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The Medicine of Vulgar Rants

“Swearing is a bellwether—a foul-beaked canary in the coal mine—”  Emma Byron


Somewhere along the Nolichucky in an Appalachian July, gathered a congress of friends: mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, a local nurse, a handyman, a waitress newly unemployed, a pizza cook - all upright, fried crisp and getting crocked.
The babies were asleep, the fire bright, the banter surly. It ragged on about tightfisted wages and overdrawn accounts, days choked with Trumped up stories assaulting common sense and decency, regret in fermented dreams and philanders - they never could make sense of it anyway.
All was sheets to the wind and stumbling judgement in need of restoration, somewhere along the Nolichucky in an Appalachian July, when the repartee slipped off the bank and entered the raunchy waters of Vulgaria, and Hygiea rose, albeit unexpectedly, from the foam with shit under her nails.That night she was sired by conundrum and wombed in a Dickle jar, but her remedy,
in that hour of need, sat …

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