Tag Archives: british history

Undead Man’s Hand – Chapter 31

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February 1, 1587

The prisoner was on her knees, bound in chains of silver. She was tall yet pale. Blonde and beautiful, in a simple white dress.

At a casual glance, she did not appear to be a threat that merited the presence of two armor clad knights. Even so, they stood watch over the woman as Edmund Grindal, the Archbishop of Canterbury, carried out his interrogation.

“Speak your name, creature,” the archbishop commanded.

The woman lifted her head, timidly. “But you know me, my lord.”

“I will have your true name,” the archbishop said.

“Lady Beatrice,” the woman said. “The house of Rutledge has been a friend to the church, vicar. Why you do this is beyond me.”

From her throne, Queen Elizabeth observed the spectacle. The monarch’s face had been painted milk white, sans for her red lips, which matched her towering red hair. She wore an elaborate dress of gold, replete with ruffles and frills.

Queen Elizabeth’s most trusted advisors watched with her. To her right stood the scholarly Sir Francis Walsingham, the queen’s principal secretary and master of espionage. His face was very grim, matching the severity of the occasion.

Famed explorer Sir Walter Raleigh, on the other hand, breezed through life with reckless abandon. He fidgeted with the earring in his ear as he observed from the queen’s left.

“This is most improper treatment for a noble woman,” the Queen said.

“Indeed,” Sir Francis replied. “Yet I assure you, Your Majesty, the Lady Beatrice is no mere mortal woman.”

The archbishop reached into his pocket and retrieved a vial of water.

“Do you know what this is, creature?” the archbishop asked.

“Now that you mention it, I am rather parched,” Lady Beatrice said.

“Hold her,” the archbishop commanded.

The guards obeyed. One grabbed her shoulders. The other put his iron clad mitt underneath her chin and held her face up.

“I do not care for this shameful display, Sir Francis,” the Queen said.

“Hold fast, Your Majesty,” Sir Francis said.

“Do we ever get to see this bitch’s tits?” Sir Walter inquired.

The archbishop held the vial over Lady Beatrice’s forehead and slowly tipped it.

“Speak your true name,” the archbishop said.

The prisoner remained silent. The archbishop allowed a single drop of water to fall on the lady’s forehead. When it landed, it immediately burned its way through her skin, causing her to cry out in pain.

“How is this possible?” the Queen asked.

The archbishop turned to the monarch. “Holy water, Your Highness. Blessed and sanctified this morn.”

The wound quickly healed, but the archbishop flicked another drop, causing the prisoner even more pain.

“This stops when you reveal your true name,” the archbishop said.

Lady Beatrice winced. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating but…”

She was interrupted with another drop, this one on her cheek. “Arrrgh!”

The holy man opened his bible.

“A reading from the Book of Mark,” the archbishop said as he cleared his throat. “‘And so, they came to the other side of the sea, to the country of the Gerasenes. And when Jesus had stepped out of the boat, immediately there met him out of the tombs a man with an unclean spirit. He lived among the tombs. And no one could bind him anymore, not even with a chain, for he had often been bound with shackles and chains, but he wrenched the chains apart, and he broke the shackles in pieces.”

The Queen whispered to Sir Francis. “She’s clearly bound by chains.”

“Silver chains,” the spymaster replied. “The difference is palpable.”

“My boredom is immeasurable,” Sir Walter added. “Make with her tits already.”

The archbishop carried on. “No one had the strength to subdue him. Night and day among the tombs and on the mountains he was always crying out and cutting himself with stones. And when he saw Jesus from afar, he ran and fell down before him.”

The archbishop stopped the reading and dripped another drop onto the lady’s face, once again resulting in a scream and a quickly healed burn.

“Reveal your name,” the archbishop said.

Lady Beatrice had grown annoyed. “The Faerie Princess of Dunshire.”

The archbishop was not amused. Drip. Burn. Scream.

“‘And crying out with a loud voice, he said, ‘What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I adjure you by God, do not torment me. For he was saying to him, ‘Come out of the man, you unclean spirit!’ And Jesus asked him, ‘What his your name?’”

The archbishop splashed a whole streak of water across the prisoner’s face this time. She cried out in agony.

“What is your name?!” the archbishop cried.

He flicked the holy water into the lady’s face again. “What is your name?!”

The third flick did it. The lady’s eyes turned blank and blood red. She opened her mouth and a pair of sharp fangs popped out.

She looked up at the archbishop, cocked her head to one side and said, ever so sweetly, “My name is Legion…for we are…many.”

The Queen looked on in disbelief. “Holy fucking shit.”

“Holy fucking shit indeed,” Sir Francis said.

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Literary Classics with Professor Nannerpants – When I Was Fair and Young – The Poetry of Queen Elizabeth I

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Professor Horatio J. Nannerpants – Esteemed Literary Scholar/Poop Flinger

Good Day, 3.5 Readers.

Class is in session so take out your notebooks and start flinging your poop.

In my very first lecture, I should like very much to discuss one author of the Elizabethan era – Queen Elizabeth I herself.

When she wasn’t busy running an empire, she was quite a wordsmith I’ll have you know.

Take a gander at one of her finest poems:

When I Was Fair and Young

By: Queen Elizabeth I

When I was fair and young, then favor graced me.
Of many was I sought their mistress for to be.
But I did scorn them all and answered them therefore:
Go, go, go, seek some other where; importune me no more.

How many weeping eyes I made to pine in woe,
How many sighing hearts I have not skill to show,
But I the prouder grew and still this spake therefore:
Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

Then spake fair Venus’ son, that proud victorious boy,
Saying: You dainty dame, for that you be so coy,
I will so pluck your plumes as you shall say no more:
Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

As soon as he had said, such change grew in my breast
That neither night nor day I could take any rest.
Wherefore I did repent that I had said before:
Go, go, go, seek some other where, importune me no more.

:::Sniff Sniff:::

:::Blows my nose in a hanky:::

Oh Elizabeth.  I know your pain, girlfriend.

When we’re young and beautiful, the world feels like it belongs to us and we’re convinced this feeling will last forever.

For the young, there is always plenty of time.

Plenty of time to tell a potential mate to take a hike in the hopes that a better mate is on the horizon.

Even your humble professor is guilty of this. I once told Miss Tiddlywinks, a fellow lab chimp who had the hots for me, to hit the bricks.

Sure, she had a luxurious coat and was eager to please but I convinced myself that I could find a woman capable of throwing larger piles of poop.

Alas, in my middle age, as I cry myself to sleep with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s in one paw, the remote in the other while watching old reruns of Gilmore Girls and wondering where the time went, I wish Miss Tiddlywinks would burst threw the door and throw her small, pathetic piles of poop at my head.

You never know what you have until it’s gone.

Yes, students.  That is a sentiment felt not just by the lowly masses but even by people as high and mighty as Queen Elizabeth I.

Of course, who can blame her?  Her father, Henry VIII chopped off so many of his wives’ heads in search of a son to be his heir and in the end, Elizabeth was left to the job of keeping the throne in the Tudor family.

Like anyone, she surely desired love and romance but she knew that marriage would have led to a man coming in, taking over, becoming the King, and acting like he owns the entire country she’d inherited just because of his insipid penis.

Oh penile domination, how many countries will you tear asunder until your demonic hunger for power is satiated?

Close your eyes, 3.5 students.

Picture a young, hot Queen Elizabeth.

She’s in one of those gigantic dresses rigged up with a series of iron bars, ropes and pulleys to make her ass look scrumptiously fat.

Her hair is done up so high it touches the ceiling.

Her face is coated with a thick slathering of milky white, lead based paint.

She’s hip.  She’s cool.  She makes all the hearts of men at court go pitter patter.

But she sends them packing.  She bides her time. She’s not going to give up that royal booty to just anyone.  She’s waiting for a true love she can trust not to take her throne from away from her.

It was the late 1500’s people.  Men just weren’t as cool with working women as they are today.

Alas, time moved on for Queenie.  She got old.  “Her plumes were plucked.”  She lost her looks.

Men are such visual beasts so ruler or not, few men were willing to get busy with an old broad with plucked plumes.

And so, Queen Lizzy poured her heart out into this poem, lamenting the loss of men she’d told to get lost back in the days when all the men of the realm wanted to get their grubby mitts all over her royal badonka donk.

Moral of the story, 3.5 students?

If you’ve got it, flaunt it…then use your bait to hook a tasty fish before they start swimming out to sea.

Because you never know when your bait will shrivel up, dry out and leave you with an empty hook.

Class dismissed. Throw your poop at will.

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