"Pfft. Pope my arse."
Just then, the child stirs from out its sleep, knocking a tiny hand off of the side of the crib. "Look,” scolds Francesco, "Didn't I tell you? Now it'll be an all-night session."
She wanders over to the crib and looks down upon the baby, its wide eyes staring back at her, its fingers poking in around the half-dozen teeth piercing the pink of his gums. "Are you waken?" says she. "Is that baby all woke up?"
The child pulls gently at its bottom lip.
"Arse," it says.
Francesco pauses.
"Arse."
"You!" she says, turning to Alberto. "Look what you've done! With that arse-talk o' yours, you've only learned him to say it."
"Learned him to say what?"
"Arse! He's said it, just now."
Alberto roars with laughter. "Ah fuck off, did he say 'arse' right enough? That's mad."
"Mad is it? It'll be my guts o'er the ceilings if'n the Count hears tell of it!"
"Arse blarse" the youngster babbles.
Alberto screeches with hilarity.
"I'm glad it amuses you" says Francesco. "A fine pope he'll make, arse this and arse that."
Kentucky, 1809
Nancy Lincoln gently rocks her infant son in her arms, sat by the hearthside in the family home. Outside, the winter wind rips and tears about the surrounding acres o' Sinking Spring Farm. The flames o' the fire flicker and waver with the weight of the draught down the chimney.
On a couch o'er by the window, Thomas Lincoln gazes dotingly 'pon his wife and his son, sucking on the end of a tobacco pipe and with the tiny log cabin 'thin which the child was born visible on the twilit landscape other side o' the glass behind him.
The child near asleep, he sighs and coughs and then, with a great sigh he utters the word "cunt."
Thomas stares quizzically at his wife. "What was that there now?"
Nancy shrugs. "I don't know. He just gurgled or somethin' I think."
"By God it sounded for all the word like…"
"Cunt," the child says, snuggling against the mother's breast.
"He is sayin' it!" Thomas says, standing up. "By jove he's sayin… the C-word."
"Och he's sayin' nothin' o' the like" scolds Nancy. "You're just thinkin' that's what he's sayin', wi' that dirty mind o' yours."
"Gahn-guff cunt."
"There, again!" With a finger pointed at the youngsters yap Thomas says "I'll be damned if he's not cussin'."
"Sure what does a wain know about cussin'?"
"He knows plenty, sounds o' things!"
"Keep your voice down, he's near asleep. And anyway, where would he've picked that up from?"
Article comments
1 - Aaron Fleming
Ah what brilliant and joyous scibbling! This is the sort of thing historians for years have fought to produce. I heard a rumour that Plato's first word was 'bell end'.
To think it's been so long since the last Pop Cult Mind Wax, what a welcome return.
2 - Christopher Rose
Already crying on account of the Red Devils shocking show last night, upon reading this I cried again, but this time with laughter! Thanks.
3 - DukeDeMondo
thank you Sir Fleming! it has been a fair age since the last Pop Cult, and i figured it best to resume things with the matter of my arse, rather than any of the threads explored in the last load. i believe plato's first word was indeed "bell-end", as was Winston Churchill's third word. his first two were "disestablishmentarianism" and "bicycle".
Christopher, i'm glad you found a chuckle or two herein, and i do hope it eased the pain momentarily of that sporting debacle.
4 - Jon Sobel
Arse! That was funny. My first word was "More," so I'm told. "More" Pop Cult Mind Wax please.
5 - DukeDeMondo
thank you very much Jon, i'm glad it curled the lips t'wards the eyes for a time. they've been few and far between of late, the Pop Cult carry-ons, but i'm tryin to not let things get TOO out of hand with regards the gap atween each post.