Sophisticated as Hell Literature: The Mossy Knight of Truthiness

Quick Survey: Everyone who follows Medieval poetry not assigned in a college class to make you a better rounded person in between bouts of stupefying bewilderment as to how such old writing written on simple sheets of paper can make your brain feel as though it's being crushed under a lead brick, raise your hand.

I thought as much.

For those of you not familiar with the story I'm about to follow along and simplify: Sir Gawain and the Green Knight is considered a classic of Arthurian Legend. It focuses primarily on the old "You lop off my head, I get to give as good as I got" sort of story that seemed a bit too common in ye olden legends of Europe to be entirely coincidental.

"But wait! This one is different." says the undead monk who wrote the blasted thing and whom I shall henceforth refer to as Father Sandwichbread.

"How So?" I ask, whilst slowly edging toward the nail clippers I keep near my bedside just for this occasion. "Sir Gawain shall not be decapitated unless, wait for it..." Sandwichbread pauses, mostly to collect part of his left hand that has spontaneously dropped off, leaving a rather mildewy looking stain on my nice hardwood floor. "Unless he lies!!" Pausing for a second, I raise my right eyebrow to express vague incredulity.

An awkward silence ensues. "Maybe you should have a better twist than that." I tell him gently, hoping he won't remember that he is in fact a proper English zombie on American soil, which thus entitles him to the unfortunately very real Ziplomatic Zimmunity. (Get it? Cause he's a zombie. And everything involving zombies has to involve either extra attention to decay or some obviously hackneyed insert of the letter Z where it doesn't belong, like when the LAPD sponsored an episode of Sesame Street. Can you spell 'force?' Yes we can! 'E-X-C-E-S-S-I-V-E!')

"Oh, just go on with it." The newly undead Father sighs, unceremoniously plopping his mouldering keister into my nice computer chair. So, with little choice left to me, I begin the story. I mean, poem. I mean- "Get on with it!!" Roars Sandwichbread, completely unaware of the metajoke he unintentionally made.

Our poem begins with a brief foray into Roman history, how old I-need-a-knee ("Aeneas!" Corrects Sandwichbread.) and Romulun ("Romulous!" pipes up the increasingly annoyed maggot receptacle.) all relate to a man called Happy Brutus. And already, we're off to a ripping good start, making it clear that the extremely masculine warrior race that 'bred there' (there being Non-Roman controlled Britain) was founded by a man named after a person whose name is a virtual whole-wheat substitution for the word traitor. Mostly because trying to append the Americanism to the Shakespearean phrase that spawned it, you make it sound more like an elderly waiter clarifying a regular named Arnold's order.

In any case, all the 'most chivalrous and courteous knights known to Christendom' are all gathered at their good poindexter Arthur's place, mostly because the man is literally King of all he surveys and in spite of his nice guy personae, I would think most of them do remember that if they so much as stare at him cross-eyed during this time period, he could have them killed, or worse, exiled. No wait, scratch that, reverse it.

Evidently the new year was rung in with gratuitous kissing on all parties involved knight and lady alike. Except of course, Arthur. Since he A) never seemed to realize that one of a royal line's primary functions is to be sure to continue to exist also known as 'For Heaven's Sake, Why Is There Not An Heir Yet?' Syndrome and B) never realized until God literally spelled it out for him that some future author's poorly written self-insert with no respect for the rules of decent writing would have the entire plot change retroactively. Or to put it in simple terms, Arthur does not yet realize that the supposedly beautiful and loving Guinevere will be made to fall deeply, madly and inexplicably in love with a 12th century Frenchman's idealized version of himself a.k.a Lancelot.

Now, skipping past the lurid descriptions of English cuisine that even when he was alive Father Sandwichbread knew no one would tolerate for more than half a page, a slender giant of an alarmingly handsome man plated all out in ceremonial armor that looks to have been bronze left outside for a couple of decades enters the hall. I'm not kidding with that description by the way, Sandwichbread sighed longingly just now when I read the passage describing the beautiful, muscular but slender figure. (All two and a half pages of it.) And at least now I have an answer to the question of where she comes from.

Since it is Yultide and the red-eyed Mossy Tin Man is apparently all for a good game of sport, he challenges King Arthur's court if there is among them anyone who is man enough to endure an insanely brutal and almost certainly idiodic ritual known as Marathon Jousting. No wait, that would've been the decision of someone who hasn't consumed vast quantities of eggnog and has thus come to the entirely sober conclusion that offering to go tit for tat except with beheadings is a reasonable way of testing one's mental mettle and physical fortitude.

When no one takes him up on this ridiculous 'test' that even the most die-hard fraternity in the world would object to on the grounds of being absolutely stupid, Moss-Shoulders scoffs and taunts the collective round table. Arthur, rational, cool, level-headed chap that he is, immediately leaps to his feet and offers to cut his filthy lying head off for him. Deciding that this is no way to settle a possible dispute with what is by now a fairly obvious supernatural or at the very least inhuman guest, Gawain stands up; he claims that since he is a legacy admittance to the round table, and a weak one at that, he should be the one to strike the blow instead of their beloved King. The other knights, moved by his courage and selflessness all insist that they must be the one to deliver the fatal blow so that Gawain shall  not stand alone in the face of such potential death.

You thought I was serious didn't you?

Ha! No. Instead they cheer him on like a bunch of rowdy football fans with nothing better to do with their Thursday afternoons. Apparently, since Arthur really couldn't be bothered to remain the least bit dignified, they figure what the hey and so encourage Gawain to totally do it, it'll definitely work out without killing you bro. Like, for reals!

As promised, Gawain delivers the blow. And as promised, the Tin Man takes it without flinching. "Also as promised, the Knight of the Green Chapel tells Gawain how to find him and who to ask for!" Interjects Sandwichbread, startling me badly as I smell the stench again after having steadily ignored it for the past hour. A quick fabreeze spray to the mouth has the rotted Father literally hacking and coughing his lungs up on my dresser, but lets me get back to finishing this tale of people with the worst case of genre blindness I've ever encountered.

After countless days journeying to Wales upon his faithful steed Gringott, who only gets named once they near the suspiciously convenient castle of "Not Green Chapel," and heroically hunting down the wild animal population in such a transparent effort to disguise the fact that he didn't take any previsions with him when he dramatically rode off into the wilderness from Camelot that the mere recounting of every not-human creature he killed would take up even more time than it already has, he finally reaches a place that claims not to be his destination, but is close enough that Mapquest counts it as a win.

Three quarters of a page dedicated to architectural admiration later, Gawain is invited inside by the most creepily friendly bellhops this side of Disney. Every single person in the castle is relentlessly jovial and so willing to bend over backwards to accommodate Gawain that it almost seems as though they know he might die soon...as if...they know something about, say about a hypothetical mystical immortal knight, that he doesn't. But that's just crazy talk right?

"Not at all-" Begins Father Sandwichbread.

"Don't spoil it!" I admonish sharply, smacking his left knuckles with my Emergency Disciplinary Ruler, and in the process accidentally knocking them clean off yet again.

Gawain is introduced to the most classic symbol of temptation, a dalmatian fur coat. No wait, that's the most classic symbol of excess. He's introduced to the lord of the castle's wife who is so pretty that, in spite of Gawain being as virtuous as he is, he cannot help but think extremely uncomplimentary things about her grandmother. The lord of the house knows that the Green Chapel is only about two miles from where he lives, but tells Gawain that he shall show him the way 'when the time is right.' That's an exact phrase from the story by the way. And yet, Gawain still manages to mistake his laughter for jovial instead of sinister.

And as the huntsmen ready their bows for the coming chase the horn sounds in the quiet. The bucks and deers alike lift their heads in nervousness, knowing the fate that awaits them this day as the slings and arrows and blades of men and fangs and calls of the hounds shall come chasing after them; their natural born nemeses gleaming furs shining alongside the won pelts of their former kinsmen adorning the merciless hunters when-

Sorry, the pulseless Father was a bit of a hunting enthusiast. But back at the plot, Gawain is startled by the Lady of the house visiting him in bed. Literally, sneaks into his room and sits on his bed waiting for him to wake up so that she might have the 'pleasure' of his strong, warm, attentive...company. Gawain being chaste but more relevantly, not dense as lead, understands that he cannot take her up on such a generous offer or else he'll either be killed or worse lose his honor as an entitled lord of underfed serfs who kills in the name of whichever family God claims gave them the Reader's Digest Tips on how to Rule the Sovereign Nation. So he gives her the absolute least thing that courtesy demands, which is a kiss. And which would've gotten him accused of harassment nowadays. (Not exactly unmerited either)

And as the hunters brought back their freshest kills, the crimson life essence contrasting with the darker mud that shone as the colors of a true victory, they bellowed their triumph to the sinking sun in the sky. Rejoicing, the bellhops cut open the stomachs, squeezed the gizzards to be sure of the coming feast's freshness. They began their traditional making of the puns as they slit the throat to the neck before attempting to pull the carcass's stomachs out for-

And evidently Father Sandwichbread never wanted to learn what actually went into the making of a meal. Personally, I can't help but wonder if that sort of cooking would actually make Rachel Ray and/or Martha Stewart genuinely compelling.

Anywho, imagine the careful flirting and fencing interspersed with frankly derailing descriptions of hunting and feasting repeated for three days worth of time, and you have everything leading up to the final confrontation between immortal and human except for Gawain accepting a token of the lady in the form of a handkerchief he didn't tell her husband about. "Tis sinful! Tis a lie no matter how minor!!" Exclaims Father Sandwichbread before his head becomes intimately reacquainted with the trashcan from whence it had been urgently stuck.

The knight shows knicks Gawain's neck on the third axe swing since that was the only time he was ever dishonest with him, and so forgives his failings of the flesh and mortal cowardice for not being willing to get his head chopped off by a crazy rust-bucket tin man a few handles short of a tea kettle. And so the Story of Mr. Truthiness ends, foiled by a square of silk smaller than his hand as the Moss-Colored Tin Man is never heard from again, presumably since the forest creatures decided to team up and hunt him down since he lives in their turf for at least a part of the year.

As Father Sandwichbread faded into dust, many thoughts and questions filtered through my conscious mind. Why did he try to write it as an old piece of poetry? Did he realize how the characters were presented? What was that odd tinging noise I kept hearing in the fridge? And most importantly, why was the heat in my room not working?

All those questions and more to be answered eventually, next time on Classy as All Git Out Literature!!!

Indoors vs Outdoors: It's Pretty Easy to Prefer the Former

     When we watch the stars at night, we often think to ourselves…why on earth isn’t my cable working? No, that’s not what we think, it’s merely what I think to myself. It’s not that I don’t appreciate nature, don’t get me wrong. Some of my best friends are animals.

     But the fact of the matter is this: I am far more comfortable surrounded by the man-made environments of technology. Whether that technology is mostly electronic, as is the case with iPads, iPhones, iShuffle, iPodPeople, etc. Or even if it’s basic technology like non-candle lighting, comfortable bedding or even indoor plumbing. It’s not so much the fact that it’s nature, it’s the fact that nature wants to kill you even when it apparently doesn’t mean harm. Even the most innocuous looking animals can cause some serious harm if you aren’t absolutely careful and on your guard.

     And why shouldn’t they? They’ve had to find some way of surviving out in the wild, whether it be by out-fighting, out-smarting or out-breeding their competition. But when we look to the wild and to the natural order, we refuse to believe that is all we ultimately can be. We try to save as many as we can. We seek to avoid unnecessary loss of life, to cure disease, to understand and control the natural world. Because we are and we are not a part of it.

     But this is all a little too philosophical and it’s not really going anywhere. So ultimately, I would just like to say: I am proud of being a non-outdoorsman. I like being in a place where I can control the environment.  I like living in a product of human ingenuity. I like being able to know that my environment as it is now is a pinnacle of human evolution and mastery of the natural world. If you want to say I don’t appreciate the natural world, go right ahead. I don’t.