Uh-Oh, Intelligent Humor.

Well, I do try. Today's topic is allegorical writings of the early Renaissance. No, wait! Don't leave! I promise, it'll be interesting. For my Survey of British Literature class, I recently read Chaucer's 'Canterbury Tales' (well, the Prologue and the Miller's, Reeve's and Wife of Bath's Tale), 'The Second Shepherd's Play,' 'Everyman,' and the first four Cantos of Spenser's 'The Faerie Queene.' Despite my brain melting into a puddle of goo with reading so much Middle English all at once (a minor problem, I assure you), I really do enjoy these stories. Most of them are quite funny, and the one that isn't meant to be comedic is inadvertently humorous.

For instance, 'The Miller's Tale' features a man who wants to sleep with a married woman. She fears her jealous husband's wrath and tells him she won't sleep with him unless he has a foolproof plan so that her husband won't find out. (This is common in popular literature of the century - lots of sex and ribald humor. Ever listened to any Madrigal music? They're all about sex. I mean, 'I'd Enter Your Garden?' Please.)

The foolproof plan ends up being that he convinces her husband that God is sending a second flood. While her husbands sits upstairs in a bathtub waiting for the flood, the main character makes time with his wife.

Let me just say, hearing our seventy-something year old professor (he encourages us to call him 'Stuart') talk and laugh about sex at the front of our small classroom is a rare joy in my life. He has that old person voice, the kind that's a bit creaky and wavers and doesn't stay on the same pitch, you know? He also uses a million adjectives. At least two adjectives for every noun.

"Chaucer's...Chaucer's 'Prologue' introduces us to more than just the...the characters, right? Erm, ahem, er, the Knight is a sort of an...upstanding, chivalrous fellow. He's a good, righteous kind of man. As opposed to, say, the Miller, who is described as a lecherous, greedy, obese man with a drinking problem."

(-insert wheezy old man laugh-)

"When you read the, the, the Miller's Tale, you'll see...well, it's a...a very bawdy, sexual tale. It's, it's, uh, well, it's like those terrible, flowery romance books that your mother reads." (-pause-) "Well, at least, my mother read them."

Despite his monotonous put-you-to-sleep voice and the fact that his old-man-repeat-words-syndrome (a common disease amongst the elderly, amiright?) means every sentence takes twice as long to say, I love that class. Stuart is really a wildcard, I must say.

The Second Shepherd's Play, though, amused me even more greatly than the Miller's Tale. When reading the Middle English, I tend to read it three or four times to get the meaning straight, and then often if it's too complex I'll write out a rough modern 'translation' in the margin for later reference. For instance. This passage, from The Second Shepherd's Play:

DAW: Such servants as I,
That sweats and swinks,
Eats our bread full dry,
And that me forthinks.
We are oft wet and weary
WHen master-men winks,
Yet comes full lately
Bother dinners and drinks.
But nately
Both our dame and our sire
When we have run in the mire
They can nip at our hire
And pay us full lately.

I read this passage a few times, got the meaning, and then translated quite professionally into the margin: "Daw bitches about how they don't pay him enough."

I think I may have a future in this.

Another example: The first six pages I have translated to:

Coll: -bitches about being cold and overtaxed-
Gib: -bitches about the cold and his unhappy marriage and nagging wife-
Daw: -bitches about the weather and makes melodramatic connections to Noah's flood-

See, I'm a very efficient reader. Anyway, the story of the Second Shepherd's Play is that a group of shepherds are chilling in the hills with their sheep and lamenting about hard economic times. This guy they know, named Mak, comes to talk to them. They all rush to gather their belongings so that he won't steal them, so we know what sort of man Mak is. Anyway, Mak assures them that he's not up to anything, takes a moment to bitch about his wife for a bit ("She drinks well, too...and every year that comes to man / She brings forth a bairn - and some years two."), and they all sing and then go to sleep.

Once everyone is asleep, Mak casts a spell over them to keep them asleep (See, see the discord between the Pagan bits like this in a mainly Christian piece? It ends with them visiting baby Jesus...but Mak casts a spell. EEENTERESTING.) and runs off to steal a sheep. He snatches a ram (apparently their only ram) and brings it back to his house.

There he and his wife, Gill, have a little argument that reminds me of Miracle Max and his wife in 'Princess Bride.' ("Back, witch!" "I'm not a witch, I'm your wife!") and they decide to swaddle the ram and put it in the cradle, so that when the shepherds came to blame Mak for the theft, they wouldn't find any suspiciously familiar looking rams hanging around.

So Mak goes back to the shepherds, removes the spell, and pretends to sleep. They all wake up, bitch a bit more about the weather, and then Mak heads on home to his wife. When he's gone, the shepherds count their sheep, and - lo! Their ram is missing! Whodunit? They all immediately assume Mak, and go stomping to his house to punch him in the jeans (Or something.)

Mak answers the door by asking them to be quiet, as his wife has a headache and is very tired from giving birth the previous night. Gill compliments this story by bitching loudly about how their footsteps 'go through her head.' After a bunch of back-and-forth against a backdrop of Gill moaning about how uncomfortable she is, the shepherds apologize for suspecting him and leave.

Wow! For once, the cheater /is/ going to prosper! Oh, wait - nope. Feeling bad for having been so rude to Mak and Gill, the shepherds decide to go back and give the new baby a sixpence as a gift. Mak and Gill immediately protest. "Nay, do way! He sleeps!" "When he wakens he weeps. I pray you go hence." (Translation: GTFO.)

The Shepherds insist they only want to give him a kiss on the head, to give him their blessing. They raise the cover and...my, grandma. What a long nose you have! Mak and Gill scramble to explain. Mak swears up and down that he's the father and Gill is the mother. Gill describes the child as a "pretty child", a "darling, by God". They grow more desperate. Mak says that the child's nose is broken, and that's why it looks like a sheep (...what?) and Gill says that the Faerie's took him and he's a changeling.

Wow. Kind of stretching it, aren't we?

Of course, the shepherds see right through him, but they spare his life, and because of their kindness, they get to go visit baby Jesus. That's probably actually the most important part of the play (that second half that I just summarized in one sentence), but that part bores me.

Sparknotes tells me that if anyone can't see the meaningful connection between the swaddled ram and the newborn baby Jesus, they must be an idiot. That came as news to me, as I came out of this story wondering at how much they sing (In a margin: "It's like a musical!!") and wondering whether or not 'Gill' should be pronounced 'Jill.'

...and I'm an English major. Yikes.

Okay, I'm gonna wrap this up, since I'm always a bit more long-winded than I mean to be, and this isn't so much laugh-out-loud funny as it is...well, a bit too educational. But I had the stories on my mind. Last thing: Everyman.

Everyman is one of the most famous 'Morality Plays' that were performed in the early Renaissance at festivals and such. These plays, while having small amounts of comedy to keep the audience interested, were basically meant to convey the ever-popular idea of "LISTEN TO GOD OR HE'LL SMITE YOU." Really what everyone wants to hear when they're chilling at a city-wide celebration, drinking wine and flirting with girls in corsets.

Anyway. Let me define the word 'allegory' to make this a bit more clear. An allegory is where a writer takes an idea - like an emotion, a virtue, etc. - and personifies it. For instance, the Grim Reaper is the idea of death. George Orwell's 'Animal Farm' is allegorical. Dante's 'Inferno' is allegorical. Hell, Peter S. Beagle's 'The Last Unicorn' is allegorical.

Allegories confuse people sometimes. In fact, until I read 'Everyman', they confused me, too. If you don't understand what an allegory is, read even just a portion of 'Everyman' and it'll all make sense. Everyman is what I can only describe as the least. subtle. allegory. EVER. The main character, Everyman (Get it? Get it? Every...man! Everyone!) has a best friend named 'Fellowship.' Not kidding. His relations are named 'Kindred' and 'Cousin.'

The story goes that God is annoyed that men aren't paying enough attention to him (well, that sounds much more petty when I put it that way) and demands that Death (HEY WONDER WHAT THAT CHARACTER REPRESENTS 8D) go fetch Everyman and bring him for his final reckoning. Apparently the solution, when someone misbehaves, is to send your minions to fetch him, teach him his lesson, and then...kill him. Wow. Fat lot of good it does teaching him a lesson that only mattered on Earth. Once you're in heaven or hell, doesn't it really just...not matter what you do?

Anyway, Death is like "Hey, Everyman! Tomorrow you have to go see God! And you can never come back!" and Everyman's like "Shit! D: Wait! No! I need to get my affairs in order. Just give me...um, twelve years." And Death is like "Hellno. You are going tomorrow. You can bring a friend." And then he disappears. So Everyman is like "I love my friends and family, so I'm going to try and get them killed, too." Unfortunately for him, his family and friends get a lot less loyal when they find out what he has planned for them. Fellowship, Kindred and Cousin all abandon him. Aww, sadface. Everyman gets all emo. Then, he has a great idea! He'll call his friend Goods! (Yes. Yes, that is his name.) 'Goods' is a SOOPAR CLEVAHR ALLEGORICAL REPRESENTATION of money/wealth/riches. How subtle. Of course, when Everyman asks Goods to come with him to his reckoning, Goods pretty much laughs in his face. Well, you know what they say...you can't take it with you.

Everyman decides it would be a good idea to call on his other friend, Good Deeds. Unfortunately, he hasn't been a very good friend to Good Deeds. In fact, Good Deeds appears to be squished under a rock at the moment, so weak that she is unable to move. Despite this terrible treatment (See, not stop complaining that your friends never give you gas money. At least they don't squish you under giant allegorical rocks.) Good Deeds wants to help Everyman. But alas, she is too weak! Good Deeds calls upon her sister, Knowledge, to help Everyman. Then he grabs some more friends - Beauty, Strength, Discretion, and of course, his Five-Wits ("You must have them ready at all hours."). He also goes to see this guy named 'Confession' and Confession gives him a gift - it's a Penance! I'm trying to picture Penance in a gift bag. After he confesses, Good Deeds miraculously recovers. The whole motley crew skips and sings and follows the yellow brick road to go see God.

To go to his reckoning, Everyman has to jump into a grave. (O, subtlety!) Suddenly, everyone chickens out. Beauty, Strength and Five-Wits hi-tail it out of there. Discretion says something about not being able to stick around without Strength and follows suit. Knowledge sticks around, but only because she wants to watch (that sick, sick creature.)

Everyman and Good Deeds are the only remaining people. They say some shit in Latin and descend into the grave.

Can anyone guess what the moral is? Is it that...my goodness...God doesn't care if you're pretty? :0 WHAT? God doesn't love Brad Pitt more? Is it that all that matters on the day of reckoning are the Good Deeds you've done?

Okay, I'm running low on heavy sarcasm here. Basically, you'd have to be dumb as a ROCK to not get the idea here, but the play is STILL capped on either side by the Messenger and the Doctor explaining the moral of the story. I would be insulted to be an audience-member of this play.

I would probably throw rotten fruit.

Well, class, that completes your unwanted British Lit lecture for the day. I hope you found it amusing, or that it at least distracted you from homework long enough to be worth it. Also, if you're taking Survey of British Lit with good old Stuart next semester or something, now you're covered on at least three pieces of literature.

GINNY > SPARKNOTES

Being Girl

Dear Mankind; (and I really do mean -men-)

I am here to talk about an issue that is of little consequence in the grand scheme of things, but which distresses me. This post is about being Girl. Allow me to explain, but first I'll begin with a clever anecdote in order to snag readers and make them smile.

I know most girls would prefer that you don't, while in their company, expound on the supreme sexiness of various models, actresses, singers, etc. I myself am not suggesting that you do so. However...well, let's look at this.

When most girls mention how hot another girl is to their boyfriend, they want said boyfriend to say something along the lines of "she's not nearly as pretty as you are." But in certain circumstances, what seems to be the right answer is actually a terrible answer. Observe:

Me: something something something about Megan Fox.
Male-Type Creature: Ugh, Megan Fox.
Me: ...you don't think Megan Fox is hot?
Male-Type Creature: Meh, well...

In this scenario, the male-type creature is attempting to make me feel better about my own standards of beauty by NOT talking about how sexy Megan Fox is. But rather than "you're prettier than her", the message he's sending is "my standards are so high that not even the nation's current sex symbol meets my expectations." That has the opposite effect intended. Instead of me going 'aw, he thinks I'm pretty,' I end up going 'my God, if he thinks Megan Fox is ugly, he must think I'm a -hag-.'


Case in point.

That very thought is the essence of being Girl. Girls (with a capital G) are insecure, compliment-hungry vultures who seek out negative things in innocuous and well-meant words and raise them triumphantly to the sky like a caveman making a kill.

Being Girl means fishing for compliments, twisting words, and attempting to manipulate men with feminine wiles. Being Girl means playing games - the kind of games that society tries to force us to play, even if it obstructs romance more than it propagates it. Here are some examples of being Girl:

Boy: You look really nice tonight.
Girl: So I don't look nice normally?

Boy: That dress makes you look so thin.
Girl: So you think I'm fat?

Girl: Does this color look good on me?
Boy: Every color looks good on you.
Girl: That is such a line. You're using lines on me!
Boy: It's not a line! You look good in every color!
Girl: You are such a jackass. You don't even care about me. Everyone knows I look awful in red.
Boy: You look great in red!
Girl: No I don't!! Every time you insist that I look good in red, I know you're lying to me. You're a liar!
Boy: Okay, okay, fine! Red /does/ wash you out a little.
Girl:...are you saying I look bad in red?

You see what I mean? These Girls have the ability to turn any and every nice comment that some poor, unsuspecting, well-meaning boy says into some sort of insult or degradation. Girls keep their men in a constant state of guilt and nerves. They are both in the doghouse and walking on eggshells constantly.

But for some unknown reason, Girls seem to be the most popular with guys. Why? Perhaps we will never know.

Any opinions that readers want to offer are welcome. This blog has anonymous comments enabled, so you don't have to have a Blogger account to reply. C:

Thoughts? Comments? Spam? Do you know a Girl? Are you a Girl? Guys, how do /you/ feel about Girls?

Take That, Sausage Face!

I think you can get an idea of just how freakishly polite people at my school are by the fact that I was surprised when someone /didn't/ hold a door for me.

I mean, I was right there! And she clearly wasn't in a hurry or anything. I'd have held the door for her.

But that's unimportant. Today, I'm here to talk about the dream I had night before last. I (finally!!) had a dream involving zombies. Yeah, I know! Awesome! Right? Well, unfortunately, I didn't kick ass.

My dad and I were in a room - an upstairs bedroom of some kind in a mansion-y thing - lying in wait on the couches. The zombies were outside the room, some of them perched in trees (I didn't know zombies had the balance for that, but apparently the zombies of my subconscious do), some of them sitting on the windowsills, some climbing up the walls. Whenever one got close enough, we'd sit up, take a shot at 'em, and then lay back down again. For some reason, none of the zombies ever climbed in the windows and tried to eat us.

Anyway, my dad ran out of ammo, so he took my gun and ran off downstairs to do God knows what, leaving me armed with a gun that fired only sausages.

...okay, if you were expecting this to be really bad-ass, you stand corrected. Am I right?

Anyway, so I spot a zombie, I sit up, take aim, and the zombie breaks character and starts laughing. He says "Are you serious? Sausages?" They weren't even bratwursts or anything. They were like...little tiny breakfast sausages. Lil smokies. Who knows.

I raise my gun to fire again (don't make fun of my sausage-gun, I'll fire another one in your face) and realize that I am absolutely exhausted. Not just tired, but can't-keep-my-eyes-open, can-barely-lift-the-sausage-gun tired. I can't even aim because my eyelids are so heavy that I can only see the zombie's feet.

At this point I decide to run away, and somehow end up climbing up a winding staircase in this very tall white tower, where it's easy to avoid the zombies because they don't see me coming up the stairs, so I can run right past them and as soon as I'm out of sight, they forget I existed.

Then the dream dissolves into nonsense - as if anything before it made much sense - and I wake up to my alarm.

Not exactly how I expected my very first zombie dream to go, but not bad. At least I had good aim with the sausage gun, right?

...right?

Oh, This is What it's Like.

Whenever women talk about how obnoxious it is that guys hit on them all the time, I've been annoyed and immediately become snarky. "You poor thing," I mutter disparagingly. To me, the idea of guys being interested didn't seem like such a horrible circumstance to be in.

That was, of course, because it didn't happen to me. Now, this isn't a compliment-fishing pity-post, I am speaking in all honesty here when I say that I've never been attractive. I was a hyper, ADHD preteen with too-big eyes and the figure of a ten-year-old boy. However, this appears, in the last year, to have changed. Now, just because I'm kind of cute now doesn't mean guys hit on me all the time. They don't. However, when alcohol levels are high and I'm dressed like a Space Pirate, apparently I do get hit on a lot.

Let's specify: Space Pirate, to some girls at that party, apparently meant 'wear black leather and platform heels and look like a ten cent whore.' But you must understand, I was not really inviting advances with my outfit. I took the theme quite literally. Here's a visual aid, so you can see how not-slutty I was.



Now, let's make this perfectly clear first thing: if you interpret this post as ego-stroking "I'm so hot, I hate when guys hit on me", then you'll be reacting the same way I always have to girls who say guys hit on them. But whether or not you understand how unpleasant it is to be accosted by someone with beer-breath who won't let you back out of conversation, you should know that I don't mean this to sound conceited. I simply want to make commentary on the strange illness that seems to take hold of men when they've imbibed too much.

Symptoms include, but are not limited to:
-talking too loudly;
-thinking they are terribly witty;
-spitting when they talk;
-being physically forward/overly touchy; and
-becoming (if possible) even MORE resistant to taking hints than men usually are.

Don't get me wrong - at least one guy who flirted with me was pretty cute, relatively sober, and passably intelligent. Of course, he also looked about twenty-eight, and I don't even look nineteen. I look about seventeen. So I don't really respect an almost-thirty-year-old hitting on jailbait. I'm not jailbait, but I look like it. To specify.

Allow me to detail three of the encounters I had the other night.

ENCOUNTER NUMBER ONE
in which Ginny is incredibly witty and causes much joy and laughter.

On the fair Porch is where we lay our scene. I am seated next to Kayla on a chair on the back porch, where everyone seems to have gone to smoke. Ew. A man with silver paint on his face (He had been wearing a giant silver rubbery...thing on his head previously that looked like a butt. I suppose that his planet of origin, when paired with that hat-thing, could be considered humorous by some.) asks me if I am a space pirate. Judging by the fact that this is, in fact, a space pirate party, I confirm. He then says to me, "I'm an alien. I'm from Uranus." (Pronounced, of course, 'your-anus'. I prefer to pronounce it 'YER-in-us' when I have to use the word, to avoid mocking laughter.) I just look at him, a bit lost as to why he's addressing me. "I'm from New Mexic...er, New Ass-ico." He grins, pleased with the incredible intelligence of his classy pun. I stare at him for a moment, waiting to see if there's more. There doesn't appear to be.

"Your wit," I told him gravely, "astounds me."

I didn't know people on the porch were listening, but apparently there were, since a rather surprising amount of laughter greets that statement. I feel a moment of warm, fuzzy pride in my stomach for being clever and sober.

"I'm drunk," he says needlessly, "so my wit is a little..." he gropes for a word. "not good."

"I can see that," I reply sympathetically.

He leaves, presumably to go get another drink.

Now, I know what you're thinking, reader. "That wasn't flirting! He was just drunk!" Your correct. I have no illusions that the man was hitting on me (God, I hope fervently that he wasn't), but I thought the exchange, which played up my talent with witty repartee, was worth sharing. NOW. Moving on to stories where men actually hit on me. I promise, it happened.

ENCOUNTER NUMBER TWO
In which Ginny is, again, clever and funny, and she is given a career suggestion.

The scene: I am standing in the front yard by the garage where we had just finished taking photos in front of the garage door. I am accompanied by Kayla. We're talking amiably, enjoying the cool evening air (well, actually, she was cold. So maybe we weren't enjoying it that much), when yet another drunk guy I don't know comes to stand in front of us. He leans up against the wall, probably more to steady himself than to look cool (good thing, since it didn't work), and listens to us talk. I was in the middle of a sentence, so I finish, ignoring him entirely.

Apparently it was funny (I don't think it was, really) and he laughed. He looks at me and says "You're funny." Oh, clever boy! Who wants a treat? That's a sentence with a subject, a verb, AND an adjective! Most high school Spanish students can do that in TWO languages!

"Thank you," I respond instead.

"You should be a comedian," he tells me.

"Yeah," I agree. "I'd be great. I could just walk out onto the stage and people would start laughing." He laughs at this, more than is necessary, and I feel the need to prevent the awkward silence that I know is approaching.

"But female stand-up comedians don't usually do well," I added.

"What about Ellen DeGeneres?" he suggests, clearly proud of himself. Instead of informing him politely that Ellen is not a stand-up comedian, I nod in agreement.

"Yeah, she's great," I say.

"Even though she's a dyke," he adds.

Now, let's get this straight. I can deal with irritating people. I can deal with dumb people. (Well...for short periods of time.) But derogatory terms for homosexuals really piss me off. Inordinately so. I thin my lips, give a sharp nod that I hope sends the message "Well, you prejudiced douchebag, that's enough out of you." I grab Kayla's arm and say "I need to go inside and get another drink." To my annoyance, he follows us and opens the door for us, but we do manage to escape him once inside.

Urgh.

ENCOUNTER NUMBER THREE
In which Ginny is forcibly grabbed, leered at, and eventually rescued by an exceptionally tall man.

This was the real encounter (or series of encounters) that convinced me that I was, indeed, being hit on. And not with much finesse. These others could all be interpreted either way - no one had said anything overtly sexual or provocative to me, and with the exception of some casual touching on my shoulder/back by a few random guys, which I quickly sidestepped, I wasn't convinced that I was particularly appealing to any of these drunk party-goers.

The first time I meet someone I will call 'Green-Shirt Guy', he drags Lauren and I into the living room, reassuring us that "It's okay, I'm the director." Whatever that means. He has two other party guests in the room and has instructed the guy to dip the girl into a romantic pose.

"I'm directing a love scene," he tells Lauren and I, "and I need you to critique it." He motions to the couple. "Kiss," he instructs them, and they proceed to suck face with an off-putting enthusiasm. Feeling distinctly uncomfortable, Lauren and I exchange glances. Green-Shirt Guy leans forward to instruct the couple further and Lauren mutters, "Come hold my hair while I throw up." Since Lauren's had absolutely nothing to drink that night, I immediately catch on that she's helping us escape, and I follow her to the bathroom. We shut the door and she makes retching noises, just to be safe and to have a cover story.

We hang out there for a bit, and when we come back out, the 'Director' is gone. Phew.

Later, I'm on the porch and Ben motions for Kayla and Lauren and I to come to the front yard to take pictures (this directly precedes Encounter Number Two) and we all stand up to go. On my way to the door, Green-Shirt Guy steps in front of me and says something like "Let me show you something," or something equally sketchy. He then grabs my upper arms. I bring up my plastic laser pistol that makes laser-y noises and put it directly between our faces. "Back! Back," I say, only half-joking, and a few people nearby laugh.

He then proceeds to stick out his tongue and LICK the tip of my gun.

I just about regurgitated my pizza and Sprite all over him. Instead, I said "Oh, God. I have to go." Disgust was thick in my voice, just so you know. No "Oh God, giggle giggle! Ew! Haha! Lick it again!"

I then tried to pull out of his grip and he wouldn't let go. "I have to GO," I said more firmly, and managed to wrench myself out of his grip.

Now, there were a lot of people there. I'm sure he wasn't going to do anything, I was safe as houses. But it made me very uncomfortable being caught in Green-Shirt Guy's grip and surrounded by people I didn't know. At this point, I was determined to avoid him the rest of the night, even if that meant suspiciously switching rooms every time I caught sight of him.

I managed very well, actually, until I went to leave. I was making the rounds, saying goodbye to people, when I turn around to find Green-Shirt Guy right in front of me. He holds up an unlit cigarette in one hand and gives me a half-smile that I'm sure he thinks looks sexy and inviting. "Meet me on the porch," he says. Good God.

"I'm LEAVING," I say loudly and firmly. He opens his mouth to say something else to me, and to my immense relief, Dane, Lauren's six-foot-million boyfriend, who is currently bristling with modded Space Pirate weapons, comes over, grabs me into a hug, and carries me back over to my group of people.

Let me take a moment to explain how much smart girls/safe girls/girls who don't want to get raped appreciate what Anne calls "Pallys." (Meaning: Paladins.) These are the guys who, when they see a girl looking uncomfortable in conversation with a guy, they'll walk up, join in the conversation, and generally protect the girl from the creeper. When it's required, they'll come up with an excuse for you to come with them and leave. I love those guys. Dane is one of those guys.

So yeah...thanks. : P

So, moral of the story - never go to a party without a Pally, and always carry a plastic, laser-noise-making space pirate pistol in case of being accosted.

Ginny, out.