Anus Quotes

We are gods with anuses.

I love to kill fish,' Sayle went on. 'But when I saw this specimen of Physalia physalis, I knew I had to capture it and keep it. You see, it reminds me of myself.' 'It's ninety-nine per cent water. It has no brain, no guts and no anus.' Alex had dredged up the facts from somewhere and spoken them before he knew what he was doing.

Shoes off in the whale! And don't try and make a break for the anus.

Funding a civilization through advertising is like trying to get nutrition by connecting a tube from one’s anus to one’s mouth.

There’s this thing that happens, let’s say at school where a bunch of guys are in the bathroom, at the urinal, laughing about some dork that made an anus of himself in gym. You’re all basically nice guys, right? You know right from wrong, and would not in a million years be brutal to the poor guy’s face. And then it happens: the dork was in the shitter. He comes out of the stall with this look. He heard everything. And you realize you’re not really that nice of a guy. This is what I would say if I could, to all smart people of the world with their dumb hillbilly jokes: We are right here in the stall. We can actually hear you.

I will pull your pancreas out through your nose and feed it back to you in a drip inserted into your anus is that clear?

Oh if only instead of being a hell, the universe had been an immense anus!

A man who finds himself among others is irritated because he does not know why he is not one of the others. In bed next to a girl he loves, he forgets that he does not know why he is himself instead of the body he touches. Without knowing it, he suffers from the mental darkness that keeps him from screaming that he himself is the girl who forgets his presence while shuddering in his arms.

Judge Schreber has sunbeams in his ass. A solar anus. And rest assured that it works.

Meaning 'by way of the anus'. 'Per Annum', with two n's, means 'yearly'. The correct answer to the question, 'What is the birthrate per anum?' is zero (one hopes).

I want to have my throat slashed while violating the girl to whom I will have been able to say: you are the night.

I am filthy. I am riddled with lice. Hogs, when they look at me, vomit. My skin is encrusted with the scabs and scales of leprosy, and covered with yellow pus.[...] A family of toads has taken up residence in my left armpit and, when one of them moves, it tickles. Mind one of them does not escape and come and scratch the inside of your ear with its mouth; for it would then be able to enter your brain. In my right armpit there is a chameleon which is perpetually chasing them, to avoid starving to death: everyone must live.[...] My anus has been penetrated by a crab; encouraged by my sluggishness, he guards the entrance with his pincers, and causes me a lot of pain.

What about a teakettle? What if the spout opened and closed when the steam came out, so it would become a mouth, and it could whistle pretty melodies, or do Shakespeare, or just crack up with me? I could invent a teakettle that reads in Dad’s voice, so I could fall asleep, or maybe a set of kettles that sings the chorus of “Yellow Submarine,” which is a song by the Beatles, who I love, because entomology is one of my raisons d’être, which is a French expression that I know. Another good thing is that I could train my anus to talk when I farted. If I wanted to be extremely hilarious, I’d train it to say, “Wasn’t me!” every time I made an incredibly bad fart. And if I ever made an incredibly bad fart in the Hall of Mirrors, which is in Versailles, which is outside of Paris, which is in France, obviously, my anus would say, “Ce n’étais pas moi!” What about little microphones? What if everyone swallowed them, and they played the sounds of our hearts through little speakers, which could be in the pouches of our overalls? When you skateboard down the street at night you could hear everyone's heartbeat, and they could hear yours, sort of like sonar. One weird thing is, I wonder if everyone's hearts would start to beat at the same time, like how women who live together have their menstrual periods at the same time, which I know about, but don't really want to know about. That would be so weird, except that the place in the hospital where babies are born would sound like a crystal chandelier in a houseboat, because the babies wouldn't have had time to match up their heartbeats yet. And at the finish line at the end of the New York City Marathon it would sound like war.

...no animal likes to be pecked on the anus by a duck.

The male doesn't eat - it doesn't even have a mouth or an anus - so it does nothing but mate until death.

Now, the penis is round, and the anus is round, while the vagina’s opening is long and narrow; clearly then Nature designed the penis to fit into the anus, not into the vagina.

Besides shooting out a big blank from your buttock, you can feel as if your root chakra leaked sweet hot mucus.

The women in porn plead to be abused. They call themselves whores and sluts. They are beaten and penetrated by groups of men. Their faces are covered with semen from dozens of masturbating men, their anuses are penetrated repeatedly by lines of partners, and they are raped. The women portrayed in the films exist to fulfill the desire of men in the most degrading and painful way possible. Nearly all porn dialogue includes lines from women such as I am a cunt, I am a bitch. I am a whore. I am a slut.

Rowf's rump slid suddenly forward as smoothly as a turd from a healthy anus.

Don’t try blowing smoke up my ass, because you’ll find my anus blocked—by a cigar.

The state of relaxation of the mouth and jaw is directly correlated to the ability of the cervix, the vagina, and the anus to open to full capacity.

My mother came into the kitchen. "Whose car is that parked in front of our house?" "That's Stephanie's new car," Grandma said. "Isn't it a pip?" One of my mother's eyebrows raised in question. "Two new cars? Where are these cars coming from?" "Company cars," I said. "Oh?" "Anal sex is not involved," I told her. My mother and grandmother both gasped. "Sorry," I said. "It just slipped out." "I thought only homosexual men did anal sex," Grandma said. "Anybody with an anus can do it," I told her. "Hmm," she said. "I got one of them.

There are two more turds, smaller ones, and when he has eaten these, residual shit to lick out of her anus. He prays that she'll let him drop the cape over himself, to be allowed, in the silk-lined darkness, to stay a while longer with his submissive tongue straining upward into her asshole. But she moves away. The fur evaporates from his hands. She orders him to masturbate for her. She has watched Captain Blicero with Gottfried, and has learned the proper style.

think of it.' said Robert Rosenbluth, a doctor whose acquaintance i made at the start of this book. 'no engineer could design something as multifunctional and fine tuned as an anus. to call someone an asshole is really bragging him up.

What does it mean to love somebody? It is always to seize that person in a mass, extract him or her from a group, however small, in which he or she participates, whether it be through the family only or through something else; then to find that person's own packs, the multiplicities he or she encloses within himself or herself which may be of an entirely different nature. To join them to mine, to make them penetrate mine, and for me to penetrate the other person's. Heavenly nuptials, multiplicities of multiplicities. Every love is an exercise in depersonalization on a body without organs yet to be formed, and it is at the highest point of this depersonalization that some- one can be named, receives his or her family name or first name, acquires the most intense discernibility in the instantaneous apprehension of the multiplicities belonging to him or her, and to which he or she belongs. A pack of freckles on a face, a pack of boys speaking through the voice of a woman, a clutch of girls in Charlus's voice, a horde of wolves in somebody's throat, a multiplicity of anuses in the anus, mouth, or eye one is intent upon. We each go through so many bodies in each other.

When my face is flushed with blood, it becomes red and obscene. It betrays at the same time, through morbid reflexes, a bloody erection and a demanding thirst for indecency and criminal debauchery.

She looked away from him, drawing hard on her Rothman’s; when her mouth puckered into hard little lines around the cigarette, it looked like a cat’s anus.

Nnamabia seemed fine to me, slipping his money into his anus and all.

I am not interested in a hermeneutics, or an erotics, or a metaphorics, of my anus. I am interested in ass-fucking. I am interested in the fact that the clitoris, disguised as a discrete button, sweeps over the entire area like a manta ray, impossible to tell where its eight thousand nerves begin and end. I am interested in the fact that the human anus is one of the most innervated parts of the body,

What kind of power was it if everybody knew that it would never be used? Better to say that it was not there, that it was no more than the power in the anus of the proud dog who tried to put out a furnace with his puny fart.... He turned the yam with a stick.

What you accomplish in life is limited only by your imagination and the fear of reprisal. Life is too fleeting and unrewarding to have to live with the added anus of indignity. The denial of one's inevitable demise is what causes most of the astringent blandness in the world. When your existence ends most certainly in death, there is no such thing as "going too far." There are no "lines" you should fear to cross except the finish line. Playing it safe is the most dangerous thing you could do.

I have a theory that as human beings get older, chemicals are released into the brain to prepare us for the end. Sort of like how the nurse lubes your ass up before the anus-cam. It makes the whole thing a lot easier to swallow. Easier, not enjoyable.

I gave blood today. It came gushing out of my nose. And anus.

Flatulence is the international language. Speak it with your anus. Hear it through your ears. Listen through your nose.

O, if only, instead of being a hell, the universe had been an immense celestial anus!

He shuffled up to the stake and examined the impaled, naked, dead man. The stake entered his anus and protruded through his gaping mouth, his death mask frozen in a look of horror.

I had always considered sex an ultimate sticky reality, the least mediated contact possible with another body. Instead, after that experience, I was convinced that sex is an extreme product of the imagination. The greater the pleasure, the more the other is only a dream, a nocturnal reaction of belly, breasts, mouth, anus―of every isolated inch of skin―to the caresses and thrusts of a vague entity definable according to the necessities of the moment.

I think it is effective to constrict your anus 100 times, dent your navel 100 times in succession everyday. You can do so at a boring meeting or in a subway without being noticed for you to do so. I have known 70 year old man who has practiced it for 20 years. As a result, he has good complexion and has grown 20 years younger. His eyes sparkle. He is full of vigor, happiness, and joy. He has neither complained nor born a grudge under any circumstance.

Oh incomprehensible pederasts, I shall not heap insults upon your great degradation; I shall not be the one to pour scorn on your infundibuliform anus. It is enough that the shameful and almost incurable maladies which besiege you should bring with them their unfailing punishments.

For the husband, the male prostate can only be accessed through the anus. It is called the "male G-spot" as it is reportedly a source of great pleasure when stroked by such things as a wife's finger.

Since when has leadership been a criterion for sanity? Or vice versa. Hitler was a gifted leader, even Nixon. Exhibit leadership qualities as an adolescent, they pack you off to law school for an anus transplant. If it takes, you go into government.

I got my plan. It was a highly polished aluminum tube, that unscrewed in the middle. It had a male half and a female half. It contained 5600 francs in new bills. When I got it, I kissed it. Yes, I kissed that little tube, two and a half inches long and as thick as your thumb, before shoving it into my anus. I took a deep breath so that it would lodge in the colon. It was my strongbox. They could make me take off all my clothes, spread my legs apart, make me cough or bend over double, for all the good it would do them. The plan was high up in the large intestine. It was a part of me. Inside me I carried my life, my freedom ... my road to revenge. For that's what was on my mind. Revenge. That's all that was, in fact.

I explained my opinion of the ship’s logic. “That is a strange designation,” said the ship. “While I have certain organic elements incorporated into my substructure and decentralized DNA computing components, I am not—in the strictest sense of the term—a biological organism. I have no digestive system. No need for elimination, other than the occasional waste gas and passenger effluvium. Therefore, I have no anus in either real or figurative terms. Therefore, I hardly believe I could qualify to be called an …” “Shut up,” I said.

The vampire gagged. The muscles of its neck constricted, widened, constricted again, and it disgorged a six-inch-long metal cylinder onto my desk. The bloodsucker grasped it, twisted the cylinder’s halves apart, and retrieved a roll of papers. “Photographs,” Ghastek said, handing me a couple of sheets from the roll. “That’s disgusting.” “He is thirty years old,” Ghastek said. “All his internal organs, with the exception of the heart, atrophied long ago. The throat makes for a very good storage cavity. People seem to prefer it to the anus.” Translation: be happy I didn’t pull it out of my ass. Thank the gods for small favors.

There’s this story I read one time, some old-school Muslim fairy tale, maybe it was a discarded hadith I guess, but it was all about the first time Satan sees Adam. Satan circles around him, inspecting him like a used car or something, this new creation—God’s favorite, apparently. Satan’s unimpressed, doesn’t get it. And then Satan steps into Adam’s mouth, disappears completely inside him and passes through all his guts and intestines and finally emerges out his anus. And when he gets out, Satan’s laughing and laughing. Rolling around. He passes all the way through the first man and he’s rolling around laughing, in tears, and he says to God, ‘This is what you’ve made? He’s all empty! All hollow!’ He can’t believe his luck. How easy his job is going to be. Humans are just a long emptiness waiting to be filled.

Course you can't fucking see, buddy, it's darker than a nun's virgin anus down here.

My anus, like the inside of my nose, is something I can finger but can't examine.

There is no way this conversation is not going to get horrible, thought Odette. No situation is improved by the presence of a gigantic anus. At

The penis smooth and round was made with anus best to match it, * Had it been made for cunnus' sake it had been formed like hatchet!

Felching is when a man fucks you up the butt without a rubber. He shoots his load, and then plants his mouth on your anus and sucks out his own warm sperm, plus whatever lubrication and feces are present. That's felching. It may or may not, include kissing you to pass the sperm and fecal matter into your mouth.

What if Beatriz Preciado is right—what if we’ve entered a new, post-Fordist era of capitalism that Preciado calls the “pharma-copornographic era,” whose principal economic resource is nothing other than “the insatiable bodies of the multitudes—their cocks, clitorises, anuses, hormones, and neurosexual synapses … [our] desire, excitement, sexuality, seduction, and … pleasure”?

On the outside, the man of today is carefully groomed, perhaps unnecessarily and over carefully clean; while inside he is dirtier than the dirtiest animal—whose anus is as clean as its mouth, provided said animal has not been "domesticated" by "civilized" man.

With practice I will eventually realize my goal; in the meantime, come to Paris and you will find me, headphones plugged tight in my external audio meatus, walking the quays and whispering, 'Has anything else been inserted into your anus? Has anything else been inserted into your anus?

For what angry God arching backward over the world. his anus spitting fire, the fetid breath of his mouth propelling blood-colored clouds, his navel full of burnt pitch and singed feathers, have we given our eyes, our teeth, our eyeglasses, bales of our our hair, and the magic of our worthless gold?

From a balanced reading of the Ten Commandments, we can only assume that God would prefer you to have gay sex than to covet your neighbor’s oxen. If you’d had a terrible day at work and had to do some sinning, just to unwind, the Commandments are clear about which sin is considered more unholy. “God, I’ve had a terrible day at work; I’ve got to let off some steam. Either I’m going to have sex with Terry or I’m going to covet my neighbor’s oxen.” “What?! No, you mustn’t do that; you better go hang out with Terry.” “Thank you, Lord. I’m going to slide my erect penis right up Terry’s anus.” “Fair enough, my son; I don’t really have a policy on that. I will ask, though, that you don’t look over next door’s fence at them grazing oxen, then imagine in your mind, ‘What would it be like if those oxen were my oxen?’ Don’t do that, will you?” “I won’t. I’m going to empty myself into Terry, then put my mouth over his rect—” “Okay! Do what you’ve gotta do! Just remember: Those are not your oxen!

After Auschwitz" Anger, as black as a hook, overtakes me. Each day, each Nazi took, at 8: 00 A.M., a baby and sauteed him for breakfast in his frying pan. And death looks on with a casual eye and picks at the dirt under his fingernail. Man is evil, I say aloud. Man is a flower that should be burnt, I say aloud. Man is a bird full of mud, I say aloud. And death looks on with a casual eye and scratches his anus. Man with his small pink toes, with his miraculous fingers is not a temple but an outhouse, I say aloud. Let man never again raise his teacup. Let man never again write a book. Let man never again put on his shoe. Let man never again raise his eyes, on a soft July night. Never. Never. Never. Never. Never. I say those things aloud. I beg the Lord not to hear.

Although really society should not change, it should mutate. And, little by little, it is mutating... ... Society is like the body of a chicken: the chicken's foot is hard and insensitive while the eye is very alive. And there are beings who embody the cells of the eyes and others who embody the cells of the feet, of the wings, or of the anus.

Anus Mundi

No situation is improved by the presence of a gigantic anus.

pointing handheld communication devices at themselves. The females puckered their lips for the devices. Perhaps mimicking an anus? He wasn’t sure.

Grandma, everyone out here is bleaching their anuses. What do I do?" Her advice? "Baby, go outside in the sun and squirt a little lemon juice on it.

You are no longer required. This woman has someone worthier who will respect her and tear your spine out through your anus should you attempt to contact her again.

NEWT Well, the first symptom would be flames out of his anus—

...my head is buried so far up the anus of the culture.

No, madam,' I said to the woman in my ESL English. "That's my mom. I came out her asshole and I love her very much. I am seven. Next year I will be eight. I'm doing fine."... You believed, like many Vietnamese mothers, that to speak of female genitalia, especially between mothers adn sons, is considered taboo- so when talking about birth, you always mentioned that I had come out of your anus. You would playfully slap my head and say,'This huge noggin nearly tore up my asshole!

Why aren't you at your booth?" "She ran out of bats' testicles and hares' anuses," I piped up. "Is it anuses or ani?" Roxy asked in an aside, looking perplexed. "You say octopi, don't you? Shouldn't more than one hare's anus be ani?

Christ, I walk through an inferno unscatched, then singe my ass on the flight back." [...] "You guys are the ... the heart and brain of the Great Machine." "Yeah? Then you're the inflamed anus." "You're not the brain, by the way.

Some truly bad writing, but brilliantly funny at the same time. "When he was yet a million miles away the bright ring of fire that marked its portal filled the sky in front of him, flexing and twisting like the devil's anus in spasms of immortal agony.

So far as they're concerned, the physical fronts don't exist. Except for a mouth and an anus, their patient doesn't have a body. He isn't an organism, he wasn't born with a constitution or a temperament. All he has is the two ends of a digestive tube, a family and a psyche.

He becomes dizzy and utterly weak, and his spine goes limp and nerveless and he loses all sense of balance. The room is turning around and around. He is going into shock. He leans over, head on his knees, and brings up an incredible quantity of blood from his stomach and spills it onto the floor with a gasping groan. He loses consciousness and pitches forward onto the floor. The only sound is a choking in his throat as he continues to vomit blood and black matter while unconscious. Then comes a sound like a bedsheet being torn in half, which is the sound of his bowels opening and venting blood from the anus. The blood is mixed with intestinal lining. He has sloughed his gut. The linings of his intestines have come off and are being expelled along with huge amounts of blood. Monet has crashed and is bleeding out.

At its most elemental level the human organism, like crawling life, has a mouth, digestive tract, and anus, a skin to keep it intact, and appendages with which to acquire food. Existence, for all organismic life, is a constant struggle to feed-a struggle to incorporate whatever other organisms they can fit into their mouths and press down their gullets without choking. Seen in these stark terms, life on this planet is a gory spectacle, a science-fiction nightmare in which digestive tracts fitted with teeth at one end are tearing away at whatever flesh they can reach, and at the other end are piling up the fuming waste excrement as they move along in search of more flesh. I think this is why the epoch of the dinosaurs exerts such a strange fascination on us: it is an epic food orgy with king-size actors who convey unmistakably what organisms are dedicated to. Sensitive souls have reacted with shock to the elemental drama of life on this planet, and one of the reasons that Darwin so shocked his time-and still bothers ours-is that he showed this bone crushing, blood-drinking drama in all its elementality and necessity: Life cannot go on without the mutual devouring of organisms. If at the end of each person’s life he were to be presented with the living spectacle of all that he had organismically incorporated in order to stay alive, he might well feel horrified by the living energy he had ingested. The horizon of a gourmet, or even the average person, would be taken up with hundreds of chickens, flocks of lambs and sheep, a small herd of steers, sties full of pigs, and rivers of fish. The din alone would be deafening. To paraphrase Elias Canetti, each organism raises its head over a field of corpses, smiles into the sun, and declares life good.

Any discussion of the sexuality of the digestive tract must inevitably touch on the anus. Anal tissue is among the most densely innervated on the human body. It has to be. It requires a lot of information to do its job. The anus has to be able to tell what’s knocking at its door: Is it solid, liquid, or gas? And then selectively release either all of it or one part of it. The consequences of a misread are dire. As Mike Jones put it, “You don’t want to choose poorly.” People who understand anatomy are often cowed by the feats of the lowly anus. “Think of it,” said Robert Rosenbluth, a physician whose acquaintance I made at the start of this book. “No engineer could design something as multifunctional and fine-tuned as an anus. To call someone an asshole is really bragging him up.

California, Labor Day weekend...early, with ocean fog still in the streets, outlaw motorcyclists wearing chains, shades and greasy Levis roll out from damp garages, all-night diners and cast-off one-night pads in Fricso, Hollywood, Berdoo and East Oakland, heading for the Monterey peninsula, north of Big Sur...The Menace is loose again, the Hell's Angels, the hundred-carat headline, running fast and loud on the early morning freeway, low in the saddle, nobody smiles, jamming crazy through traffic and ninety miles an hour down the center stripe, missing by inches...like Genghis Khan on an iron horse, a monster steed with a fiery anus, flat out through the eye of a beer can and up your daughter's leg with no quarter asked and non given; show the squares some class, give em a whiff of those kicks they'll never know...Ah, these righteous dudes, they love to screw it on...Little Jesus, the Gimp, Chocolate George, Buzzard, Zorro, Hambone, Clean Cut, Tiny, Terry the Tramp, Frenchy, Mouldy Marvin, Mother Miles, Dirty Ed, Chuck the Duck, Fat Freddy, Filthy Phil, Charger Charley the Child Molester, Crazy Cross, Puff, Magoo, Animal and at least a hundred more...tense for the action, long hair in the wind, beards and bandanas flapping, earrings, armpits, chain whips, swastikas and stripped-down Harleys flashing chrome as traffic on 101 moves over, nervous, to let the formation pass like a burst of dirty thunder...

It is difficult to describe how it feels to gaze at living human beings whom you’ve seen perform in hard-core porn. To shake the hand of a man whose precise erectile size, angle, and vasculature are known to you. That strange I-think-we’ve-met-before sensation one feels upon seeing any celebrity in the flesh is here both intensified and twisted. It feels intensely twisted to see reigning industry queen Jenna Jameson chilling out at the Vivid booth in Jordaches and a latex bustier and to know already that she has a tattoo of a sundered valentine with the tagline HEART BREAKER on her right buttock and a tiny hairless mole just left of her anus. To watch Peter North try to get a cigar lit and to have that sight backlit by memories of his artilleryesque ejaculations.13 To have seen these strangers’ faces in orgasm—that most unguarded and purely neural of expressions, the one so vulnerable that for centuries you basically had to marry a person to get to see it.

Love then screams in my own throat; I am the Jesuve, the filthy parody of the torrid and blinding sun. I want to have my throat slashed while violating the girl to whom I will have been able to say: you are the night. The Sun exclusively loves the Night and directs its luminous violence, its ignoble shaft, toward the earth, but finds itself incapable of reaching the gaze or the night, even though the nocturnal terrestrial expanses head continuously toward the indecency of the solar ray. The solar annulus is the intact anus of her body at eighteen years to which nothing sufficiently blinding can be compared except the sun, even though the anus is night.

I was also one of those people who hadn’t caught up with the latest social networking site. Maura belonged to most of them. She passed most evenings befriending men who had tried to date-rape her in high school, but I was still stuck in the last virtual community, a sad place to be, like Europe, say, during the Black Death. Whenever I cruised this site, with its favorites lists and its paeans to somebody’s cousin’s gas station art gallery, I could not help but think of medieval corpses in the spring-thaw mud, buboes sprouted in every armpit and anus, black bile curling out of frozen mouths. Those of us still cursed with life wandered the blasted dales of this stricken network, wept and moaned and flogged ourselves with frayed AC adaptors, called out for God to strike us dead, or else let us find somebody who liked similar bands.

Today I’ve prepared for you a selection of plastic-wrapped charcuterie, featuring a rustic gastrique of artisanal pig anuses and a decadent mélange of mechanically separated chicken,” he said in the style of the chefs on all those cooking competition shows his mother complained about wasting her life watching, yet watched anyway. “Bon appétit.

Then he thrust out, pulling the pistol back just before it touched the man’s clavicle, and then fired three shots in a downward trajectory, each one punching through the bottom of the man’s neck and traveling down through his body where they punched through organs and vertebrae and the pelvic bone and came out through the man’s leg, groin, and anus.

It was shaping up to be one of a handful of days in my life that filled me with the kind of anticipation and excitement that makes your anus tingle ever so slightly.

I have a rough marriage. It feels like sandpaper, only not as soft and gentle on the anus.

It wouldn't bother me in the least if all the dogs in the world weere placed in a large sack and taken to some distant island - Greenland springs attractively to mind - where they could romp around and sniff each other's anuses to their hearts' content and would never bother or terrorize me again. The only kind of dog I would excuse from this roundup is poodles. Poodles I would shoot. To my mind, the only possible pet is a cow. Cows love you. They are harmless, they look nice, they don't need a box to crap in, they keep the grass down, and they are so trusting and stupid that you can't help but lose your heart to them. Where I live in Yorkshire, there's a herd of cows down the lane. You can stand by the wall at any hour of the day or night, and after a minute the cows will all waddle over and stand with you, much too stupid to know what to do next, but happy just to be with you. They will stand there all day, as far as I can tell, possibly till the end of time. They will listen to your problems and never ask a thing in return. They will be your friends forever. And when you get tired of the, you can kill them and eat them. Perfect.

Guy’s whole body was humming. Normally he thought only of his head – his eyes, his smile – and was aware of his body as merely the principle of forward propulsion trundling him along. But now he was all these bright pools of sensuality – his nipples, his half-hard cock, his tingling anus, even his feet. He was glowing all over and he felt the animal in him was longing to shed its clothes.

I have conducted experiments using techniques that used to be fairly effective—knocking over the French press, unraveling their shoddy knitting, chewing the covers of every book in the library, shitting on pillows, shredding the couch, eating all the Ethernet snakes, and pissing all over bed blanket—but they seem to no longer be concerned. Admittedly, I’m impressed. I respect the negligible number of shits currently being given. Case in point: one of my Mediocre Servants left her arm in the living room, which I believe speaks to their general ineptitude. I played with it momentarily, but found its pungency off-putting and resumed licking my anus.

I repaired a tear she sustained a couple of weeks ago during a spontaneous vaginal delivery. Dear Adam, Just wanted to say thank you. You did a fantastic job – my GP checked my stitches and said you could hardly tell I’d had a baby, let alone a third-degree tear! I’m extremely grateful to you. Thank you again. Everything about it is so thoughtful, the kind of thing that makes the whole job totally worthwhile. She’d even made it herself – beautiful textured white card adorned with her baby’s footprint in gold paint on the front. Then again, I guess she didn’t have much choice – there can’t be much call in Paperchase for ‘Thanks for mending my anus!’ cards.

I fail to understand why men think violence will intimidate women. Women, who bleed all over themselves every month, who rub blood clots between their fingers and burst them like insects, and sometimes can't because they're not blood clots, they're tongue-coloured strings of meat from the womb. Women who burst open in childbirth, vagina splitting and anus sagging, tiny, hardening fingernails clawing inside of them, placentas like thick filet mignon.

Your vagina is another planet. If you could shrink down to the size of a grain of sand and go between your own legs, you'd find a wondrous realm of humid jungles, cool caves, and viscous pits of mucus created by your teeming ecosystem of microscopic life. Like your gut or your mouth, your reproductive tract is home to billions of microbes, which work together to repel disease and create the ideal conditions for you. Its landscapes are populated by clusters of long, thin rods and hordes of tiny round balls that cling to its contours. These microbes live together in a delicate balance, spewing acid to stop would-be colonizers from worlds far-off (tampons, toys, penises) or nearby (the anus).

Excreting is the curse that threatens madness because it shows man his abject finitude, his physicalness, the likely unreality of his hopes and dreams. But even more immediately, it represents man’s utter bafflement at the sheer non-sense of creation: to fashion the sublime miracle of the human face, the mysterium tremendum of radiant feminine beauty, the veritable goddesses that beautiful women are; to bring this out of nothing, out of the void, and make it shine in noonday; to take such a miracle and put miracles again within it, deep in the mystery of eyes that peer out—the eye that gave even the dry Darwin a chill: to do all this, and to combine it with an anus that shits! It is too much. Nature mocks us, and poets live in torture.

I always see to the dogs first and leave the cats and the occasional birds and rabbits and hamsters for later. It isn't that I play favorites, it's just that dogs are needier than other pets. Leave a dog alone for very long and it'll start going a little nuts. Cats, on the other hand, try to give you the impression that they didn't even notice you were gone. "Oh, were you out?" they'll say, "I didn't notice." Then they'll raise their tails to show you their little puckered anuses and walk away.

Bowel transit time, as it is known in the trade, is a very personal thing and varies widely between individuals, and in fact within individuals depending on how active they are on a given day and what and how much they have been eating. Men and women evince a surprising amount of difference in this regard. For a man, the average journey time from mouth to anus is fifty-five hours. For a woman, typically, it is more like seventy-two. Food lingers inside a woman for nearly a full day longer, with what consequences, if any, we do not know. Roughly speaking, however, each meal you eat spends about four to six hours in the stomach, a further six to eight hours in the small intestine, where all that is nutritious (or fattening) is stripped away and dispatched to the rest of the body to be used or, alas, stored, and up to three days in the colon, which is essentially a large fermentation tank where billions and billions of bacteria pick over whatever the rest of the intestines couldn’t manage—fiber mostly. That’s why you are constantly told to eat more fiber: because it keeps your gut microbes happy and at the same time, for reasons not well understood, reduces the risk of heart disease, diabetes, bowel cancer, and indeed death of all types.

I recommend the French beret, for it gives the impression of just the right soft toughness, a veritable wave of sophisticated brain matter. It is the kind of hat that inspires a person to grow into it, to become the person they never knew they could be. The space between the top of the head and the beginnings of hat is among the most intimate of areas: earlobe behinds, elbow insides, and anuses. One must pay heed to such spaces for they hold a potential not fully known (but generally agreed to be vast).

Erwin Strauss, in his brilliant monograph on obsession, similarly earlier showed how repulsed Swift was by the animality of the body, by its dirt and decay. Straus pronounced a more clinical judgment on Swift's disgust, seeing it as part of the typical obsessive's worldview: "For all obsessives sex is severed from unification and procreation....Through the...isolation of the genitals from the whole of the body, sexual functions are experienced as excretions and as decay." This degree of fragmentation is extreme, but we all see the world through obsessive eyes at least part of the time and to some degree; and as Freud said, not only neurotics take exception to the fact that "we are born between urine and feces." In t his horror of the incongruity of man Swift the poet gives more tormented voice to the dilemma that haunts us all, and it is worth summing it up one final time: Excreting is the curse that threatens madness because it shows man his abject finitude, his physicalness, the likely unreality of his hopes and dreams. But even more immediately, it represents man's utter bafflement at the sheer non-sense of creation: to fashion the sublime miracle of the human face, the mysterium tremendum of radiant female beauty, the veritable goddesses that beautiful women are; to bring this out of nothing, out of the void, and make it shine in noonday; to take such a miracle and put miracles again within it, deep in the mystery of eyes that peer out-the eye that gave even the dry Darwin a chill; to do all this, and to combine it with an anus that shits! It is too much. Nature mocks us, and poets live in torture.

L'image la plus simple de la vie organique unie à la rotation est la marée. Du mouvement de la mer, coït uniforme de la terre avec la lune, procède le coït polymorphe et organique de la terre et du soleil. Mais la première forme de l'amour solaire est un nuage qui s'élève au-dessus de l'élément liquide. Le nuage érotique devient parfois orage et reombe vers la terre sous forme de pluie pendant que la foudre défonce les couches de l'atmosphère. La pluie se redresse aussitôt sous forme de plante immobile. La vie animale est entièrement issue du mouvement des mers et, à l'intérieur des corps, la vie continue à sortir de l'eau salée. La mer a jouée ainsi le rôle de l'organe femelle qui devient liquide sous l'excitation. La mer se branle continuellement. Les éléments solides contenus et brassés par l'eau animée d'un mouvemnet érotique en jaillissent sous forme de poissons volants.

Etien’s very depressed,” Ghosh said. “Not about the cancer, but over his colostomy. He can’t accept the idea of waste coming out from an opening in his abdomen.” Etien had the sheet over his head. When Ghosh examined him, and then said the colostomy looked beautiful, tears welled up in Etien’s big eyes. He wouldn’t look down there. All he said was “Who will marry me now?” Ghosh was surprisingly firm. “Etien, that’s not the part of your body I cut off, the marrying part. You’ll find a woman who loves you, and you’ll explain it to her. If she loves you for yourself, you’ll both be glad that you are alive.” Ghosh’s facial expression brooked no argument, but then he softened. “Etien, imagine if all humans were born with their anus on the belly and that’s where everyone’s waste emerged. Then imagine if someone said they were going to operate on you and reroute your bowel so it opened behind you, between your buttock cheeks, somewhere where you couldn’t see it except in a mirror, and where you could hardly reach it or easily keep it clean …” It took a few seconds, but then Etien smiled. He dabbed his eyes. He ventured a glance down at his colostomy. It was a small step in the right direction.

When I sit up I am greeted by the world. Level with the treetops I look down on sparrows swooping in and out of the branches. The tide, the new rising moon, the clouds, the wind - these greet me. These are my allies. The whole planet is laid out before me and available for whatever adventure the day will take me on. By comparison, living in society seems to require an alarm clock. Primarily assembled from angst and fish anuses, these contraptions, regardless of your soul's whereabouts, will slap and assault you into a pitiful state of what passes for consciousness. Your first sight is the Time, an arragement of molecules on the clock's face to whom you will be enslaved for the rest of the day. You may as well call him "master." Next, a pile of dirty clothes on the floor, a knocked-over glass of water, and so forth, until you are so overwhelmed with despair that to prevent hurling yourself through the window, you must ignore your personal bill of rights, put on an acceptable frown, and go about your business, disregarding the pleas from you increasingly timid soul.

The absent and inert girl hanging dreamless from my arms is no more foreign to me than the door or window through which I can look or pass. I rediscover indifference (allowing her to leave me) when I fall asleep, through an inability to love what happens. It is impossible for her to know whom she will discover when I hold her, because she obstinately attains a complete forgetting.

Gra was always mildly irritated by any display of decorum, or good taste, if he felt it was a direct challenge to his deepest beliefs. When I mentioned once that Connie and I had guests coming to dinner that evening who were a bit formal and stuck-up, he carefully cut out some very small pieces of paper, wrote an obscenity on each one, and then hid them round our flat in all the rooms our guests were likely to visit. Connie found one of these just ten minutes before they were due to arrive: a moment of pure panic that set off a frenzied paperchase, as we raced around the apartment trying to find them all before the doorbell rang. We missed one, which he had placed on the basin in the visitors’ loo. It simply read, ‘Anus’. I’ve always wondered whether our guests speculated why we might have put it there.

The discovery that detonated Cleveland is one of Britain’s great contributions to awareness of child abuse. In 1986 and 1987 the Leeds paediatricians Dr Jane Wynne and Dr Christopher Hobbs reported in the Lancet that they were seeing more children who were being buggered than battered. About 300 cases were corroborated. The children were young – two-thirds were pre-school children – and anal abuse was more common than vaginal penetration. They also noted that ‘boys and girls seem to be at similar risk’. Almost half of the children who suffered anal abuse also showed a sign written up in the forensic textbooks as ‘anal dilation’, an anus opening when it was supposed to stay shut; opening and expecting entry. What the paediatricians were observing was not an acute sign, the effect of a single intrusion – a spasm or seizure – but a sign that was telling a story about everyday life; the anatomy of adaption. Anal dilation seemed to describe the architecture of abuse: it allowed the body to receive an incoming object, regularly.

After driving 30-minutes East of Seattle, I expect to see a great bowling alley. But, as we pull into the parking lot, all I see are pot holes, a horse and Amish buggy, and no cars to speak of- broken down or otherwise. Even the building is in shambles, needs painted and looks a bit haunted. The old road sign reading- Flicker Lanes- is half-burnt out. Seeing the building's interior lights on, I'm reassured that the place is open- but then again, maybe they've been left on by mistake. "There's LOTS of NICE bowling alleys in SEATTLE," I said. "Why did we come ALL THIS WAY to go BOWLING?" "I take it that you've never BEEN here before." "I don't think ANYONE HAS. I don't even KNOW what PLANET we're on." "I don't know what PLANET you're on either... but the rest of us are on your ANUS." I half-smile, marveling at his wittiness.

What’s that?” Mr. Bynum said. He leaned over me, fists doubled up. “Vagina, fallopian tube, penis, scrotum,” I said. It took them both aback. I meant for it to. “That ain’t what you said,” Mr. Bynum said. But I had him slightly off guard. “No sir,” I said. “What I said to Mrs. Bynum was cunt and prick and fuck and shit.” I pronounced each word very distinctly. The Bynums were silent. The encounter had taken a bewildering turn. I gave them no time to regroup. “I’m telling you all my favorite words,” I said. “Anus, penis, semen, nipple, clitoris, pubic hair. I can say them louder,” I said. “I can say them faster. Fuck screw ball. Fuck – screw – ball. Fuck screw ball fuck screw ball.” I got to my knees. I spoke louder. “Lick suck lick suck lick suck,” I said. The Bynums were staring. My hair was wild, I was wet and muddy, I was rising from the grass chanting terrible words. I rose, I chanted. “Titillate, masturbate, cunnilingus,” I said. “Cunt prick fuck shit.” I got a little louder as I walked toward Mrs. Bynum. “Cunt vagina cunt vagina cunt vagina cunt,” I said. I turned toward Mr. Bynum. “Nipple nipple nipple nipple,” I said. I was chanting. I was getting louder. They looked scared. I had them backing up. “You maniac!” Mrs. Bynum said. Her voice wasn’t steady anymore. “I want to go in, Lloyd.” They turned and left, but I didn’t stop. I followed them up the sidewalk, weaving from side to side and chanting “Cunt vagina cunt vagina cunt vagina cunt” as if it were a football cheer. Mr. Bynum took Mrs. Bynum’s arm and hurried her on. They stopped at the hospital door and looked back at me with expressions of complete confusion on their faces. We looked at one another. I stopped the obscenities. “Sexual intercourse,” I said quietly. They knew my weapons. They merely stared. Finally they went inside.

Brods 613 Traurigkeiten TRAURIGKEITEN DES KÖRPERS: Die Traurigkeit des Spiegels; die Traurigkeit, wie die Eltern oder nicht wie die Eltern auszusehen; die Traurigkeit, nicht zu wissen, ob der eigene Körper normal ist; die Traurigkeit zu wissen, dass der eigene Körper nicht normal ist; die Traurigkeit zu wissen, dass der eigene Körper normal ist; die Traurigkeit der Schönheit; die Traurigkeit des Make-ups; die Traurigkeit der körperlichen Schmerzen; die Traurigkeit der Stiche in einem eingeschlafenen Glied; die Traurigkeit der Kleider; die Traurigkeit des zuckenden Augenlids; die Traurigkeit der fehlenden Rippe; die bemerkbare Traurigkeit); die Traurigkeit, nicht bemerkt zu werden; die Traurigkeit, Geschlechtsorgane zu haben, die nicht wie die des geliebten Menschen sind; die Traurigkeit, Geschlechtsorgane zu haben, die wie die des geliebtenMenschen sind; die Traurigkeit der Hände... TRAURIGKEITEN DES BUNDES: Die Traurigkeit der Liebe Gottes; die Traurigkeit des Rückens [sie] Gottes; die Traurigkeit des bevorzugten Kindes; die Traurigkeit, vor seinem Gott traurig zu sein; die Traurigkeit des Gegenteils von Glauben [sie]; die Traurigkeit des »Was wenn?«; die Traurigkeit Gottes, der allein im Himmel ist; die Traurigkeit eines Gottes, der Menschen braucht, die zu ihm beten... TRAURIGKEITEN DES GEISTES: Die Traurigkeit, missverstanden zu werden; die Traurigkeit des Humors; die Traurigkeit der unerfüllten Liebe; die Traurigkeit, klug zu sein; die Traurigkeit, nicht genug Worte zu kennen, um auszudrücken, was man meint]; die Traurigkeit, verschiedene Möglichkeiten zu haben; die Traurigkeit, traurig sein zu wollen; die Traurigkeit der unerfüllten Liebe; die Traurigkeit zahmer Vögel; die Traurigkeit, ein Buch zu Ende gelesen zu haben; die Traurigkeit des Erinnerns; die Traurigkeit des Vergessens; die Traurigkeit der Angst... TRAURIGKEITEN DER MENSCHLICHEN BEZIEHUNGEN: Die Traurigkeit, vor dem eigenen Vater oder der eigenen Mutter traurig zu sein; die Traurigkeit der falschen Liebe; die Traurigkeit der Liebe; die Traurigkeit der Freundschaft; die Traurigkeit eines schlechten Gesprächs; die Traurigkeit dessen, was hätte sein können; die heimliche Traurigkeit... TRAURIGKEITEN DER SEXUALITÄT UND DER KUNST: Die Traurigkeit der sexuellen Erregung als ungewöhnlicher körperlicher Zustand; die Traurigkeit, das Bedürfnis zu erspüren, schöne Dinge zu erschaffen; die Traurigkeit des Anus; die Traurigkeit des Blickkontakts während Cunnilingus und Fellatio; die Traurigkeit des Küssens; die Traurigkeit, sich zu schnell zu bewegen; die Traurigkeit, sich gar nicht zu bewegen; die Traurigkeit des Aktmodells; die Traurigkeit der Porträtmalerei; die Traurigkeit von Pinchas T.s einziger bedeutender Abhandlung »An den Staub: Vom Menschen bist du, und zum Menschen sollst du werden«, in der er argumentierte, es sei theoretisch möglich, das Leben und die Kunst gegeneinander auszutauschen.