luka
Well-known member
. Not a laddy jovial one. An obsessive surgical interest. Deep sexual perversion. Women laid out on an anatomy table. Latex gloves.
Quillette
- Thread starter luka
- Start date
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- Tags
- bad dragon baked bean cum barty's fart gaffe barty's outrageous flatulence barty's problematic wind barty's tearful confession charisma corpsey's poo anecdotes craner's dirty little secret docking gapemanbarty gaping holly willoughby jack the ripper modern man in search of meaning mr tea's mushroom pate romford sadmanfarty smashing sounding surrounded by lunatics the fall of man the man about town version's dad white supremacism working class body horror
. Not a laddy jovial one. An obsessive surgical interest. Deep sexual perversion. Women laid out on an anatomy table. Latex gloves.
luka
Well-known member
Unfortunately I can picture them all too clearly
sadmanbarty
Well-known member
Sid Viscous
8 months ago
Forget Holly, look at the cracking set of milkers on Judy!
8 months ago
Forget Holly, look at the cracking set of milkers on Judy!
luka
Well-known member
I quite like it. But I'm older now.
sadmanbarty
Well-known member
gaping's big with these fellas.
they're horrifying, awful people.
they're horrifying, awful people.
sadmanbarty
Well-known member
i like it that there's always a point- no matter what the thread- that we start talking about ghastly english sexuality.
it's a trauma we've all been living with for years that we seek exorcise at any opportunity.
it's a trauma we've all been living with for years that we seek exorcise at any opportunity.
Mr. Tea
Let's Talk About Ceps
hang on wait what
sadmanbarty
Well-known member
i can't help but infuse tea's sexuality with his dinner of the day entries. bloated sex with casserole farts flying out of all sorts of orifices, mushroom pate still on your finger tips.
sadmanbarty
Well-known member
i know it's a fiction of my own wayward mind, but it's one that's hard to shake.
luka
Well-known member
:crylarf::crylarf::crylarf:
Mr. Tea
Let's Talk About Ceps
Eating then fucking is the fatal error. There is a correct order to satisfying the two basic hungers.
sadmanbarty
Well-known member
i'm sure i've mentioned it before on here when i farted while lifting a girl up. terrible.
version
Well-known member
"One of Bloom’s mooted entrepreneurial schemes involves selling human waste on an industrial scale. Joyce’s work is mired in excremental language and imagery: water closets, commodes, sewers, ‘clotted hinderparts’, ‘slopperish matter’, ‘nappy spattees’, ‘pip poo pat’ of ‘bulgar … bowels’ and so on. Nowhere is Joyce more potty-mouthed than when taking on the language and procedure of religious devotion. At the outset of Finnegans Wake the books of Genesis and Exodus become urinary and colonic tracts and Christ the salmon turns into a big brown trout, a ‘brontoichthyan’ thunderfish or turd floating in a stream mingling with ‘piddle’. But, again, the process has already begun in Ulysses. Bloom starts his day by votively bowing his head as he enters his outhouse to perform the act of defecation that will see him hailed as ‘Moses, Moses, King of the Jews’ who ‘wiped his arse in the Daily News’. Buck Mulligan, in his parody of Mass, quick-changes from priest to military doctor, peeping at an imaginary stool sample floating in what he has been presenting as an altar bowl. The shaving bowl doesn’t contain faeces, but other sorts of human waste: stubble and cast-off skin cells. These things, too, belong to the category of excreta, as do phlegm, bile, navelcords and blood: whatever is excessive, leaking, trailing, dragging.
Ulysses is packed to overflowing with such things: in it every concept, no matter how intangible or rarefied, is transformed into something lowly, degraded, abject – and the more so the more elevated it held itself to be. Poetry turns into snot; nature, and the contours of the Romantic sublime, into a bowl of sluggish vomit. Forget Apollonian beauty: what Bloom wants to know is whether statues of Greek gods have arseholes. For him, the heart, seat of refined emotions, is a rusty pump; communion is cannibalism; justice just ‘means … everybody eating everyone else’. He’s obsessed with falling bodies, their weight and volume and the speed at which they fall. Ulysses is a heavy book, a book full of weight, a fallen book. What has fallen in it, into it, is everything literature previously held to be immaterial or abstract: in its pages metaphysics collapses into what the artist Jake Chapman nicely calls meatphysics. It’s hard to think, outside of zombie movies, of a work more omnivoric – and omni-emetic. Rats eat corpses; savages eat missionaries; Bloom eats cheese; cheese eats itself; dogs eat themselves, spew themselves out, eat themselves again; the city and the day eat and spew out Bloom …"
Ulysses is packed to overflowing with such things: in it every concept, no matter how intangible or rarefied, is transformed into something lowly, degraded, abject – and the more so the more elevated it held itself to be. Poetry turns into snot; nature, and the contours of the Romantic sublime, into a bowl of sluggish vomit. Forget Apollonian beauty: what Bloom wants to know is whether statues of Greek gods have arseholes. For him, the heart, seat of refined emotions, is a rusty pump; communion is cannibalism; justice just ‘means … everybody eating everyone else’. He’s obsessed with falling bodies, their weight and volume and the speed at which they fall. Ulysses is a heavy book, a book full of weight, a fallen book. What has fallen in it, into it, is everything literature previously held to be immaterial or abstract: in its pages metaphysics collapses into what the artist Jake Chapman nicely calls meatphysics. It’s hard to think, outside of zombie movies, of a work more omnivoric – and omni-emetic. Rats eat corpses; savages eat missionaries; Bloom eats cheese; cheese eats itself; dogs eat themselves, spew themselves out, eat themselves again; the city and the day eat and spew out Bloom …"