Narrator: In 1906, a bartender signed a legal document admitting to an affair with his boss’s wife. The affidavit was shockingly direct, stating, "I the under sign fucked Mrs Geo . H , Ruth March 12 1906 on her dinging room floor." The woman in question was the mother of a young boy who would grow up to be the baseball legend Babe Ruth. This raw, uncensored glimpse into the past reveals more than just a family scandal; it shows us that people a century ago were just as human, emotional, and vulgar as we are today. It’s this power of profane words to cut through time and social pretense that lies at the heart of a fascinating linguistic journey.

In his book, Nine Nasty Words: English in the Gutter, linguist John McWhorter argues that the words we deem "nasty" are not random but are powerful artifacts that reveal our deepest societal taboos. He demonstrates that the history of English profanity is not just a collection of dirty words, but a story of cultural evolution, moving through three distinct eras of what we fear and revere most: God, the body, and finally, each other.

Narrator: McWhorter explains that English’s first true curse words weren’t about sex or the body; they were about religion. In an era when faith was central to life, the most offensive thing a person could do was to take God’s name in vain. Words like damn and hell were not mild intensifiers but serious, potent profanities. Their power came from the genuine belief that invoking damnation was a spiritual transgression. This is why, for centuries, people used euphemisms like "gosh," "golly," and "heck" to avoid the spiritual weight of the real words.

The fading power of these religious curses is perfectly captured in the famous battle over a line in the 1939 film Gone with the Wind. Producer David O. Selznick fought tooth and nail for Rhett Butler to say, "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn." The censors of the Motion Picture Production Code, which forbade profanity, were hesitant. Yet, the fact that Selznick won the fight by paying a fine shows that by the 1940s, damn was already losing its sting. It was shocking, but no longer a soul-threatening offense. Its inclusion in the film became an iconic moment, signaling that the era of religious profanity was coming to a close.

Narrator: As religious devotion waned, the focus of profanity shifted from the heavens to the human body. Words related to sex and excretion, once considered mundane or clinical, became the new taboos. McWhorter argues this change was driven by a post-Victorian squeamishness and a growing obsession with privacy and propriety. Suddenly, the most offensive words were those that reminded people of their physical, animal nature.

A fascinating example of this transition comes from a manuscript annotated by a monk in 1528. Frustrated with his superior, the monk scribbled, "O d fuckin abbott." What’s remarkable is that he used a coy abbreviation, "O d," for "damned," a word he clearly felt was too blasphemous to write out. Yet he wrote "fuckin" without hesitation. At that moment in history, taking God’s name in vain was a far greater sin than using a word for sex.

This new bodily taboo is also captured in the 1933 film 42nd Street. In one scene, a showgirl played by Ginger Rogers sings a line from "Shuffle Off to Buffalo" but stumbles on a word. She sings, "He did right by little Nellie, with a shotgun at his bel... tummy." The hesitation to say "belly"—a word considered too close to the gut and its functions—perfectly illustrates the new cultural anxiety around the body that would elevate words like shit and fuck to the top of the profanity list.

Narrator: Once established as taboo, words like fuck and ass began a remarkable journey, evolving from simple nouns into some of the most versatile and grammatically creative words in the English language. McWhorter shows how these words moved far beyond their literal meanings to become powerful tools of expression. The word ass, for example, has a dual origin, stemming from both the word for a donkey and the Old English word for the buttocks, arse. This collision of meanings gave it a special charge in American English.

It has since evolved into a unique intensifier, as in a "big-ass house," which doesn't just mean a very big house, but one that is surprisingly or impressively large. It has even become a kind of pronoun. When someone says, "I'm going to fire your ass," the phrase "your ass" simply means "you," but with a dismissive, informal attitude. This linguistic creativity demonstrates how profanity isn't just about causing offense; it's a dynamic and living part of the language, constantly being reshaped by its speakers to convey nuanced emotion and attitude.

Narrator: McWhorter identifies the third and current era of profanity as being dominated by slurs—words used to denigrate entire groups of people. In this modern context, the most "nasty" words are no longer about God or the body, but about identity. The ultimate example of this is the N-word. McWhorter traces its journey from a neutral term derived from the Latin word for "black" to the most toxic and forbidden word in the English language.

The power of this word in contemporary society is immense. In 2006, comedian Michael Richards saw his career implode after he repeatedly shouted the word at Black hecklers during a stand-up routine. In 2013, celebrity chef Paula Deen lost her television show and endorsements after admitting in a deposition to having used the word in the past. Even uttering the word in an academic setting to analyze its history can be a fireable offense, as a professor at The New School discovered in 2019. The fact that we now refer to it as "the N-word" is proof of its unique and potent taboo. Its power is no longer just about offense; it’s about history, trauma, and the social contract.

Narrator: The final stage in the life of a nasty word is reclamation, where a targeted group appropriates a slur and transforms its meaning. The N-word provides the most complex and powerful example of this phenomenon. Within the Black community, the word, often pronounced as nigga, has been repurposed as a term of endearment, a sign of camaraderie, or a neutral pronoun. McWhorter explains that this is not a simple reversal; the word's original sting coexists with its reclaimed meaning, creating a deeply layered and often misunderstood dynamic.

This complexity leads to fraught situations. In 2019, a Black high school security guard in Madison, Wisconsin, was fired for telling a student, "Do not call me nigga!" His use of the word, even while telling a student not to use it, violated a zero-tolerance policy. The incident highlights the profound gap in understanding between those inside and outside the culture of reclamation. While other slurs like dyke have been successfully reclaimed by the lesbian community with less controversy, the N-word remains a linguistic minefield, demonstrating that the power of a word is ultimately determined by the community it affects.

Narrator: The ultimate takeaway from Nine Nasty Words is that profanity is a cultural barometer, precisely measuring what a society holds sacred and what it fears. John McWhorter masterfully shows that the evolution of swearing is the story of our own moral evolution—from a fear of divine punishment, to a discomfort with our own bodies, to a modern consensus that the greatest verbal sin is the dehumanization of a group of people.

The book leaves us with a challenging reflection on our current moment. If slurs are now our nastiest words, what does that say about our values? It suggests that, for all our divisions, we are living in an era of heightened social consciousness, where empathy and the protection of marginalized groups have become paramount moral imperatives. The words we forbid are no longer about protecting God from us, but about protecting us from each other.