"I came from a real tough neighborhood. In the library the sign says 'shut the fuck up!'"
— Rodney Dangerfield

"If you go home with somebody, and they don't have books, don't fuck 'em!"
— John Waters

"Play it fuckin' loud!"
— Bob Dylan

"I've been accused of vulgarity. I say that's bullshit."
— Mel Brooks

"Shit is the tofu of cursing."
— David Sedaris

"Don't fuck with me, fellas. This ain't my first time at the rodeo.
"
— Joan Crawford

"If you can't say Fuck, you can't say, Fuck the government."
— Lenny Bruce

"...profanity and obscenity entitle people who don't want unpleasant information to close their ears and eyes to you."
— Kurt Vonnegut (Hocus Pocus)

"what kind of fuckery is this?"
— Amy Winehouse

"Profanity is the effort of a feeble brain to express itself forcibly."
— Spencer W. Kimball

"'...DAMNATION!'

No device of the printer's art, not even capital letters, can indicate the intensity of that shriek of rage. Emerson is known to his Egyptian workers by the admiring sobriquet of Father of Curses. The volume as well as the content of his remarks earned him the title; but this shout was extraordinary even by Emerson's standards, so much so that the cat Bastet, who had become more or less accustomed to him, started violently, and fell with a splash into the bathtub.

The scene that followed is best not described in detail. My efforts to rescue the thrashing feline were met with hysterical resistance; water surged over the edge of the tub and onto the floor; Emerson rushed to the rescue; Bastet emerged in one mighty leap, like a whale broaching, and fled -- cursing, spitting, and streaming water. She and Emerson met in the doorway of the bathroom.

The ensuing silence was broken by the quavering voice of the safragi, the servant on duty outside our room, inquiring if we required his assistance. Emerson, seated on the floor in a puddle of soapy water, took a long breath. Two of the buttons popped off his shirt and splashed into the water. In a voice of exquisite calm he reassured the servant, and then transferred his bulging stare to me.

'I trust you are not injured, Peabody. Those scratches...'

'The bleeding has almost stopped, Emerson. It was not Bastet's fault.'

'It was mine, I suppose,' Emerson said mildly.

'Now, my dear, I did not say that. Are you going to get up from the floor?'

'No,' said Emerson.

He was still holding the newspaper. Slowly and deliberately he separated the soggy pages, searching for the item that had occasioned his outburst. In the silence I heard Bastet, who had retreated under the bed, carrying on a mumbling, profane monologue. (If you ask how I knew it was profane, I presume you have never owned a cat.)"
— Elizabeth Peters (The Deeds of the Disturber)