The F Plus - 39: Hoc Est Praecipue De Buttsex

Episode Date: March 8, 2011

With all of the various sexual proclivities which the internet has allowed us to examine, it's sometimes easy to forget that there were actually perverts writing perverted things long before the internet was even invented. Thing is, you had to be a notable French Rensaissance writer or Latin poet for anyone to even pay attention. Well, in an effort to bring some classiness to the podcast, we'll be reading selected works from Catullus, François Rabelais, and James Joyce, and see how they compare to The Modern Weirdo. This week on the F Plus, it's gonna be like a classical literature class with a really creepy professor.

hey there welcome to f plus podcast terrible things run with enthusiasm my name is lemon and i'm john uh seriously yeah that's that's what you're gonna give me terrible things, run with enthusiasm. My name's Lemon. And I'm John. Uh, seriously? Yeah. That's what you're gonna give me. You're gonna give no enthusiasm. You're just gonna do that. Pretty much. It's just not...

Life sucks. I'm bored. You're bored. I go to, like, school, and I, like... They make me learn, like like old stuff that's boring and I'm bored well what's boring about it well like they make us read these old poems

in English and like they make us talk about old French guys like oh ha ha I'm French it's just boring okay okay so what wouldn't be boring then what would be exciting to you wiping your butts funny like What wouldn't be boring then? What would be exciting to you? Wiping your butts funny.

There was a movie where Adam Sandler went, I'm going to wipe my butt, and I laughed. Oh my god, that's so true! National Food presents Adam Sandler's presents fucking David Spade's The Butt Wipe. That's a good movie. I like David Spade wiping his butt. That's funny. If only school were like David Spade's The Butt Wipe. That's a good movie. I like David Spade wiping his butt. That's funny. If only school were like David Spade wiping his butt.

I don't know if you know much about the French, but the French are into butts. Did you know that? I didn't know that. Do you know that bidet is a French word? No. It sounds funny. It does sound funny. Let me introduce you to a man

named Francois Rebele. Of course, I can't because he's dead, but I want to introduce you to his body of work. Already bored. Well, hang on. Hang on. Francois Rebele has a book about giants and it's two giants

talking and one giant's really into something and I'm not going to tell you what he's into. I'm just saying just stick with me because I think it's two giants talking and one giant's really into something and I'm not going to tell you what he's into I'm just saying just stick with me because I think it's going to be good okay I bet it's boring though I bet it doesn't involve wiping butts you'll fall back into my arms and

maybe there will be rectum stuff involved oh I hope let's get to the readers and see what happens. The cherry is fresh. Peasant in their peasant's house. Hungry to touch

your bride's face. In the room tonight, we have Acer Aquato. Hey ladies, I got a fuckC. Rock Waddle. Hey, ladies. I got a fuck shit stack. Or tax. For the last time, I don't have Jack Chick's letters. Boots.

Rain gear. Fuck me dressed in your full outdoor costume with your hat and veil on, your face flushed with the cold wind and rain, and your boots muddy, either straddling or crossing. My dearest Nora. I was totally drunk when I wrote that, so just disavow that shit. Never mind.

Stog. Do more if you wish, and then send the letter to me, my darling, brown-arsed fuckbird. James Joyce. Jack Chick. Portax, give me my fucking letters back and shitting!

Oh! Shitting. John. I am the sodomite furious. Isvan. Oh god, what am I doing here? And Lemon. So chapter 1.13.

This is Rebele. It's Rebele's most famous or infamous bit anyway. Oh, I recognize it now. Oh shit, yeah. Acer it now. Shit, yeah. Acer, why don't you take this? Chapter 1, Section 13. How Gargantua's wonderful understanding

became known to his father, Grand Goussier, by the invention of a torche-cul or wipe-breach. Also, explain what the hell a wipe-breach is. Or a Gargantua. Gargantua is Grand Gousousier's son, and they're both giants. Okay, what's a white breech? You'll find out.

Oh, okay, I'm sorry. I didn't realize. If I was a giant, I would so name my kid Gargantua, because I'd name my kid White Breech. About the end of the fifth year, Grand Gousier, returning from the conquest of the Canarians, went by the way to see his son Gargantua.

There he was filled with joy, as such a father might be at the sight of such a child of his. And whilst he kissed and embraced him, he asked many childish questions of him about diverse matters, and drank very freely with him and his governesses, of whom in great earnest he asked, amongst other things, whether they had been careful to keep him clean and sweet. To this Gargantua answered, that he had taken such a course for that himself, that in all the country there

is not to be found a cleanlier boy than he. How is that, said Grand Goussier? I have, answered Gargantua, by a long and curious experience, found out a means to wipe my bum, the most lordly, the most excellent, and the most convenient that was ever seen. What is that, said Gargantua? How is it?

It's a cat. I will tell you by and by, said Gargantua. Once I did wipe me with a gentlewoman's velvet mask. Hey, give that back! You totally shit on my mask, you fucking giant! Get out of here! Well, now I don't want my mask back.

And found it to be good, for the softness of the silk was very voluptuous and pleasant to my fundament. Another time with one of their hoods, and in like manner, that was comfortable. At another time with a lady's neckerchief, and after that, I wiped me with

some earpieces of hers made of crimson satin. But there were such a number of golden spandals in them, turdy round things, a pox take them, that they fetched away all the skin of my tail with a vengeance. And this lady has just a horrible day. It's just like

this giant ran up to me and took my mask and shit on it. Hey bitch, strip. I'm gonna whack my ass with everything on your person. No, everything I own is covered in giant shit. I just don't even know what to do with myself anymore. It's her fault for always taking a same walk on shitting giant mountain.

Now I wish St. Anthony's fire burned the bum gut of the goldsmith that made them, and of her that wore them. This hurt I cured by wiping myself with a pages cap, garnished with a feather after the Switzer's fashion. Afterwards, in dunging behind a bush

or dunging, if you prefer, I found a March cat and with it I wiped my breech, but her claws were so sharp that they scrapped and exculcerated all my perony. I knew it, I knew it. You're right. I knew it.

Perony, so perony, yeah yeah he's saying that When he wiped his ass with a cat it scratched his taint Yes Beautiful As you will find out if you ever do so This is common knowledge to those of us That are

I have No idea what you're talking about It's like the first time you have blue cheese where you're like, oh, that kind of doesn't taste, but then you kind of grow to like the taste. Of this, I recovered the next morning thereafter by wiping myself with my mother's gloves of the most excellent perfume and scent of the Arabian Bennett.

After that, I wiped me with sage, with fennel, with anet, with marjoram, with roses, with gourd leaves, with beet, with marjoram, with roses, with gourd leaves, with beets, with colwort, with leaves of the vine tree, with mallows, wool blade, which is a tail scarlet, with lettuce, and with spinach leaves. Then after that I made a shit salad.

Yeah, I just wanted to say, that's what I call tossing your salad in there. All this did a very great good to my leg. Then with Mercury, with Parsley, with Nettles, with Pumfrey. Mercury? Wow. You got a lot of superpowers. Giant.

I swear to God. The planet. Wait, just wipe this out. I'm the planet Mercury? the planet. Wait, I'll just wipe this out. I'm the planet Mercury. And that gave me the

great bloody flux of Lombardy. Which I feel is the way I get. This guy has one solution to all of his problems and it's wiping his hands. That's me. I don't have diarrhea. I've got the great bloody flux of Lombardy.

He's got blood, alright. He's got some Lombardy's in there, too. Yeah. I don't know. I think I'm gonna call whenever I have diarrhea in the future, I think I'm gonna call it the great bloody flux of Lombardy. Then I wiped my tail on the sheets, in the coverlets,

in the curtains, with a cushion, with Aris hangings, with a green carpet, with a tablecloth, with a napkin. This is like making me think of green eggs and ham. Like I could not wipe my ass with a box. I could not wipe my ass with a box. I could not wipe my ass with your cocks. And with a combing cloth, in all which I found more pleasure than do the mangy dogs when you rub them. Yay, but, said

Grand Goussier, which torchkul did you find to be the best? I was coming to it, said Gargantua, and by and by shall you hear the two altam, and know that the whole mystery and naught of the matter. I wiped myself with hay, with straw,

with thatch rutches, with flax, with wool, with paper. Paper? Paper is crazy. I like how his dad was just like, okay, but which did you like? I'm getting to it. I'm getting to it. Anyway, I used straw, and then I used wool,

and then I... Oh my god. See, we're about to get to the best fortune cookie, though. The best fortune cookie I've ever had. But, who with his foul tail with paper wipes shall add his bollocks leave some chips? In bed? I don't want to eat here anymore! What, said Grand Gousier, my little rogue,

hast thou been at the pot that thou dost rhyme already? Yes, yes, my lord the king, answered Gargantua. I can rhyme gallantly and rhyme till I become hoarse with room. Hark what our privy says to the skiters. Shitard, squirtard, crackard, turdus, thy bong hath flung some dung on us. That's some high-flying shit.

Filthard, crackard, stinkard, St. Anthony's fire sees on thy bone. If thy dirty Doon by Do not wipe ere thou be gone Wow

Are you okay? I think he's going to die He's going to die right now Then said Gargantua A roundelay In shitting yesterday I did know The cess I to my arse did owe. The smell was such

came from that snug that I was with it all bestunk. Oh, wow. That's beautiful. Bestunk. I was all bestunk. Oh, I did some brave signior part her to me I waited for. In shitting.

In shitting. In shitting. I would have cleft her water gap and joined it close to my flip flap. Oh wow. joined it close to my flip-flap. Whilst she had with her fingers guarded my foul knock and roll, I'll be merded in shitting. In shitting! The best thing I've ever heard in my life.

So, Lemon, when you die from laughing at this, we're just going to put this on your gravestone, alright? Lemon led a good life in shitting! In shitting! Now, say that I can do nothing! By the merdi, they are not of my making, but I heard them of this good old Grandam that you see here,

and ever since have retained them in the budget of my memory. Let us return to our purpose, said Grand Gousier. Would you tell me the thing yet? What, said Gargantua? I really need to shit and I don't know what I'm going to wipe my ass with. If you don't tell me right now, I'm wiping my ass with you. Just you wait.

Try it, you'll like it. Let us return to our purpose, said Grand Goussier. What, said Gargantua? To skite? No, said Grand Goussier. But to wipe our tail. Wait, you have the one tail? Would you, will you not be content

to pay a puncheon of Breton wine if I do not blank and gravel you in this matter and put you to a non-plus? Yes, truly, said Grand Goussier. There is no need of wiping one's tail, said Gargantua, but when it is foul. Foul it cannot be, unless one have been a-skiting. Skite, then, we must, before we wipe our tails. Oh, my pretty little waggish boy, said Grand Goussier.

What an excellent wit thou hast. I will make thee very shortly proceed, doctor, in the jovial quirks of gay learning. And that, by God, for thou hast more wit than age. Now, I pray thee, go on in this

torsculative, or white bummatory discourse. What bummatory? I think we were too soon in naming the podcast because white bummatory discourse. We totally engage in white bummatory discourse.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Pomotaro! I like how he couldn't even finish it. Yeah, why Pomotaro? Pomotaro! Two-man shitting, one-man wipes.

By my beard, I swear, for one punch in, thou shalt have three score pipes. I mean of the good Breton wine, not that which grows in Britain Britain but in the good country of Verran afterwards I wiped my bum said Gargantua with a kerchief

with a pillow with a pantoufle with a pouch with a panier with a panier but that was a wicked and unpleasant torchchkühl Then with a hat Of hats Jesus Christ

Of hats I tried size 8 Size 9 It's very systematic here Of hats note that some are shorn And others shaggy Some velveted Others covered with taffetes And others with satin The best of all of these is the shaggy, some velveted, others covered with taffetes, and others with satin.

The best of all of these is the shaggy hat, for it makes a very neat abstergent of the fecal matter. It's very neat. Why didn't you wipe your ass with a hat? Why'd you do that?

It makes it very neat. It's exhausted every other possibility. There's nothing left in the world he didn't put his ass on. Why'd you try wiping your ass on the rug like a dog? He is not. Of hats, I prefer the tricorn as I felt that the three points

facilitated my ass wiping by at least 388% over the pantoufle. Afterwards, I wiped my tail with a hen, with a cock, with a pullet, with a capstan, with a hair, with a pigeon, with a cormorant, with an attorney's

bag, with a montoro. What? Can I have that back, please? Sure, here you go. With a cloth. I put it on the pile next to the cormorant. He's just off about it. With a cloth and with a falconer's

lure. But to conclude, I say and maintain that of all torchkills, arse wisps, bum fodders, tail napkins, bunghole cleansers, and white cleansers. Oh guys, we're getting to the point of it here.

There is none in the world comparable to the neck of a goose. That is well known. Of course. Of course. He's going to explain it. I can believe it. If you hold her head betwixt your legs

and believe me, therein upon mine honor, for you will feel, thereby, in your knock hall, a most wonderful pleasure both in regard to the softness of the said down, and of the temperate heat of the goose, which is easily

communicated to the bum gut and the rest of the inwards, insofar as to come even to the region of the heart and the brains. And think not that the felicity of the heroes of the demigods in the Elysian fields consisteth either in the Asplodel, Ambrosia, or Nectar, as our old woman here used to say. But in this, according to my judgment, that they wipe their tails with the neck of a goose, holding her head betwixt their legs, and such is the opinion

of Master John of Scotland, alias Scotus. Bravo! Way to go, John of Scotland! Isfahan came in exactly the punchline. That's our Isfahan. Way to go, John of Scotland. You wiped your ass with a goose.

He didn't just wipe his ass with a goose. He crammed its neck between his butt cheeks. To say nothing of the other things he shoved way up into his lower intestine. I'm thinking that this might be a new sustainable way for people to wipe their asses. I'm going to make a public campaign. Don't you cross after your wife? Jack is going to get a goose farm. You go to a public bathroom, you take a shit, you're like, what do I do? Is this a goose?

This is a duck, man. What is this bullshit? Head to tail coated in shit. I feel like this is the first issue of Consumer Reports or something. Wow. That was actually really funny. I mean, it was a small French guy, but the giant was wiping his butt with everything. That was really funny.

That was like 10 David Spade movies. Well, except for all the writing involved. Yeah, but it was all about wiping butt, so I was cool with it. I was classful like that. Alright, so we're going to move on to a Roman poet. His name was Catullus.

Are you bored again? Yeah. Oh my god. Said the R word. Rome? There was that HBO TV show. There was that thing on like, I don't know, like Showtime or something. The Spartacus

Blood and Sand. Which is like just a video game with a whole lot of blood in it. Yeah, and my dumb drama club's gonna be as cool as Entourage. Come on my dumb drama club's going to be as cool as Entourage. Come on, man, it's going to suck. As cool as Entourage. Yeah, it's a really cool show. It is a cool show.

Well, Catullus... Okay, so I know you're into wiping your butt. Yeah, that was really funny. What else are you into? Well, like, when a dude says, I'm going to be gay to you. And it's all, oh, no, he's going to be gay to me. And it's funny. He's going to rape him.

That is pretty funny. I know, right? That is pretty funny. When I'm not jerking off gay porn, I'm usually laughing at it. Me too. Except, wait, no. I mean, yeah. I want to introduce you to Catullus.

He was a poet of the Republican period, and he... I'm just saying, I think, you trust me from last time, right? Well, alright, I'll give it a chance, but I'm not... Alright, I want you to trust me one more time. This is Catullus, and

John, I think you're going to like this. Alright. This is Catullus, and John, I think you're going to like this. All right. Stog, number 16, please. A rebuke to Aurelius and Furius. Oh, fuck you and bugger you, Aurelius the Catholic and son of my Furius. Who thought you knew me from my verses? Since they're erotic, not modest enough. It suits the poet himself to be duitfully chast.

His verses not necessarily so at all, in which, in short then, have wit and good taste, even if they're erotic, not modest enough, and as for that, can incite to lust. I don't speak to boys, but to hairy ones, who can't move their stiff loins. You, who read all these thousand verses, you think I'm

less than a man? I'll fuck you and I'll bugger you. And it goes back to the theme that it starts out with. This is one side of a classic hip-hop grudge. Alright, Spooch, number 21. Greedy. Greedy to Aurelius. Aurelius,

father of hungers, you desire to fuck. Not just these, but whoever my friends were or are or will be in future years. Not secretly, not at the same time as you joke with one, you try

clinging to him on every side. In vain. Now my insidious cock will bugger you first. It's an insidious cock. Andger you first and if you're filled mean hard on nothing now i'm grieving for him you teach my boy mine to hunger and thirst so lay off while you've any shame or you will end up being buggered so in summary leave my friends alone or i'll fuck you in the ass i will rape you like crazy all Alright, I want to read this one. This is poem number 28

called Patronage. Acer described this as I'm not really sure what's going on here but people are getting fucked in the ass. Pretty much, yeah. Okay. How many episodes

have we done about butt sex? Well I've noticed that a couple of workplaces Have banned it as pornography And I realize that Butt sex is actually a pretty popular tag So it's Butt sex

Well I think there's only two that explicitly Mention butt, no maybe three Four I think four. They're like Pringles. Pray tell, good Romans, how often should I engage in buggery with the woman I have called mine? I mean, come on.

If we were going to do something about Romans and we didn't mention buggery, we'd kind of be missing the obvious. Alright, Jack Check number 42. The writing tablets. To Hennika syllables. Very good, Jack. Come, come, Hennika syllables.

All that there are. And from every side, as many as are. A base adulteress thinks I'm a joke. And refuses to give me my tablets. Once more, if you'd believe it, we'll follow her. Ask for them back. Which one,

you may ask? The one you can see. Strutting disgracefully. Laughing ridiculously. Maddening with the jaws of a gaulish bitch. I didn't know this guy ran into me once. This sucks.

Surround her. Oh, you're not Gaulish. Come on. That's a bit much. Surround her. Ask for them back. Stinking adulteress. Give back my letters. Give back, stinking adulteress give back my letters give back stinking adulteress my letters

oh to the mire the brothel or if anything can be more ruinous than that but still don't think that's enough call her again in a louder voice stinking adul adulteress, give back my letters. Give back stinking adulteress my letters. I don't have your fucking letters. Get away from me. You creepy son of a bitch. Give back my letters.

You have me confused for someone else. I've already told you this. But it's no use. Nothing disturbs her. We'd better change methods and tactics. If we want to see them be of more use to us. Let's

see if we can't get a blush from that bitch's brazen face. Honest and chaste one, give me back my letters. Turn around. So this poem, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I need this one.

I need this one. You need it. You're a grabby podcast host. I'm going to fuck you in the ass if you keep taking these poems. I need this. So this is poem number 71. It is called Revenge. I want to tell you all that lattes

are currently 50 cents off at the cafe stand. And also that you should get a sandwich. Okay, this is Revenge. Shut the fuck up! This is called Revenge! Fuck you! Shut up!

Shut up! This is important, man. If a goat's smell under the arms rightly prevents anyone, or if a slow gout deservedly cripples them, your rival who keeps your lover busy is discovered by you to be wonderfully sick with both. Now, whenever he fucks her, you're revenged on the pair. She's troubled by the smell. He's ruined by the gout. Oh, shit. Finger snaps.

Oh, yeah. That was, Acer said that needed a poetry slam reading, and I agree. John, number 80, oh okay giveaway to gellius what can i say gellius as to why those red lips become whiter than whiter snow when you leave your house in the morning or when the eighth hour wakes you placid and weak in the long day it's something for sure perhaps Perhaps rumor's whisper is true that you swallow the tall jet from a man's groin.

This is for sure. Victor's strained thighs proclaim it, and your lips marked with dried semen. Again, the last two lines of the poem I just read. This is for sure. Victor, strain thighs, proclaim it.

And your lips, marked with dried semen. The Tall Jet from Man's Groin by Arthur C. Clarke. Alright, poor text, number 37. Alright, free for all to the regulars and Ignatius. Let your tavern and

you, its regulars, mine pillars along with the twins' pillars. Do you think you're the only ones with cocks? The only ones you're allowed to trouble, young girls that consider the rest of us goats? Uh-huh. Yes. What are you going to do? Fuck that girls, are considered the rest of us goats? Uh-huh. What are you going to do? Fuck that young girl?

Why am I a goat? Or because a hundred or two of you sit in a row, you dullards, that I dare to bugger 200 together? Wow, at the same time? It says together, so it's all like a big lineup. This is serious. You're buggered, and you're buggered.

Everybody gets buggered. I was thinking maybe it just turns into this hideous octocock type beast, and it just goes after all of them simultaneously. There are so many people in Japan jerking off now. beast, and it just goes after all of them simultaneously. That's what I see. There are so many people in Japan jerking off now that they don't even know why.

I'm just sad you think I'm hideous. There's going to be some kind of anime called Catalyst, and it's just some horrible tentacle monster. There's not tentacles, they're all big. Say that out loud, because it's going to be true. I'm sorry,

a 200 cocked monster would be true. I'm sorry. A 200-cocked monster would be a do-send-a-cock. Sorry. Do-send-a-cock. No. We're learning. We're learning a lot today. That is incorrect. It would be a two-hecta-cock.

A two-send-a-cock would be only .02 of a cock. I'm really glad that we have the Canadians here. No. This is the cardinal Latin prefix. Centi is one hundredth. No. In Latin

prefixes, centi is a hundred. We gotta get this accurate, guys. Gotta work this out amongst yourselves. In Greek, in Greek, it would be... Look it up on Wikipedia.

I want to hear the rest of this poll. You have to look up you sent the cock on Wikipedia? Look it up. No, look it up on Google Image Search. There you go. I'm not right about that. No, I want the rest of the podcast to be Boots agonizing

over the prefix for a rape monster made of cocks. I'm not agonizing over it. I know what it is. Okay, fair enough. Now then. When we last left our heroes. Just then. Just then.

Think on. I'll draw all over the front of the tavern with your leavings because my girl who's left my arms whom I loved as no other girl has ever been loved for whom so many great battles were fought is there you all rich and the fortunate love her and what's so shameful

it's true all the lesser ones all the adulterous frequenters of by ways you above all so shameful, it's true, all the lesser ones, all the adulterous frequenters of byways. Okay. You, above all, one of the hairy ones, rabbit-faced offspring of Spain, Ignatius, whom the shattery beard improves and teeth scrubbed with

Iberian piss. Oh, shit! Oh, shit! Damn! Boots, number seven and number I'm sorry, number 97 and 98. It's a duet, and I really think that they're

together. This is a duet of hate. A hate duet! Number 97. Disgusting to Emilius. I did not may the gods love me, think

it mattered, whether I might be smelling Emilius' mouth or arse. The one's no cleaner, the other's no dirtier. In fact, his arse is both cleaner and nicer, since it's no teeth.

Indeed, the other has long teeth, gums like an old box cart, and jaws that usually gape open like the open cunt of a pissing mule on heat. That's so specific! You think he's familiar with that smell. Here's the worst thing.

He fucks lots of women. And makes himself out to be charming. And isn't set to the mill with the ass. Shouldn't we think of any girl touching him? She's capable of licking a foul hangman's arse. I've got another bone to pick. Well-armed to Victius.

About you, if anyone, stinking Victius can be said. What they say of the verbose and fatuous. With that tongue, if the need arose, you could lick arses and leather-soled sandals. If you want to destroy us completely,

Victius, gape at us. What you desire, you'll wholly achieve. The orgasm. Oh, this is just... This is amazing. I love it. I love it. The thing that I was thinking of was With that tongue if the need arose

You could lick arses in leather-soled sandals And then open a fetish website I like the concept of If the need arose At one point, oh it's an emergency Can someone lick some asshole Or possibly a sandal If need be

The president is in trouble and he needs your help Please possibly a sandal, if need be. The president is in trouble and he needs your help. Please lick the sandal! No Roman loved leather-soled sandals more than Victius. So you guys haven't spent too much time on fetish websites then, so... Alright, uh, so Bunnybread, try to take number

32 here, please. I mean, try to. Let's see what happens. 32. Siesta to I mean, try to. Let's see what happens. 32. Siesta to Ipsithilola. Absent for color. Please, my sweet Ipsithilola. My delight, my

charm. Tell me to come to you at siesta. And if you tell me, help it along. Let no one cover the sign at your threshold, nor you choose to step out of doors, but stay at home and get ready for Nine Fox in succession with me.

Okay, that's number six. Are you ready for number seven? Maybe he's just doing, like, push-ups or something. Truly, if you should want it, let me know now. Because lying here, fed and indolently full, I'm making a hole in my tunic

and cloak. Because to take off your tunic would be a problem. Oh my god. No, you gotta have your dick out all the time. Just in case. This is something a girl

her nickname is ever ready in high school, so prepare accordingly. He's made a glory hole out of his own cloak. Exactly. He's getting some ideas and I'll be like, man! As long as the girl never looks out

well i'm gonna and then invite you over sometime. Oh, man, that was actually really funny. Wow, I totally trust you with these now. I mean, he talked about like, hey, I'm gonna bugger you and I'm gonna fuck you. He said fuck. He did say fuck. I like the word fuck. I know you like the word fuck. I wish that were in class. I like the word fuck. I know you like the word fuck. I wish that were in class. Okay.

So I'm really cool. This is cool. I'm actually excited about learning now. Well, good. I'm glad you're excited about learning. Okay. We're going to get to a 20th century writer. You might be familiar with him.

Okay. James Joyce. Bored. No. No. You're not bored this time. I'm not going to accept it. I tried to read that book that started with you, and it was so boring.

God, you had me and you lost me. God damn it. That sucks. No, no, no. No, okay, you're going to like this. It's James Joyce. It's not his books. It's not The Portrait of a Young Man.

It's not what we're going for. Not Finnegan's Wake. These are the letters that he wrote to his wife, Nora, and you're going to like it. I know this guy. There's no way this can be good. Oh, you're going to love it. Here we go. The feeling that, Isvan, you would have an Irish accent.

Is that correct? All faith in Magora, yes. All right, take the first letter from the 2nd of December. Okay. Oh, so here's where my fucking letters went. I don't have your letters! I told you! To Nora.

Dublin. 2 December 1909. That was too Scottish, I think. Who cares? Nobody would tell the fucking difference. It's alright. I hope he allows me to praise the spirit of eternal beauty and tenderness mirrored in your eyes, or fling you down under me on a...

God damn it. Just do some sort of amorphous British bullshit. Fling you down under me on God damn it. Just do some sort of amorphous British bullshit. Fling you down under me on that softy belly of yours and fuck you up behind like a hog riding a sow glorying in the very stink and sweat that arises from your arse. Glorying in the open shape of your upturned dress

and white girlish drawers and in the confusion of your flushed cheeks and tangled hair. It allows me to burst into tears of pity and love at some slight word to tremble with love for you at the sounding of your flushed cheeks and tangled hair. It allows me to burst into tears of pity and love at some slight word, to tremble with love for you at the sounding of some chord, or cadence of music, or to lie heads and tails with you feeling your fingers fondling and tickling my

buttocks, or stuck up in me behind, or stuck up in me behind, and your hot lips sucking off my cock while my head is wedged in between your fat thighs, my tongue clutching the round cushions of your bum, and my tongue tickling, licking,

ravenously up your rank red cunt. I have taught you almost to spoon at the hearing of my voice singing, or murmuring to your soul the passion and sorrow and mystery of life, and at the same time, have taught you to make filthy signs to me, and with your lips and tongue, to provoke me by obscene touches

and noises, and even to do in my presence the most shameful and filthy act of the body. You remember the day you pulled up your clothes and let me lie under you, looking up at you while you did it? Then you were ashamed even to meet my eyes. You are mine, darling, mine. I love you. All I have written about

above is only a moment or two of brutal madness. The last drop of seed has hardly been squirted up your cunt before it is over. And my true love for you, the love of my verses, the love of my eyes for your strange, luring eyes, comes blowing over my soul like a wind of spices. My prick is still hot and stiff and quivering from the last brutal drive it has given you when a faint hymn is heard, rising in tender, pitiful worship of you from the deep

oysters of my heart. Nora, my faithful darling, my schoolgirl, be my whore, my mistress, as much as you like, my little frigging mistress, my little fucking whore. You are always my beautiful wild flower of the hedges, my dark blue rain-drenched

flower, Jim. My name isn't Nora! I love the old-timey version of drunk dialing. The Irish had to have perfected that. Exactly. This is one day later. He wasn't able to listen to her or wait for a response. This is one day later.

Gee, Nora, you seem to turn me into a beast. It was you yourself, you naughty, shameless girl who led the way. It was not I who first touched you long ago at Ringsend. It was you who slid your hand down the front of my trousers and pulled my shirt slothfully aside and touched my prick with your long, tickling fingers, and gradually took it off. Fat and stiff it was. It turned into your hand and pricked me slowly until I came off in your fingers, all the time bending and gazing over your quiet, saint-like eyes.

It was your lips, too, which first uttered an obscene word. I remember well that night in bed in Pola. Tired of lying under a man one night, you tore your chemise violently and got up on top of me to ride me naked. You stuck my prick into your cunt and began to ride me up and down. Perhaps the horn I had was not big enough for you. I remember that I bent down to you.

Me face and murmured tenderly, Fuck up, love. Fuck up, love. He's calling her a fuck up. God damn it, fuck up, love. Fuck up, love. He's calling her fuck up. God damn it, fuck up. Nora, dear, I am dying all day to ask you one or two questions. Let me, dear, for I have told you everything

I ever did and so I can ask you in turn. When that person, Vincent Cosgrave, whose heart I long to stop with the click of a revolver, put his hands under your skirts, did he only tickle you outside? Or did he put his finger or fingers up inside you? If he did,

did they go far enough to touch that little cock at the end of your cunt? Dr. James Joyce, obstetrician. You better watch out, because she'll fuck you and bugger you. I need to read that one more time. The gold at the end of the rainbow,

the little cock at the end of the cunt. Did they go far enough to touch the little cock at the end of your cunt? Did he touch you behind? Was he a long time tickling, and did you come? Did he ask you to touch him, and did you do so? If you did not touch him, did he come against you

and did you feel it? Another question, Nora. That's not one of your questions. Well, I'm on the subject. One or two or fifty questions. Let me know if any of these questions are out of balance. This may seem forward. I know it's our first date and all

I know that was the first man that blocked you but did any man ever frig you? Did that boy, Michael Bodkin ever, you were fond of ever do it? Tell me now Nora truth for truth, honesty for honesty when you were with him in the dark of night did your fingers never

ever button his trousers and slip inside like mice? Did you ever frig him, dear? Tell me truly or anyone else. My Irish accent is going away. I noticed. Hey, that's what happens when you get drunker and drunker. So that's how the English were created. This last sentence fucked fuck the accent,

because it was poor at the beginning. If you are not offended, don't be afraid to tell me the truth, darling. Tonight I have such a wild lust for your body that if you were here beside me and even if you told me with your lips that half the redhead louts in this country Galway had a fuck

at you before me, I would still rush at you with desire. Yes. So he's an Irish guy who doesn't like redheads. No. Okay. So romantical. Has anyone ever fucked you before?

It's cool if not, but hey. Alright, Boots. December 6th. To Nora. 6th of December, but hey. All right, boots. December 6th. To Nora. 6th of December 1909. I would like you to wear drawers with three or four frills on them. Sorry. Three or four frills, one over the other

at the knees, and up the thighs and great crimson bows in them. I mean, not schoolgirls drawers with a thin shabby lace border, thigh around the legs, and so thin that the flesh shows with a full loose bottom and wide legs, all frills and lace and ribbons and heavy with perfumes that whenever you show them, whether in pulling up your clothes hastily to do something or cuddling yourself up prettily to be blocked, I can see only a swelling mass of white stuff and frills. I can see only a swelling mass of white stuff and frills, and so that when I bend down over you to open them and give you a burning, lustful kiss on your naughty bare bum,

I can smell the perfume of my drawers as well as the warm odor of your cunt and the hasty smell of your behind. Very hasty smell. Have I shocked you by the dirty things I wrote to you? No, not really. I haven't gone too far, have I? Nora at this point is just like, you kissing my butt is like the least

offensive thing so far. It doesn't even register on the radar at this point. It's good to know that he asked that after he's already written the first two letters. These are all like days apart, so she would have got them all as one big clump. Forgiveness and permission. Did I just

blow your mind? As well as your cunt. You think perhaps that my love is a filthy thing. It is, darling. I dream of you in filthy poses sometimes. I imagine things so very dirty that I will not write them

until I see how you write yourself. Wow. The smallest things give me a great cock stand. A horse. It's like a dick stand. And let me tell you, those are not easy. That's like doing a hand stand only just with your dick.

Oh, I thought it was just another sort of side dick to hold the first dick up. The smallest things give me a great cockstand. A whorish movement of your mouth. A little brown stain on the seat of your white drawers. A sudden dirty words blotted out by your wet lips.

A sudden immodest noise made by you behind, and then a bad smell slowly curling up out of your backside. Oh my god! Oh my god, he's one of these guys. At such moments, I feel mad to do it in some filthy way. To feel your hot, lecherous lips sucking away at me, to fuck between your two rosy

tipped bubbies, to cum on your face and squirt it all over your hot cheeks and eyes, to stick between the cheeks of your bump and bugger you. My bubby. Basta per stasera. What's that? Does anybody know what that is?

Uh, some Irish thing. Basta per stara? I What's that? Does anybody know what that is? Some Irish thing. Basta per stacera? I think it means I'm going to ask for your stacera. Beneath the castle. Basta per stacera. I'm pretty sure it means I'm going to fuck your farts. Pretty sure.

This is hardly appropriate dinner time conversation. Oh my god, these are telegrams? So somebody else is receiving those? They're going, beep, beep, beep. Really? At the end of the first letter, someone's like, I can't go anymore. I've forgotten Mars code. Look,

this telegram's going to cost you a lot of money. Why don't we do this? Want to smell your fart? Stop. Love your sphincter? Stop. Have dick. Still.

Stop. Love Jim. Cunts are rad. Arts Jim. Oh, man, David. Another telegram from that author. I bet it's boring. No, I'll take it.

I'll get it. I'll do it. It's really long. No, it's just fine. It's fine. I bet it's boring. No, I'll take it. I'll get it. I'll do it. It's really long. No, it's just fine. It's fine. I don't mind. I'm James Joyce, and I'm the human tripod. Stop. Finish this up.

Goodbye, my darling Who I am trying to degrade and deprave How long God's earth Can you possibly love a thing like me Oh I am anxious to get your reply darling Jim I'm back soon Hey you wanna fuck me

Yes no maybe circle one Yeah Stog read the watch me do pushups Line real quick for me. I'm James Joyce and I'm the human tripod. Watch me do push-ups with my dick. One, Ulysses. Ow. Two, Norah's cut.

One. One, Ulysses. Two, Norah. Two. Those are the two things that James Joyce thinks of. All the time. He has a binary mind. Hey, James, how's it going? Well, I'm not thinking about Ulysses right now, I'll tell you that much.

Hey, really? I'm looking down at your pants and I'm thinking differently. Oh. Sog, what is that letter you have in your hand? Sog, Sog, read that letter to the class, please. I don't want to read it, Citrus. I don't want to read it. No, read it in front of the class.

Classic notes in class. Dirty whore. I'm not a dirty whore. I just go to school here. Well, read this for the class. If you go to school here, you're a dirty whore. I go to dirty whore high school.

Go dirty whores! Yeah, we're gonna kick a Wolverine's ass this weekend! Why does Elmo have to read one of James Joyce's letters? My name is Elmo! Elmo already read one of James Joyce's letters.

To Nora My name is Nora. I already read one of James Joyce's lists. To Nora, Dublin, 8, December 1909. Do I have to read this, really? Yes, you do. Yes. Read it, bitch. My sweet little horse,

Nora, I did as you told me, you dirty little girl, and pulled myself off twice when I read your letter. Okay, read it faster, this'll take an hour. Faster! I am delighted to see that you do like big fucked arseways. Fucked arseways? Yes.

Fucked arseways. Every which way but arse. Yes. Now I can remember that night when I fucked you for so long backwards. It was the dirtiest fucking I ever give you, darling. Literally. My prick was stuck in you for hours. Fucking in and out under your upturn.

I had no idea James Joyce had a dog dick. Stop it, guys. This is embarrassing. He just has a very odd piercing, and that's what keeps him... Oh, okay. He was the originator of the Prince Albert. He's the man. He's the man.

Prince Jimmy is what we called him back then. I felt your fat, sweaty buttocks under my belly and saw your flushed face and mad eyes at every fuck

I gave you your shameless tongue came bursting out through your lips and if I gave you a bigger stronger fuck than usual, that dirty fart keeps spluttering out of your backside.

You know, if you're gonna be nasty, you can at least be complimentary. You don't need to look fat, smelly, and sweaty. Keep going. The last couple of minutes. This guy's a pervert. You had an arse full of farts that night, darling,

and I fucked them out of you. You don't shut the fuck up. I'm gonna fuck the farts out of you. Wait, wait, wait. There's still three farts left. Let me get them for you. I fucked the farts out of you. Wait, wait, wait. There's still three farts left. Let me get them for you. I fucked them out of you. Big fat fellows.

Long windy ones. Quick little merry cracks. And a lot of tiny little naughty farties. Josh from her hole is wonderful to fuck a farting woman when every fuck drives one out of her? Every one. Every single one.

It must have been noisy. What is going on? They suffocated in that room. The entire room was flammable. There were no survivors. Oh, you shouldn't go in that room. Why not? There were some people having sex.

I think I would know Nora's fart anywhere. What is that? What is that? Oh my god, Nora's fucking someone. I'd recognize her. I'd recognize her fuck farts anywhere.

It's like a fart lineup or something. Hey, who did that merry little crack? Oh, hi. Number five, Steve, please step forward and fart. Hand over the fucking fart, cocksucker! I think I could pick Nora's fart out in a room full of farting women. It is a rather girlish noise

not like the wet windy fart which I imagine fat wives have And I've imagined it so many times He imagined it every

night when he was alone You know James Joyce had a lot of money I wish he would have proved this plan. He could have put this to science. Exactly. I think something needs to change for the second two paragraphs of this. I could sing it.

Yeah. Please sing it. It's shitting! You say when I go back you will suck me off and you want me to lick your cunt. Lick your cunt. I hope you will surprise me sometime when I am asleep dressed. Steal over to me with a horse glow in your slumberous eyes. Steal over to me with a horse glow in your slumberous eyes.

Gently undo button. In the fly of my trousers. And gently take out your lover's fat Mickey. Up in your moist mouth. And scurry at it until it gets fatter and stiffer. Comes up in your moist mouth and scoff at it until it gets fatter and stiffer. Stiffer. Up in your mouth. Up in your mouth. I shall surprise you

asleep. Lift up your skirts and open your drawers gently. Down gently by you. And begin to lick lazily around your bush. All around bush. You will begin to stir uneasily. Then I will lick the lips of my darling's cunt.

Cunt. Darling's cunt. my darling's cunt. Cunt! Cunt! You will begin to groan and grunt and sigh and fart with lust in your sleep.

Lust in your sleep! Yeah! Then I will lick up faster and faster like a ravenous dog. Until your cunt is a mess of slime

and your body wriggling wildly. Oh my god! I think that last line actually needs to be read. Romantic. Then I will lick up faster and faster like a ravenous dog until your cunt is a mess of slime and your body wriggling

wildly. Thank you, would you please? That sounds great. dog until your cunt is a mass of slime and your body wriggling wildly. Yay! Thank you, would you please? That sounds great. Should I sing the last lines? Yes. Do whatever you want. Those last lines are great. Good

night, my little farting Nora, my dirty little fuckbird. There is one lovely word, darling, you have underlined to make me pull myself off better. Write me more about that and yourself sweetly. Dirtier, dirtier. Dirtier. James Joyce.

James Joyce. Joyce Nathan Lane everyone thank you for coming out oh yeah ladies and gentlemen I'm sorry we cannot perform Wicked as scheduled but All right. There we go.

John, let's drop this check and pretend you're not. Oh, okay. Okay. Ah, end scene. Yeah, that was lovely. That was lovely. There's a lot of yes anding happening. I liked it about it.

Exactly. But I did want to ask you, what do you think of your lens week? Well, I learned more of something I kind of already knew, and that's that human beings have always been really dirty and really out there, really nasty. It's just that the internet kind of accentuates it and brings a place for it to bring it all together.

And, you know, I mean, you see more of it because the internet's more widely available. But what I also realized more is that, I guess back then, maybe it's that the kind of people who would write this thing down for posterity's sake, they would be more flowing with it.

So it's a very distinguished dirt. It's a very sophisticated nest. Yeah, preserved for humanity. I mean, we've got all the guys writing this dirty, dirty stuff. It's like a Roman poet, a French author

who, you know, you could tell could write and then you've got James Joyce. It's not just somebody writing like butt sex girlfriend stuff on Yahoo Answers like now. It's like back then, you had to have a little class with your nasty. Yeah, in comparison to some other episodes that we've done our porn episode our yahoo answers episode i think this is

the most butt heavy episode we've ever done it really is this might be our dirtiest one and i'm proud of us for that and of course coming out of butts going into butts it was amazing as you said you know people people have been dirty throughout history, and especially people that are creative. And meanwhile, I am in a podcast, ladies. Just mentioning. Alright. Anyway, the website

is always thefpl.us If you didn't go to F Plus Live, I'm sorry. And we'll see you next time. Promote us, tell us to your friends. Say, hey, do you think school is boring too? Here's a bunch of old dudes saying butts.

We like you. Goodbye. Goodbye. I'm yucking it up here. Hey, Stog, while we're waiting, can you make some gunfire sounds? Okay. Fuck you, shitty-ass man! Oh, Stog, I totally shot you. I totally shot you and you're dead. Fuck! Pew, pew, pew!

Oh, I totally shot you. I totally shot you and you're dead. Oh, I totally won. Can all episodes just be this? You need some auto-fire in there. There we go.