Why you old monkey-fucker! Weed-face bedaubed with berry juice. You old prop-pole from Noah's vineyard, fish bone from the back of Jonah's whale. You filthy old flint matchstick, old rancid candle at 24 the pound, stinking harness off my wife's mule. . . . Ah! you old pumpkin, pickled in bug-juice, third horn on the Devil's brow, face of a codfish with oysters for ears, you old worn-out shoe off a bawd, you reeking piece of Milli Printemps' bloody linen. If I get my hands on you, how I would rub your face in it, your filthy ugly puss of a baked apple as brown as burnt chestnuts. Just to teach you to not to lie like that. . . .
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