Tonight’s featured essay, paragraph one:

“Lincoln was a tall man, much in the way that Andre the Giant was also tall, and with the same sideways heart and thick bones that made Andre the Giant look so much like a giant, and made Lincoln look like a guy who shouldn’t have been photographed wearing that tall hat which made him look even taller, kinda like a chef only the wrong color, which for the times of his life, were taller even than if he lived today, in which case the hat wouldn’t be a problem because it wouldn’t exist, and some think and I might agree that he grew that beard because a little girl told him to because the more of that face that was covered up, the better, and you know it’s bad if a little kid can’t stand it, and we all know which one was took out by a southerner with three names, just like the guy who blew Teddy Kennedy’s brain to pieces in the middle of the parade, and which one was killed by a crazy actor leaping from the stage onto the balcony to climax the scene with something not exactly in the script but which would read DEATH all in red caps if it was, and Andre the Giant has a small and dainty wife which must have made their personal lifes interesting to say the least, and Lincoln’s wife was a spendthrift nutter, but at least Andrew the Giant got to drop dead naturally instead of be took out by ham actors with guns or book salesmen, but the Morphine Syndrome which made them both so tall and thickboned also caused their death before their old age began, and pretty much ended both the Civil War and any chance of a Princess Bride sequel.”

I don’t know what to say.

Where’s the firly brinkmire; I want to jump off!!!!!

Addendum: This is supposed to be a college-level comparison/contrast essay. I’ll let you be the judges. My sensibilities hurt. Also, I believe the correct term is “Marfan’s Syndrome.”

I have always loved fairy tales. I do not mean the insipid heavily-edited baby-tales, the Disney-fied versions; I am speaking of the real thing: stories full of blood and guts and red-hot spikes and death and endings-that-are-not-always-happy and the accidental lunching on one’s infant and the horrendous consequences of not following directions or keeping oneself moral.

Mom had a large thick book of fairy tales when we were kids. One of my favorites was a tale not as popular as Cinderella, or Snow White, or Sleeping Beauty, etc. One of my favorites was the story of Burd Ellen, and her brothers.

I loved this story on so many levels. . . . but one of those levels was the vocabulary. It was full of many-syllabic wonders: words that the second and third grade world would have shortened and made politically correct in a whipstitch.

My favorite word in this story was “widdershins.”

Its meaning wasn’t explained within the story, and I liked that, too. It meant that I got to pull down the absolutely immense dictionary and look it up. And while I had the dictionary down, I got to look at the shiny slick pages of world flags, and jewels, but I digress.

Widdershins. Burd Ellen was snatched up by evil elves and taken to fairyland because she went widdershins around the church. I was lost in fascination by this word and by this concept. She and her brothers were caught up in playing and forgot the warning and she went widdershins around the church, chasing the ball.

Please, take your children to the library and check out a big thick book of UNABRIDGED fairy tales. Don’t waste your time with anything that’s been edited; you want the real thing, the genuine unadulterated scary bloody real thing.

Some “experts” claim that scary stories traumatize children. I do not believe that. This is not to say that your five-year-old would do fine with Steven King, no, not at all. But a good satisfying scary fairy tale? Go for it. I can still remember sitting with that huge book, projecting myself into the illustrations, and grooving on the musicality of the language. I can remember coming to the end of a story and closing the book, thinking satisfactorily that since the wicked stepmother is dead, she’s not OUT THERE any more, and not only is Cinderella safe from her grasping hands, but so am I!!!

Whereas the Disney stepmother was forgiven, which means she’s still OUT THERE, and no little child is safe.

The little mermaid died, too, but it was the only honorable way out for her.

I love Disney animated movies, don’t get me wrong, but those are not the real stories. I wish parents and teachers would expose children to the real thing, in print, and refuse to allow those sissy censored edited changed and WRONG WRONG WRONG booksof these stories to grace the bookshelves of our schools and homes. Let the kids experience the wonder and satisfactory retributions and blood and guts and weeping and punishments and VOCABULARY of these stories, exactly as the authors and re-tellers put them down in the first place. It creates opportunities for comparison/contrast, too. Run with it.

I can close my eyes and remember those illustrations. There weren’t very many, because too many pictures in a good book is an unpleasant distraction, but those pictures that were there, were, to quote Spencer Tracy on Katherine Hepburn, “cherce.”

Widdershins. Burd Ellen. I hadn’t thought of this story in years, but I thought of it this afternoon whilst chatting (shhhhh) with a dear friend during MidTerms. I remembered how much I loved it.

What? You don’t know the story of Burd Ellen and her brothers, and what happened to them all when she went widdershins around the church? Shame on you. Go HERE, and become enlightenened at once. Do not skip the big words. That is what your dictionary is for.

And contrary to what a select few elementary teachers (not the good ones) might think, small children LOVE big words. There is no need to dumb a story down for them. No need at all.

Condescension is never a good thing.

Mamacita, Scheiss Weekly

I had a fabulous and hilarious conversation last night with someone who is fast becoming one of my bestest* friends. Yes, it is really possible to meet someone over the internet and then meet them for real, and find out they’re not a psychotic ax murderer who stalks people for murderous purposes. (All the internet friends I’ve met in real life have been even more wonderful in person than they are on their blogs, and on their blogs they’re fantastic!) (Oh golly, I can’t WAIT for next July’s BlogHer!!!!) In the course of the conversation, he mentioned that our local theatre is planning to do “Les Miserables” soon, and that the director mentioned that he had a part in mind for my friend, but he didn’t know which part yet, only that it wasn’t a leading role. I told him that if I were a man, and didn’t want any of the main leads, I’d want to be the innkeeper, and that the innkeeper traditionally has a Cockney accent.

My friend didn’t know what a Cockney accent was.

So I told him.

Yes, last night, I told a gay man what a Cockney was.

And I’ve been giggling all day.

Scotty, dear, here is this post, translated into Cockney, just for you.

I ‘ad a fabulous and ‘ilarious conversation last night wiv some bloke ‘oo is fast becomin’ one of me truly Mae West chinas. Cor blimey guv, would I lie to you? Yes, it is right possible ter meet some bloke over the internet and meet them and find out they’re not a psychotic ax murderer ‘oo stalks blokes for murderous purposes. Cor blimey guv! In the chuffin’ course of the conversation, right, he mentioned that us local theatre is plannin’ ter do “Les Miserables” soon, and ‘e were ‘opin’ for a part. I discovered that ‘e knew nuffink about “Les Miserables,” and I were genuinely ‘orrified. I told ‘im that if I were a man, and didn’t want any of the bleedin’ main leads, I’d want ter be the chuffin’ innkeeper, but the bloomin’ innkeeper traditionally ‘as a Cockney accent. Me china didn’t know wot a Cockney accent were. So I told ‘im.

Yes, last night, right, I told a gay man wot a Cockney were.

And I’ve been gigglin’ all day.

*Superlative redundancy was deliberate. It’s the weekend, but some standards do remain.