The Bride is Dead

This is a dead bride. Dead dead dead.

Think about all the things that might have been.

Think about all the jokes that never got told, and all the phone conversations that will never be had.

Think about how no matter what anybody says or does, The Bride is dead.

Part of me doesn't want to see the sparkly dress get zipped up in that bag because that means that it's over, for sure.

But then, I think of how wonderfully she died, how she took her own life (no autopsy necessary!), and how much less it will hurt now that I don't have to think about her future anymore.
I don't want to know that she's in the ground, in the dark...

But the alternative is having her propped up in the living room, stinking up the place. And who needs that? Not me. I am relieved, just a little already. The wait is over. The Bride is dead. I don't ever have to think about her again.

I don't ever have to learn to touch her.

I don't ever have to save her life.

Because The Bride is dead.


11.11.11:This little bit of pedantic meandering is the result of the dissolution of my fuckship with The Bride. Since this was originally posted, she's no longer a bride and I still think she's a selfish cunt. So I guess that makes us even?

Dumbasses of the latter 16th century;Englisher Edition

Ha'pint has been gone for three days now, and in honor of such, I dedicate this post to her noble sacrifice on the altar of good family relations. Some people have orgies or write a post-card. Ha'pint is hard-core. She's locking herself with them, Steve Irwin style, in a monkey-freaking cabin in NEW YORK. Where no one will ever hear her screams, except for the people making her scream, of course. Excelsior, Ha'pint!


Next up in our engaging series on stupid fuckers of the latter Tudor period, I present for your approval the "English Edition." Same great flavor of the "Scottish Edition" with half the sodomy.



The Cloptons of Clopton were pretty much fucked from the moment they thought of naming themselves the "Cloptons of Clopton." But Fate wasn't quite through with them yet. The Cloptons have the dubious distinction of providing the inspiration for "Romeo and Juliet" a relatively unknown play by William Shakespeare. And just what was it about the Cloptons of Clopton that caught the attention of the Noble bard? Was it because of a looooove match between two warring families? No. Was it due to a tragic double-suicide between star-crossed teenagers? No again.

It was because they accidentally buried their daughter alive.
But it was an accident!

See, their kid (lets call her "McKayla") caught the plague, and times being what they were, the touching death-bed farewell was more like an abbreviated three-stooges skit with assorted parties getting knocked down, picked up by their noses and knocked down again. Buckets of water were possibly thrown and a priest or two may have been called. After what we can safely assume was a lack-luster administration of the Last Rites, she was pronounced "out of the office indefinitely." They buried the girl in "indecent haste" in the family crypt, presumably keeping the door cracked for future use. (C'mon... we got this plague on! Shit was brutal!) Upon re-entering the crypt some days later when they went to throw in another cord or two of Clopton hash, some looky-loo who was obviously not around the day they decided McKayla was dead, noticed that something was 'different'. It was quickly discovered that in the ensuing week or so, she had gotten up, walked to a wall, sat down, and died with a bit more gusto than the first effort.

But not before biting "a tender piece of meat" out of her own fucking shoulder. (A girl's gotta keep a little air of mystery and intrigue about her.)

Some generations later, proving that the 'Stoopid Gene' can't be simply waited out, the same family produced another ill-fated chit, this one named Margheretta. She apparently became distraught when Mumsey and Dadsey wouldn't let her 'consort' with (give blow jobs, sticky Hitlers, dirty Sanchezes, cowtails, pink sleeves, flying horse-pies, angry coppers, brick slaps, ring-tosses, sock salads or juicy fruit shuffles to) her boyfriend. After carefully considering all of her options, she flung herself into the family well, where her bloated corpse remained for years because conditions were "too wet" to fish it out. (That would be a contemporary account of the circumstances the good Cloptons faced. "Too Wet." Really.)

And don't think for a second that they weren't still drinking that water. These were the Elizabethans, fuckers. They did whatever the hell they wanted.


Have a little something to cleanse the palate:

A few random Laws of Spurious Virtue from New York's past and present:
* Pinball machines are not to be played on Sunday. (Ocean City)
* During a concert, it is illegal to eat peanuts and walk backwards on the sidewalks. (Greene)
* New Yorkers cannot dissolve a marriage for irreconcilable differences, unless they both agree to it. (State Law)
* It is illegal to disrobe in a wagon. (Sag Harbor)
* It is illegal for a father to call his son a “faggot” or “queer” in an effort to curb “girlie behavior. (Staten Island...and I can assure the Statenites that this is really a futile effort. When you've got more than 3 kinds of "Broadway" in your state, the boys is gonna be fruity.)
* You may only water your lawn if the hose is held in your hand. (Also Staten Island, and I hope completely unrelated to the one above.)

Dumbasses of the latter 16th century; Scottish Edition

Long ago, in a Western European country far, far away, lived a bunch of mother fuckers who couldn't get their shit together. These where hard times; there was all the shit we deal with now, (ugly babies, fat chicks, STD's and Metrosexuals) only smellier. That's right, it stank. Literally. Like ass. Everywhere, all the time. It stank so bad that people used their own fecal matter to treat their plague. Why? Because it was handy, as they were sleeping in piles of it, and it stuck to the boils nicely. Also, they couldn't tell that it stank, really, because everything stank.
But the odiferous qualities of Medieval Europe are for another day. Mainly, this post exists to celebrate the first of a few choice "WTF?!" moments in 16th century European history. Let's start with a little somethin' for the laddies...

Mary, Queen of Scots
or How to be a Royal Dumbass

When first she returned to Scotland, the land of her birth, Mary had a lot going for her. She was tall, sexy, and she'd just recently enjoyed a stint as Queen of France as part of an extended trip abroad. She'd been a Frenchie since infancy, and couldn't quite relate to the Scottish way o' life. France in the 1500's was pretty much like France now; cafe, cafe, fop, jewelled fop, cafe, freak in a beret. Scotland in the 1500's was pretty much like Afghanistan now. Only with more rubble and a generally lower opinion of the rights of women. (Especially if those women are Queen of Scotland.) So "culture shock" doesn't really describe it. Suffice to say, Mary was quite contrary.
Her untreatable Uppity Bitch Syndrome (UBS) prevented her from seeing that her efforts to tart-up Scotland weren't going so well, that her craggy, sheep-buggering subjects hated her, and that John Knox wasn't the only one who wanted to slap her, fuck her, and throw her in the Inverness. Pretty much the only thing the Scottish liked was the fact she married her cousin, Henry, and only then because the Scottish are rednecks at heart, and also because it pissed off the English Queen, Elizabeth. (The one thing the Scottish like more than pissing off each other is pissing off the English. They liked the berets too, but that's not important.) So she goes all "West Virginia" and marries Henry, who used to be "Lord Darnley" only now he's married to a Queen, so he figures that makes him King.
Not quite.
So there was a lot of fuss, and he killed her best friend in front of her while she was 7 months pregnant with their baby, and she said he was an fuck-tard, and he said she was a whore, and it all went along smashingly until she crapped out the baby and Darnley started on the whole "King me" thing again. This was before "911" was an option, so she had to figure out another way to handle their frequent front-yard domestic disputes.
So she talked to some people and had Darnley blown up.
Then she married the guy who blew him up.
Then pretty much the entire country of Scotland wanted to blow her up.
(Cue John Knox laughing hysterically.)
Mary did the only thing she could do... she ran away.
And where did she run? Back to France, where she was raised, and where she still had a huge, loving family?
No.
Okay, maybe to Rome! She was a devout Catholic, after all, and she had a few cousins who were Arch-Bishop of Whatnot...
Nope.
Okay, where then?
Why the only place in the known world where she was even more reviled than Scotland!
ENGLAND!!
That's right. After making her short career as Queen of the Scots all the more memorable by managing to piss off her cousin Queen Elizabeth I of England virtually every other month, Mary did the logical thing and turned to her for help. And Elizabeth did help, by imprisoning Mary for 20 years and politely over-looking her occasional half-assed efforts to seize the English throne.

Until Elizabeth had her be-headed.
If it was good enough for mama, it's good enough for you, Uppity Bitch.


More on Scotland another time.