Lilith Saintcrow

This makes me absurdly happy: Snakes On a Plane via Chaucer. (Courtesy of the Quiet Selkie.) Why does Middle English make me so happy I could just do a lyttle Snoopie danse? It certainly isn’t the fluid spelling.

Here’s a taste.

Then Sir Sean did see manye knightes comynge to that place and so he hid hymself among the bushes. And Kyng Edichim ycam wyth his knightes and dide kille the eremyte. And Sir Sean made to fle but his bootes made a sounde and the knightes spyede hym and gave hym chase. And thogh he scapede from hem, thei sawe wher he rode and knew of his lodging. Therwithal Kyng Edichim sente thre of his knightes to Sir Seanes lodging for to slayen hym for he had sene hys foule deede. And thus cam aftir vespers Sir Stuntman Number Oon and Sir Stuntman Number Two, son of Expendable Extra who had done manye deedes in the dayes of Uther Pendragon, and wyth hem Sir Stuntman Number Thre.

And so the miscreant knightes wolde break ope the doore of Sir Seanes room and slaye him foullie, but that SIR NEVILLE DE FLYNN cam and seyde to Sir Sean, ‘Sir Knight, if thou shalt do my biddynge than thou shalt scape wyth thy lyf,’ and bad Sir Sean to hye hym from that place. And then Sir Neville made hym redy, wyth one spere he smote hem downe al thre over ther horses croups. This kynde of thynge was ful yn his style, for hys verye wallet hath ‘bad motherswyvere’ on it ywrit.

Son of Expendable Extra? Hys verye wallet? Bad motherswyvere?

Take me. I’m yours.

I finished House of Leaves and Berlin Noir last night. House of Leaves was an effort to read, not the least because of the sometimes-randomly distributed text. I enjoyed it immensely, though I will say it’s not a book for everyone. It will only annoy those who thought the dialogue in V for Vendetta was “stunted” because V was quoting Shakespeare.

But that’s an entirely separate rant. Right now I’m concentrating on how I want MORE BERNIE GUNTHER. I should write to Philip Kerr and tell him I’ve fallen in serious literary lust with Bernie and all I want is more. Do you think he’d respond or would he toss the letter into the “crazy chick” pile?

It’s looking like the PDF with the Dead Man Rising Fiction Contest winners’ stories will premiere next Monday, since I haven’t heard back from two of the winners yet. (Want to see if you’re a winner? Go here.)

For those of you wanting a wee bit of hilarity with your daily blogstaring, check out this post about how some woman who has to use the Internet to find a date considers herself “high-quality.” Then go here and read the sarcastic response. Then read Kate Rothwell’s response. And last but not least, die laughing.

My jaw literally dropped while reading the narcissistic explosion that set this all off; since when does putting your profile on the Internet and getting hits make one desirable dating material? Maybe I’m a bit old-fashioned–I tend to think that anyone plastering themselves on the Web and so transparently begging for romance stinks of desperation at the very least and possible perversion at the worst. Especially when the transparent begging takes the form of, “I’m too bloody good for you.”

You want to get people to notice you? Get out of the damn house. Volunteer at the library. Volunteer at the animal shelter. Go to dance classes. Take a few community-college courses. Do something to get your mind off yourself and onto helping other people or improving yourself. Not only will it make you a better person, but it will also introduce you to other volunteers and nice people, widening your circle of acquantances and upping your chances of finding someone decent to hold hands with. Sadly enough, dating is like publishing–a numbers game, by and large. You have to have a statistical pool big enough to find someone you don’t want to throttle or run screaming from the morning after.

But hey, I met my mate in meatspace and have settled down with him, two kidlings, and three cats. (Is it three cats? I thought I saw a new one yesterday. Please, God. No more cats. I’m begging you.) I’m hardly qualified to judge what people do when they’re desperate for nookie or a little warmth against the human condition of solitude.

But I’m still laughing until coffee burbles in my nose each time I read the responses to this astonishing act of self-stroking.

No related posts.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, August 22nd, 2006 at 10:47 am and is filed under Neato Keano, Rant Rant Rave, Real Life. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.