Originally posted 21st June 2008.


Today we welcome the delightful Jeff into the growing list of olilolo guest writers. I’ve known Jeff for several years, and in that time he has only tried to drunkenly make love to me once. Or was that the other way around? It’s so hard to keep straight these days. The point is, he’s a fine, upstanding fellow; a paragon of the community.

So to compensate, he’s going to drop the C-bomb approximately 50 times in the next several paragraphs.

I seriously cannot stress this enough- if you are offended by that word, DON’T READ THIS ARTICLE. It’s sprinkled liberally. If your tastes run towards blander fare, then this dish might prove too spicy. You were warned.



“What’s cunt got to do, got to do with it?” ~ Socrates

A lot.

I was reminiscing the other day about the good times had at Springwood State High School. Ah, how we laughed back then. We would frolic in the meadows, play hand-ball in the mornings, and then adjourn to the classroom at a time of our choosing, quite often 15 minutes late, to talk to our friends and pay no attention to the teacher. What a beautiful, innocent time it was. Every morning seemed to hold the promise of an enchanting day ahead, and we were rarely disappointed. But time passes and pleasant memories fade into obscurity as the soul-crushing-weight that is life beats you down. You have to adapt to survive. To stay alive.

How do we do this? Well, back in those wonderful days, I was a well-mannered and polite young man. Fast forward to today and I’m a foul mouthed cunt. See what I mean?! That is how I adapted. That is how I was able to stay alive. I was trying to figure out what caused this change in my modus operandi, when I realized what it was.

Bunnings Warehouse.

I’m almost certain that working at that place gave me my sailor’s mouth. When I began working there, my mind was still impressionable and as fluid as the changing tides. Fluids naturally assume the shape of their containers, and assume I did. Bunnings is a place where poor management, gay slogans and outrageously hot temperatures combine to strip all hope of happiness and love away from you. You have to fight to survive.

Yeah, fuck yeah.

Some of my swearing transcends the constraints of conventional curse words. Chief among my expletive phrases is ‘cunt up’. What does that mean, you may ask? ‘Cunt up’ has many and varied uses. Its versatility is unparalleled. Below is a Macquarie Pocket Dictionary definition which I hope to see in print in the near future.

cunt up
/kunt up/ n., v., adj., adv., 1. disbelief, shock: “I can’t believe that happened to you. Cunt up!” 2. quiet resignation: “Cunt up.” 3. congratulations, praise (often accompanied by a smile and a handshake): “Cunt up, mate!” 4. replacing a phrase (such as “Let’s get this show on the road”): “Cunt up, everyone!” 5. colloquial, to stop (someone) from talking: “Cunt up!”

I could go on, but I think you get the gist of it.

Though using such foul language may be viewed by the public at large as a disgusting and inappropriate form of expression, it does serve a vital purpose. It allows me to vent my latent fury in a safe way, as opposed to raping women and aborting pregnancies with a swift roundhouse kick.

Imagine Tina Turner singing about that.


If you enjoyed that filth, Jeff posts other dirty little ramblings on a blog of his very own, Man Date.

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