the effect of inane profanity on man in the moon feldwebels

Driving down Main Street.
Two hare baithers putting up abortion posters near my avenue.
I am not best pleased.
I wind down the car window.
My intent is to roar something pithy, principled and with an engagingly insightful intellectual spin.
"**** off you abortionist *****," seems about right.
But a thought comes.
This is a remedy that is forbidden to me.
I drive on snowberly.
I am reflecting that the abortionist posters are actually a good deal more appealing than the sanctity of life ones put up by the goodies.
Lots of nice greens, blues and yellows in them.
The Nazis always have the best paraphenalia.
As I pass the Town Hall, I see a temporary sign beckoning people to enter.
The sign proclaims: "Together For Yes, coffee morning, all welcome."
All welcome?
Presumably not unborn babies though.
You've got to abort those at the door.
I wind down my window again.
The door of the Town Hall is wide open and assembled Nazis can be seen quaffing beverages in pomp and splendour.
I am ready to roar:
"**** off you Nazi *****, you should have been abortions."
Again I feel the faintest intimation.
This too is forbidden to me.
I betake myself to the Tearman cafe.
Well, well, well.
Since the eph word and the cee word and me have just permanently parted company, I'm starting to feel quite mellow.
There are Jihadis, corrupt cops, and do nothing permanently on strike educationalists who wouldn't recognise me right this moment.
I sit down and open a copy of the Bridge magazine.
Monty Baines' daughter Drusilla is waxing poetical on page three about great abortions she has known and what a triumph for humanity they were.
I fling the Bridge across the cafe.
"You stupid ******* Nazi ****," I scream. "This is what happens when a ******* ****** names his ******* daughter after a ******* poodle."