny people and they were often “smutty”. Billy was an encyclopedia of vice. He had a “pornographic memory”.
The Little Green Book of Tennis 