Welcome to Unctuous Fusty Prig: Explore the Best Shakespearean Insults at Unctuous Fusty Prig

I’m a delicate flower who is deeply, profoundly pissed off.
I’m also a survivor of sexual abuse and re-victimization. I know firsthand the systemic failures that run through far too many survivors’ stories. During the Me Too movement, I never raised my hand to publicly tell mine. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready to revisit what had happened to me with anyone beyond my therapist.
Now, I am.
Healing has a way of changing your voice. Mine grew louder. Sharper. More honest. And, if I’m being fair, considerably more profane.
Today I’m an impassioned advocate for sexual abuse survivors and for the right to stand fully in our truth — even when that truth is uncomfortable, inconvenient, or makes people squirm. Especially then.
Because language matters.
Survivors spend enough of our lives explaining ourselves — what happened, what didn’t happen, what should have happened, what no one believed, what everyone misunderstood. We are too often the ones tasked with translating harm into language the world can tolerate hearing.
And frankly, there are still far too many people walking around who need to hear, very clearly:
No. You cannot do that. And no — you do not just get to move on with your life as if nothing happened.
I still wonder why the collective force of Me Too didn’t reshape more of the legal structures survivors are forced to navigate. Maybe I missed pieces of it while surviving my own life in real time. Maybe change moves slower than rage. But I know there has to be a better way — a way to build systems and laws that more accurately reflect survivors’ lived experiences. A way to make things easier for those who come behind us.
Because there will be those who come behind us.
My path to healing has been tumultuous. I’ve wrestled with anger I never gave myself permission to feel. Anger I swallowed. Anger I intellectualized. Anger I explained away. And when anger has nowhere to go, it has a nasty habit of turning inward — into poor judgment, low self-worth, and endless second-guessing.
Then I finally got righteously angry.
And it helped.
Cussing — specifically the deeply satisfying, Samuel L. Jackson variety — has been unexpectedly therapeutic. Cathartic, even.
Growing up in a Christian household, I always thought cussing was a little rebellious and a little medicinal. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become more selective with it. More intentional. More artful.
And with a kid around, I’ve also had to get… creative.
Which is how I fell down the glorious rabbit hole of obscure synonyms, archaic insults, and eventually — Shakespearean insult generators.
Now I’m channeling my objectionable rage into three made-up insults a week.
A scientific experiment, really.
Directed at no one in particular.
And everyone.
These insults are for shits and giggles. For word nerds. For fellow potty mouths. For anyone in need of a cussing alternative when modern profanity just doesn’t quite cover it. And for every survivor who has ever needed the perfect next-level insult for a perpetrator when there’s nothing left to do but stand in your truth and keep breathing.
Trauma stole laughter from me for a long time.
Healing gave it back.
This space is my way of honoring that.
My hope is simple: that Me Too continues evolving into We Too — something collective, connective, healing. Something that reminds us we are not alone. That humor can coexist with grief. That rage can coexist with joy. That language can wound, yes — but it can also liberate.
And sometimes the most healing thing you can do is laugh so hard at an absurdly elegant insult that you snort.
So for all you fellow wordsmiths, potty mouths, survivors, and lovers of beautifully unnecessary verbal destruction—
Unctousfustyprig.net is for you.
Cheers.