Having my way with Ulysses

You ought to be thoroughly well ashamed of yourself.

Mr. Neverout: What! You have found a mare's nest and laugh at the eggs. Miss Notable: Pray, keep your breath to cool your porridge.11:49 pm

Oh would you look at this. A specimen of my maturer work disfigured by the hallmark of the beast. You ought to be ashamed. You ought to have your throat cut across, your tongue torn out by its roots, and your body buried in the rough sands of the sea at low water mark, where the tide ebbs and flows twice in twenty-four hours. Violator. Have you no pride? I’ll tell my brother on you. Are you drunk or something? Don’t come back to me crying scapegoat, saying you are misunderstood. Just look at the shitbroleeth you’ve made here. You ought to have your left breast torn open, your heart plucked out, and given to the wild beasts of the field and the fowls of the air. Don’t’ tell me I don’t see it and that’s all. You think this is something that is an entirely new departure. That’s a damnable foul lie, plagiarist, masquerading as a litterateur. You ought to have your body cut in two, your bowels removed and burned to ashes which are then to be scattered to the four winds of heaven. It is perfectly obvious that with the most inherant baseness you have cribbed some of my bestselling copy, really gorgeous stuff, a perfect gem, the love passages in which are beneath suspicion. O Lord, my God, is there no help for the Widow’s Son? If your so called literature were printed on paper I wouldn’t wipe my ass with it.

He discovered in himself a wonderful likeness to a bull.

Apply the tale, and you shall find, How just it suits with human kind. Some faults we own; but can you guess? --Why, virtue's carried to excess, Wherewith our vanity endows us, Though neither foe nor friend allows us.10:24 pm

My name is unpronounceable in your language.  And I would teach you mine but I can see from here you would stop at the first personal pronoun.  You would learn it by heart and carry it everywhere between your teeth and your cheek. You would root up the green grass and keep it only for yourself.  Well you would, there’s no mystery.  You think this is my first time at the rodeo? You would be no better off than yourself, but you will never see past your own self baptism to realize it.  You.  Can you be sure of understanding my language?  You are of one mind and I see no help for you.  You’ll be who you are and a bull’s a bull for a’ that.

Cissy’s quick motherwit guessed what was amiss

[A Child comes in screaming.] Miss Notable: Well, if that Child was mine I'd whip it till the Blood came; Peace you little Vixen! If I were near you, I would not be far from you.

8:04 pm

So if you are just pulling his pants down and not off all the way, the danger is them peeing all over themselves and you.  Then you have a kid covered in pee and you might not have extra clothes.  Hold him up with your arms around his chest and lean him forward about 45 degrees.  He’ll have to be in charge of his own penis, just cross your fingers that he doesn’t spray everywhere or dribble.  Try to pick a spot pointing downhill.  Oh, and go behind something; there’s always some perve or other watching.

No-one is anything

He had eaten all the whilepaper, swallowed the lustres, devoured forty flights of styearcases, chewed up all the mensas and seccles, ronged the records, made mundballs of the ephemerids and vorasioused most glutinously with the very timeplace in the ternitary -- not too dusty a cicada of neurtiment for a chittinous chip so mitey. 1:30 pm

We die.  Mors Certa, Hora Incerta.  So how can we be anything?  No-one is anything.  From the void and to the void, and again and again.  Things go on the same.  One born every minute.  Well more like, let’s see, carry the one.  Stop a minute so I can calculate this.  Women all over in their life throws.  Sss. Dth, dth, dth!  They won’t stop so I can count.  There’s more born, washing the blood off.  All are washed in the blood of the lamb.  Not stillborn of course.  They are not even registered.  Trouble for nothing.  Well, I am almosting it.  So.  So.  So far this year there have been 30,275,000 births rounding up.  84 days so far this year.  360,417 births a day, rounding up. That’s 15,018 births an hour.  251 births a minute.  Wait a  second.  That’s, yes, 5 births a second.  No point rounding down.  How long did it take your eye to move from we die to 5 births a second?  Cities of people coming and coming.  Lives and lives.  Passing away too.  In your life were you the Gracehoper or the Ondt?  Doesn’t matter, back to the void with you!  How many?  How many.  Wish I had paper.  Um. 12,930,000 deaths this year, might as well round up.  People die and we don’t even know.  Months later somebody smells something.  A drip through the ceiling from the tenant above.  153,929 deaths a day.  That’s 6,414 people every hour.  107 a minute and every second 2 people die.  1.78 really.  One dies and one gets 78% of the way there.  Mostly dead.  There’s a big difference between mostly dead and all dead.  Mostly dead is slightly alive.  Give it a second.  You can’t be mostly dead all day.  There you go.  Welcome to the void.  You have been unmade.  It will be the making of you.  You were a being.  You filled space.  Now you are a becoming.  Not changing, no, I mean fulfilling.  You took a form intended for you all along.  That is, your form is gone.  Your form is formlessness.  I know, death is new to you.  You’ll get there.  Destruction and creation are simultaneous.  Death and rebirth are the same thing spelled different ways.  You hungry?  Of course not, what am I saying.  Sorry.  It’s this time of day.  This is the very worst hour of the day.  Vitality.  Dull, gloomy: hate this hour.  Feel as if I had been eaten and spewed.  Intended.  Caught that did you?  Well.  Well, well.