Ravings of a Textual Deviant

Really, I was only trying to help.

I felt sorry for them; unable to defend themselves against the beasts of the forest and ignorant of the transcendent delight of art and beauty. I was between assignments, so I took a little working vacation. Figured I’d help out the mortal realm by teaching them a bit about minerals…smithwork, pigments, that kind of thing.

The whole taking the daughters of men as wives thing was totally unplanned. After all, there were giants in the earth in those days, and nobody objected to them having a little fun.

So much for my good intentions.

Sir Benedek hurried toward the lair. The princess had only a few minutes before the dragon arrived.

Or so he thought. The dragon already clutched a limp Astrid. “Oh, a matched pair” it cooed, grasping him and squeezing until all went black.

When he awoke, Astrid lay next to him. She was unconscious, but breathing. They were on wooden surface, under a tapestry.

“Happy birthday, darling,” the dragon boomed, and the tapestry fell away. “Pets are a lot of responsibility, but I think you’re ready.”

Benedek fainted again. It was the last rest he got for a very long time.

Adalricus sniffed dubiously at the latest candidate as he unhooked chains from the post and led her into the cave.
 
“You can start in here,” he said. “by getting rid of these cobwebs and sweeping up.”

“Excuse me?”

Enunciating carefully, he said “I need you to clean up in here. It’s a mess.”

“You want me to clean your lair? I’m a princess!”

“Why do they keep sending me princesses?” he asked, rolling his eyes. “All they do is argue. And none of them can cook.”

“But you told the King —”

“I said, ‘I want a maid in!’”

Generally, the medieval living-history group I occasionally hang with is comprised of intelligent, well-mannered folk. They love pomp under any circumstance, and greet everyone from an up-and-coming artisan to the King of the Midrealm himself with perfect period propriety. And a sharp wit is preferable to a blunt object.
 
There are, of course, exceptions.

Having disagreed with the Marshal’s declaration that he was dead and should Fall Down, rather than go for Best Dramatic Performance in a Field Battle, Mad Angus lifted his kilt à la Braveheart.

Later, in a drive-by knighting, the King declared Angus Chevalier de Pleine Lune.

Note: This story is completely fictional, and any resemblance to actual event, or to actual personas is strictly coincidental. I mean, honestly, I’d have to be an unmitigated moron to pi$$ off someone who calls himself “Mad Angus,” now wouldn’t I?

Mama Duck hatched me
I’m ugly as I can be
Other ducks won’t quack with me
Turn their back on me
Just want a lack of me
In the barnyard family
I don’t know yet
That I’m a cygnet
I leave the nest
‘Cos mama knows best
And I head out west
For a place to rest
Flying fast as I can
To Detroit, Michigan
Take my swan sound
On down to Motown
Now I’m on the one
And havin’ some fun
Listen to my swan song
Don’t treat your chicks wrong
And don’t you go punkin’
This ugly duckling

Another thing I wish I had written—I quote Ilana entirely without her knowledge or permission.

So the other day while Dan and I were touring Philly - the town that is, in fact, all about the Benjamins - we decided that Benjamin Franklin was clearly the Chuck Norris of the 1700s. Thus, I present to you some facts about Benjamin Franklin:

1. Ben Franklin invented EVERYTHING. Even your mom. Especially your mom.

2. Ben Franklin does not sleep. He is already so healthy, wealthy and wise that it would kill a weaker man.

3. Poor Richard is the guy who talked smack about Ben Franklin. Ben Franklin killed him and wrote an almanac based on reading his entrails.

4. When recreating the portrait of the signing of the Constitution, the artist could find portraits of all the signers to work from, save Jacob Broom. This is because Mr. Broom tried to butt in line to sign the Constitution in front of Ben Franklin, and Ben Franklin promptly ripped his face off.

5. The Franklin stove is not really something Franklin invented; it’s one of his nicknames, as his sheer, unparalleled hotness could in fact heat an entire house if properly harnessed.

6. Ben Franklin is actually what BF stands for. He is the original BF, and everyone’s BFF. Unless you cross him. The term “best friends” originated to pay homage to his initials.

7. Ben Franklin is so sexy even his focals turned bi.

8. Ben Franklin’s pseudonym, Mrs Silence Dogood, can be anagrammed to spell Decode Girls’ Moons. Also Genocide Lord Moss. The only thing saving us from this destruction is that it can also be anagrammed to spell: Declines God’s Room.

9. Ben Franklin has a bucket…of LIGHTNING.

10. Ben Franklin considers six letters to be redundant: c, j, q, w, x and y. If your name begins with any of these letters, watch out.

11. When Ben Franklin was Grand Master of the Freemason Lodge Les Neuf Sœurs in France, his number was 24. This means he may also secretly be Jack Bauer.

I see a lot of grammar, spelling, and punctuation errors in my job. Every once in a while, I see something really good, like the second “l” left out of “general public,” or substituting “nuisances” for “nuances” (use the spell checker, but don’t rely on it, kids).

Usually, though, it isn’t anything worth giggling about. For example, misuse of ”it’s” has spawned at least one book, and more debates than anyone probably wants to know about.  The most common misuse that most of us see is using it in place of “its”. “Its” is a possessive singular pronoun, despite the lack of apostrophe. “It’s” is a contraction of “it is” and has nothing to do with the possessive form.

Today, an unnamed individual (not one of my writers), declared that there ought to be an apostrophe at the end—its’—because the “it” was plural and possessive. It’s not often that I get to see the birth of a new way to abuse punctuation, and this one gave me the same combination of amazement and dismay that I get when I find something that has been in the back of the fridge for way too long.

So, naturally, I had to share.

Me: Here’s my first draft of the May presentation and notes. All feedback is welcome.

Reviewer: I found only one minor spelling mistake (see attached). You know I gotta find at least one.

Me: Goodness knows, I’m awful at finding my own spelling mistakes—I count on your orthographical vigilance.

Reviewer: Who you callin’ orthographical?

Me: Everyone’s a diacritic.

Fiancé is of the opinion that generally, I am the snarky one, where as he is snide.

“So, counselor,” I asked him, “what exactly is snark?”

His response was that, in the fashion of the Supreme Court, although he could not define snark, he knew it when he saw it.

That statement would be snarky, he added.

Whereas my response of “bravissimo” was merely snide.

Normally, I enjoy a good ride. But tonight, the “horse” is old and sickly; the gifts paltry; the cigar reeking and cheap. No way to treat an honored guest—or ghost, eh? So I go looking for some fun.

There’s a young man’s voice nearby, “…I try to make my way to the ordinary world,” he sings.
Sounds like a good idea to me. I move into the singer.

But it’s not a good idea. There’s nothing there, no flesh. Instead, I see a web of light. I’m the fly, now, with nothing to do but wait for Mister Spider.