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Sweary
Many moons ago, I wrote on this here blog an exquisite essay on the word “cunt”, a noun for all seasons, an insult for every occasion. In the midst of that rantacular poetry I managed to cobble together something I dubbed The Cuntometer, which served as a handy guide to the levels of cuntosity various cunts had climbed to. Suited to Ireland, of course, where every second person is a cunt, and every third at least two kinds of cunt, the Cuntometer served me well in the heady days ’round its conception, and brought my readers closer to understanding me, and therefore… well, closer to me. The days of the cuntometer were good days, warm days. It fell out of favour after I fell out of Blogger; none of my real-life buds cared for my diagrams, or my delving into the nuances of verbal abuse.
But here I am on the blogosphere again, and so The Cuntometer must crawl its vile way back into your hearts. I had been thinking about updating it for a while; after all, Bertie and Michael McDowell are Ghosts of Pissflaps Past, and any more nods towards their arseholishness would make my head come clean off my shoulders. And Bock managed to reference the cuntometer in Friday’s post about apathy, so I vowed to fight the subject matter and update it once and for all. And so, without further to-do, I give you…
An awful cunt being a cunt we know to be a cunt but still wouldn’t quite be moved to murder by, I thought Bono with his tax-dodging sanctimony and Rosanna Davison with her theory on the spirituality of recession would be perfect examples. Desperate cunts are that bit worse, beyond redemption or cries of “It takes all kinds”, so perhaps the Unholy Trinity of Marys Coughlan, Hanafin and Harney could represent this segment. Surely there’s no one could complain about Ryanair and Anglo Irish biggin’ it up for the utter cunts, those who cannot be spoken of without flecks of spit spraying violently from a twisted mouth… and as for unspeakable cunts? Well, Gerry Ryan and his paycut and subsequent ascension into a Heaven of his own making and exclusive population must prove an example to us all, and I doubt I have to explain Brian Cowen. Brian Cowen is… well, an unspeakable cunt.
I hope that will suffice. Of course, you cunts may disagree, in which case, cunt off. Or comment. One-a-the-two.
(And apologies to Kevin, who I think doesn’t like the word cunt. Calm yourself, Kevin. It’s much less insulting than being called a giant vagina… isn’t it?)
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