I got a comment from a certain “Ray” on my rhinotillexomania entry that read: “Some things can be too gross to write about. Your blog was on a roll, don’t blow it.” No pun intended there, I assume.

With all due respect to Ray, I have a few things to say to this.

Firstly, I don’t agree. Sure, “some things can be too gross to write about,” but it’s more a question of how you write about such things than simply that you write about them that determines whether they’re worthwhile to write about–and to read about–in the first place. In my opinion, there is really nothing in human experience that’s off-limits, but if you want to write about thosethings, you should at least have a good reason. Note that I used legitimate clinical language to discuss a widespread practice and its consequences to personal health and social standing. I am doing you all a public service. You should be thanking me. Try and do people a favor, and what do you get? Sheesh.

Which brings me to my next point. I’m not somebody for whom “don’t blow it” really resonates. If it offends your sensibilities, and you’re not up to having your sensibilities offended today, there are plenty of other blogs out there. May I suggest this one? Or this one? T-rage does not pretend to prettify the experience of the daily commute. We have to confront the horror head-on.

And lastly, but by no means leastly, some of the masterworks of the western canon, the most revered works of western lit, are full of these very things that are “too gross to write about”. And I’m not talking about Brett Easton Ellis here, either. I’m talking Aristophanes. I’m talking Chaucer (big time). Rabelais (wow). Marlowe, Shakespeare, Swift. All of these great writers used those things “too gross to talk about” to skewer the pretensions of their age, because these things are the real equalizers, aren’t they?