|
Jest in Literature - The groan from hell
|
Gunjan Saraf
|
May 27, 2002 19:38 PDT
|
...........................................
JEST in LITERATURE
-----------------------------
27th May 2002 # 009
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As you get older it is harder to have heroes, but it is sort of necessary.
~ Ernest Hemingway
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
IN THIS DIGEST :
Story Time
~ The Doc
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
---------------- MESSAGE -----------------
'Great Speaking'
If you're interested in good Public Speaking Tips
and Tips on using Humor in your presentations,
I strongly recommend Tom Antion's 'Great Speaking'
newsletter. With over 1,15,000 subscribers and
fantastic fee structure (It's free) wouldn't you
say it's definitely worth a try? Check it out at
http://www.listpartners.com/cgi-local/subscribe?2606
---------------------------------------------------------
====> STORY TIME
Hi Friends,
The first thing recorded in the English language (arguably, but who's
going to argue) is a beacon we can set our sights on without fear that
we're going backward. It's all too perfect as a reminder that we have
moved so far ahead in our thinking and in what entertains us that we
are still within spitting distance of the first thing we escribed.
Beowulf must be timeless. I say this because one look at the plot,
and you've got to be thinking, "Hey, this would make a good
Saturday morning cartoon." For that matter, you might think it
would make a good movie, or a good t.v. show. What the heck,
run this sucker up a flag pole and sell it to the highest bidder.
Allow me to summarize the plot of this wonderful adventure, and
tell me if any of it sounds familiar to you:
In a country in North-Western Europe, there is a tribe of people
who are beset by an incredible monster. This baby is huge, and she
(yep, the female on the rampage) picks her teeth with human bones
after devouring a couple dozen of them for dinner. Nobody, and I
mean nobody, can stand up against this raging beast. She is
almost unfazed by weapons, and she is impervious to the numbers
of men who come against her. This is one tough broad.
Well, the country she is ravishing is just about to go under. The
king is simply beside himself as his men disappear in large number
almost nightly; carrion for this savage beast. What to do, what to do?
Wait. Is that music? Why, I believe it is. And look! Is that a ship
approaching from out of the Western sea? Oh, yes, it must be a
hero come to save the day. Is that a letter of the ancient alphabet I
see stenciled on his chest? No, that would be a bit too obvious, I
suppose. But he might as well have the blazing "S" of superhuMan
on him somewhere. Perhaps some hallelujahs in the background as
his ship slips in sideways throwing water on the crowd and slams
to a halt.
"It is I, the greatest swordsman in the known world. You lucky people
can stand aside while I take care of this little monster business for you."
"Are we lucky he came along or what, Bernice?" "Lucky? When
was the last time a woman working in the field all day got lucky? He's
just as bad as the rest, dressed up in his tights with that oversized
half-pumpkin for a cod piece. What a showoff!" "Well, if he's not
affecting you, why do you keep crossing and uncrossing your legs?"
"Leeches."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ablazing!
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/ablazing/
Adult cult comix from Australia
Feminazis, addicts, students, bosses,
and other unsavory characters.
ablazing--@yahoogroups.com
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Beowulf comes from out of the place where Western Europeans
claim their heritage to save the day. He has come to help a King
he doesn't know who has a tongue twister of a name - Hrothgar -
by defeating a giant monster from ... well, from somewhere. It
could be hell, and is a couple of times when it's mentioned, but
then again, these people didn't believe in a god who manufactured
a hell for them. In fact, up until just about the time this epic was
written, the proselytizers from Rome had made absolutely no
headway in terms of saving the savage Celts. Seems that all
the friars that went out to do so were so completely assimilated,
they never called the Church for money, they didn't write,
they just blended in with the local populace. Poof, they were gone.
Was it a "better" religion that claimed these holy men? No. Was it
better wages, better work, better living conditions? No. Then
what was it? Rumor has it, the main reason the monks defected and
left the Northern areas alone, free from knocks on the door on
Saturday and Sunday by folks handing out WatchTowers, was weird.
Weird, except it's spelled differently. Wyrd. But that's where it came
from. Nothing changes, I tell you, nothing. So, what's this wyrd stuff?
Nothing new. It is what the Celts called their belief system. Wyrd.
You'd think they would have said that about the Roman Catholic
attempts to save them, but the Celts weren't particularly enamored of
changing things, and they had been Wyrd for a long time.
Wyrd sort of translates as "Fate" with very little of the meaning that
we give that word. The Celts believed that men (no one cared about
women except this one monstrous loon who was eating the population
for snacks ... oh, and of course those women who had big breasts)
were born to a station in life, and by gum, they should just stay in that
place. There was no god in particular, and certainly there was no reason
to work toward a heaven which didn't exist. On the other hand, if you
do away with heaven, you can pretty much just do away with hell, too.
Having done that, let's party.
Wyrd was practiced heartily by avoiding all show of worship, because
there wasn't anything to worship. On the one hand, there was no real
reason to feel bad if you did something maybe you ought not to have -
no hell, no sin, no foul. On the other hand, there was not much to look
forward to either. You toss out heaven and hell, and you sort of realize
later that while you were throwing that bath water out, you pretty much
tossed an afterlife out with it as well.
I'm sure the Celts shrugged and said, "No heaven, no hell, no afterlife....
That pretty much takes care of anything we might worry about, so let's
just lay back and die when we should, push up some earth, and leave
room for the next person who also won't have an afterlife. Eternity was
a bit large of a concept anyway, whereas "When you die, you're dead,"
was a lot easier to explain to visiting relatives.
But, before you go thinking it's all fun and games, remember, we've
got a monster on the loose, and she's aiming for a clean sweep of the
Mead Hall.
Mead Hall the gathering place of the country's populace, so named after
the popular libation of the moment, mead. Mead is pretty simple stuff.
Water, honey, and yeast. That's it. No fancy flavorings. No whipped
cream. No nuts or fruits or berries. Just ferment a big batch over a few
hours, put the house label on it, and watch the locals swill it down.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Business Success Secrets Ebook and Newsletter-- FREE!
This book is packed with great advice from 43 successful
business leaders and marketing experts including Ken Blanchard,
Jay Abraham, Audri Lanford, and Bob Bly.
Click here -> http://make2002great.com/a277.html
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
At the moment Beowulf appears, things have apparently fallen into
habit. Eat, drink, be eaten. Seems that every night, the local inhabitants
do just that. They all gather in the mead hall, get soused, pass out, and
wake up with twenty of their number gone leaving nothing behind but
blood, bones and on each missing man's bed, an original little origami....
NO! Wait. That's a different story.
Hrothgar must be a little slow on the uptake. Every night, he and his
men drink mead and wait for the monster, Grendl, to appear. Each night
they fall asleep, and while they are sleeping, Gendl shows up, breaks
a few of them in half, gnaws a few more, and tucks a couple under
her arms for the return trip. The next day, Hrothgar gathers up his
best and brightest. They discuss strategies, armaments, and secret
plans to trap the monster and slay her. After they finish the discussion,
Hrothgar says, "Okay. I'm thirsty. Everybody meet me at the Mead
Hall for a drink. Boy, I sure wish I could figure out what we're doing
wrong. It must be something simple that we're overlooking. Don't bother
about anything at home. You all can stay the night at the Hall. Maybe
we'll think of something if we all put our heads together." He might as
well hang "Snack" signs on their bedposts.
So, with a monster this unstoppable, even by wunderkinds like
those serving Hrothgar, how does Beowulf plan to beat this
formidable foe? Well, the truth is, he doesn't have a clue. All he
knows is that he's scared to death, wishes he hadn't come to this
god-forgotten place, and would leave forthwith except there are
a few women with large breasts that have caught his eye. After a
few meads in the Hall, he's singing with everyone else. But when
Beowulf gets a snoot-full, he becomes a bit of a braggart.
A bit of a braggart? A bit? Truth be told, he becomes a bit of an
embarrassment. He hears that Grendl can snap a man in half with
one chomp, so he claims that he can snap a carrot the same way, and
given the relative size of their mouths, a carrot is equal to snapping two
men at one time. The cheers go up for Beowulf. Then someone says
that Grendl comes only in the night and needs no light. Beowulf
responds with the notion that he needs no light either, whether he is
fighting man or beast. So saying, he picks up his broadsword, closes his
eyes, and begins slashing the general gathering. Two men wrapped up in
a conversation about the oral manipulations of Hrothgar's wife fail
to hear the racket, and pay the price with their heads before someone
stops Beowulf from doing further carnage. And then, one of the biggest
of Hrothgar's men challenges one of Beowulf's men that this sword play
only shows what a buffoon his leader is. Oh yeah? the guy says. How's
that? Grendl doesn't use any weapons, you idiot. The assemblage goes
silent with ponderous thought. Huh? says Beowulf. No weapons? You mean, she
fights bare handed? Well, then my men and I shall do so as
well! Throw down your swords, he commands. His men groan, disarm
themselves, and mutter about mutiny.
"Now," he roars into the depths of the Mead Hall, past his nearly naked
support team, into the darkness that houses the blackness in men's souls,
"Bring on the Bitch!" and the battle ensues.
==========**********O**********==========
MAKING MONEY BY BEING FUNNY? You Gotta be Joking!
Even if you can't tell a joke... Learn from a man who showcased
Robin Williams, Paula Poundstone, and Dana Carvey.
"The most fun way to earn an extra $700 to $7,000/month."
Click here -> http://ebooks.wz.com/cantu/a277.html
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Actually, things get a little confusing at this point because the Celts
didn't write their own legends. Those frumpy friars from Rome put the
tales to the pen, and they casually tossed in a bit of their own belief
system here and there. It really mucks things up, but since the Celts
couldn't read, the monks probably just told them that a line said,
"Hglecik is big, brave, and beautiful," instead of "They prayed to god
for strength." Hglecik (okay, I made that name up) probably preened
his plumage thinking the monk was praising his manhood and we in the
future are left with a very confusing translation of the belief system of
our forefathers. But, if you're at a humorous literature site, you are
probably willing to let a few things slip by anyway which probably
proves you're a Celt in disguise.
If you are, then you probably won't be bothered by a few of the lines
stated most seriously by our hero, like, "May the one and only true
God be on my side ... uh, er, yeah, be on my side... uh, hmm.... if
Fate will have it so! Yeah, there, that ought to satisfy all the
possibilities." Must have been some tough moments for our Titan
to suddenly have to include a God in his boasts when he didn't even
know there was one. But, as Fate would have it, the big galoot couldn't
write himself, so the monks had free reign over the legends.
Okay, I have to side-step here a minute just to catch things up and
be a little bit accurate if I must.
Since we (English-speaking, Western European derivative, historical
bearers of what became English Literature which is what we're on
about today) had no ability to write until long after the rest of the
world was far into graffiti because they were bored with chiseling
insults on rocks they tossed at one another, we passed down our
legends by way of some guys who ran about the country singing the
stories. They were called Scops. As legends grew, these guys had
quite a task cut out for them. I mean, when history passed the few
hundred year's mark, it was tough, but we were so belligerent
about not writing (sounds like kids today, doesn't it?), we dragged this
on for a few hundred more. These guys would stop at a village and everybody
would beg, "Tell us a story." Sure, but get a pillow for
your butt, because this is going to take a week or two.
Because of the Scops, we did have a concept of "afterlife" after all.
It occurred when someone did something grand enough that he would
be remembered in a poem/song rendered up by a Scop on such
occasions as this. How accurate these tales are is subject to some
curiosity since the Scop had to keep all the facts straight, along with a
few hundred other stories, and then toss in a frazzled friar or two
who is trying to chisel this down in a language that no one can read
even today and what have you got to hope for? Well, I guess it was
better than no afterlife at all, and it did give us the hero-mold for
our Saturday morning cartoons. It was also the motivation for such
heroes as we have like Beowulf. How else can we explain a guy who
rushes around the then known world waiting to hear about monsters
and demons that he can go fight. He gets to where one is wreaking
havoc, brags himself into a corner from which he has no choice but to
fight the evil one, and then does so. In the name of Glory, he seeks the
only eternity that exists - he wants to be the hero of a story that passes
through the ages. He didn't know the monks were going to mess it all
up, but then he wasn't the brightest wick on the candelabra to begin with.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cartoon Break
Premature
http://jokeworm.com/AToons/Ad137.shtml
Oldies
http://jokeworm.com/AToons/Ad98.shtml
Best Orgasm
http://jokeworm.com/AToons/Ad95.shtml
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Now, back to the action.
The first night Beowulf and his entourage stay at the Mead Hall, guess
what? Yep, they fall asleep just like everyone else who is waiting,
scared, shaking with fright at the thought of the coming slayer of men
and their manhood. One can't let certain death stand in the way of a
good night's sleep. In the morning, same thing: twenty empty beds, a
few body fragments, and a moaning from the depths of the tunnel that
Grendl always emerges from, indicating her indigestion continues.
(Having once eaten a serving woman, Grendl is convinced that it is not
the Celts that give her a sour stomach, but her pain rests solely on those
times when, as her son reminds her, it must have been that
bar bitch you ate. Groan.)
Beowulf stomps and fumes up and down the aisles between the
wooden cots. "How could she have done this so easily? All we did
was the same thing we always do. We ate, drank until we couldn't
stand up any longer, prepared ourselves for battle by making sure we
didn't have any weapons, and fell fast asleep. Who'd have thought she'd
do the same thing she has done every other night since this story began!
Hrothie must be right. We must be overlooking some simple thing."
No one can say our hero isn't a thinking man's man. Through the sheer
power of his Neanderthal logic, he finally reaches the conclusion that
maybe what's going a-glee could be rectified if he stayed awake during
those times when Grendl, like clockwork, makes her visit. This guy
wasn't all muscle, you know.
Son of a gun. The second night in the Hall, Beowulf remonstrates all of
his few remaining soldiers to stay awake and then they will dispatch of
this demon who chomps them. His men don't want to stay awake,
however, because they don't want to die viciously. They want to go just
like everyone else before them - peacefully in their sleep. Beowulf runs
around trying to keep them up, but it is useless. They keep nodding off.
(Rule of monster/hero cartoons: leave hero alone to fight monster through
some illogical but necessary device by which everyone deserts him at
the right moment.)
Sure enough, at 11:54 P.M., like a train meeting a schedule, up from
the dank depths of her dungeon drags the oft misunderstood, but
always punctual, Grendl. She is the embodiment of Hell itself (thus
making herself a mold from which was cast my ex-wife), and she is
apparently pissed off that the game never changes. "Can't they toss me
at least one person who has a brain? No, they have to keep using men,"
she thinks as she plods her way toward repetition.
But this time, lo and behold, she finds something different. This time,
there is a man on his feet. Handsome, stripped to the waist, bulging with
muscles, hiding one with a half-pumpkin for some reason, but definitely
different than the wimps she has dined on before, stands this challenger.
Something about him galls her though, and before she can entertain
notions of lustful conduct, she recognizes his relative closeness in fact
to all those boozing bastards that have come to please her and failed
before. "If only they would keep their mouths shut instead of proving
they are idiots," she thinks. Listen to this one shouting, for god's (oops),
for "someone's" sake. Just because I nibbled a couple of his cohorts, he's
got his codpiece all in an uproar. Isn't he cute, the way he's shouting and
shaking his little fist at me? I could just take him home.
(Rule two of the Saturday morning cartoon: have the monster
underestimate the hero in some fashion so he can get the upper hand in
this otherwise uneven battle.) Beowulf watches as she munches on a
couple of the drowsing dweebs who form his backup. Frustrated, he tries
to get her attention away from the others by shouting at her himself. His
challenge and methods are vague, as is the monk's translation of his
tauntings, but it seems he was shouting something like, "Eat me, you
filthy, crust enclosed, skanky bitch from Brooklyn." (It may have been
"New Jersey" or "Oakland" we're not sure, but we can only work with
what we're given.)
Slowly she turned, inch by inch NO! Wrong story again....
They circled each other making jabs and perries, feigning and fainting,
each seeking some advantage that was not outlawed by the current
WWE (New name of World Wrestling Entertainment Federation
after they lost their battle to World Wildlife Fund). Grendl outweighed
our hero by about six or seven hundred pounds. She stood about
fourteen feet taller than he did, and one might think she had the obvious
advantage. We're still not certain what happened to present her
weakness, but it is recorded with authority that, "She fought like a girl."
That must have meant something, because before you can shout
that "she's a bully from Beelzebub's lair sent to rend the fabric of
mankind represented by this fierce warrior who stayed awake to fight
evil for the sake of us all," Beowulf gains the advantage. He throws her
down, and she, apparently thinking he had other intentions, opens up
her arms to welcome him. Talk about betrayal! He rips her arm off and
starts beating her with it! No kidding!
He beats her so badly with her own dismembered arm, that she slinks
off to her fetid home and as our story ends, one can hear her death
moans rising up from the reeds of the filthy smelling muck she calls home.
Think about it: Monster - huge, undefeated, representing Evil. Hero
seeming underdog, able to summon up enough courage and willpower
to defeat Evil, representing Good. Good versus Evil in the first literary
match recorded in the English language. Now, tell me that's not a
Saturday morning cartoon. The only difference I can see is that now
we televise the event. Oh, and since the advent of Chivalry, men don't
fight women. Hardly ever. Not out in the open, anyway. Not when
they don't have them outnumbered, at least. Not when the camera is
rolling. Not when they are almost certainly going to lose. At least
we got the fictional part of the story removed.
Give Beowulf a quick read some time, and see if I'm lying.
Of course, it's written in Early English, and I doubt that you will
be able to read it, so, for now, just take my word for it. I've done
the best translation that you will happen upon, and it even bears
some resemblance to the actual script. Trust me. Any woman out
there want to fight about it? Gunjan said he'd take on all comers.
Drop him a line. I've got an arm to dispose of....
Comments or Questions :
mailto:li-@workinghumor.com?Subject=Beowulf
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If you know someone who would be interested in reading
'Jest in Literature' please forward this entire message to them.
Better still invite them to subscribe. Thank You!
________________________________________________
IMPORTANT ADDRESSES:
Jest for Pun site: http://www.jestforpun.com
Archives : www.topica.com/lists/lit/read
TO UNSUBSCRIBE
Send blank email message to:
lit-unsu-@topica.com
TO SUBSCRIBE
Send blank email message to:
lit-sub-@topica.com
Thanks
JD Lentz
Gunjan
gun-@workinghumor.com
|
|
 |
|
