Why in age is cuntery forgiven? The racial slurs of a wizened fool are laughed away and taken light, presumed uncomfortable shards of a bygone age, one whose sentiments are since absolved by learned sensibility. Mistakes of the young are washed, with luck, away: by school or a clip round the ears. Perhaps we assume betterment to be part of growing up, that all will learn eventually. The elders have deep roots, their bark thickened, covering whichever whorls of disgrace should have been smoothed in their sapling years. For the most part, if you are a cunt, you’ll fossilise that way. We end life as curiosities, all alike, as bambis in the petting zoo: discarded into the same pile and made the same, cute and helpless, blue rinsed and senseless, a devious disguise, we hide behind time.