Some time ago, in a little village, there was a yearly tradition. The people of the village, who were usually very polite and God-fearing, would, for one day, participate in a competition of curses.
So once a year, everyone gathered in the village square and watch their fellow villagers go one by one on the little dais and try to come up with the most foul and creative curses in as flowing and natural a manner as possible.
This year wasn't going so well, unfortunately. While some people were pretty creative, no one really impressed the village with their profanity. They've heard variations of it all before.
It was late in the afternoon, and all the promising talents have already gone up. It came time for lesser talents, and Peter was known to have some good curses on occasion, so he was called up. They called his name several times, but he wasn't answering.
Eventually, after a few minutes, they heard the door to the outhouse slam and Peter ran up the stage, and as he arrived he had already begun a flow of such profanity, such nasty cursing, that everyone took a step back. He was jumping up and down and saying such things that even ruddy, experienced old men blanched at this incredible tirade of pure verbal
pollution.
Eventually the flow of curses ebbed. The village people all stared at him, amazed into silence.
"Alright," said Peter brightly, "got that darn zipper up, now for the cursing!"