Cut for mild grossness.
I taught Mr. Rat to say “poop” today. I have no idea what I was thinking. Of all the forty-or-whatever students I have, he is absolutely the one I trust least with this knowledge. He’s going to remember the word, use it, and use it in front of other English speakers, to figure out if I told him the real word. He’ll probably yell it at his English teacher at school or something. His Mom’s going to come in demanding answers, and I’m going to have to say: “Well – it’s just that he really seems to like poop.” (He does.)
The cut was for the sake of my own delicate Victorian sensibilities rather than anyone else’s, incidentally; I know you’re a big girl, people-of-the-internet. It’s just that apparently, though I see no problem with discussing porn and torture and Anne Bishop out in the open, and saying all sorts of dirty words, my hindbrain feels that saying “poop” requires a cut. This strikes me as a very peculiar hang-up.