On The Wing

Editor’s note: Robert Crisman was born in the wrong century. Had he been around with the Visigoths he’d have shown them a thing or two. Namely that the pen is mightier than the sword. Provided of course your head wasn’t on a chopping block at the time the sword was coming your way. Blasphemy follows, though it is exactly what we’ve come to expect from our man out west.

THE MIDDLE AGES

by Robert Crisman

Get stupid and life sends its ICBMs up your ass.

Here’s how that went in the early 400s: Alaric the Visigoth king threatened Rome. Pope Swineflu the Last gave Alaric the bird.

Alaric wasn’t as bad as Attila the Hun, but he sure had the boys to kick Swineflu’s ass. And everyone knew this except for the Pope, whose brains were made out of old chewed-up bread and saliva.

See, by the 400s, Barney Fife could have punk-slapped the whole Roman army, gone fishing with Opie that same afternoon, and then danced like a Zulu that night with some sweet thing in gingham who’d take him up into the hayloft and roll till the wee morning hours…

Alaric sacked Rome in 410. Rome tanked like a wino for keeps after that, and the Dark Ages slammed down on Europe like six trillion long tons of rat shit.

Then, serfs, knights, and castles, King Arthur, Merlin, nitwits with lutes, and all the rest of that silly-ass shit that they bore you to death with in grade school, to make you believe that the whole Feudal Era was some sort of fun. Presumably so that when you all get treated like serfs, on the job or wherever, you’ll somehow think that you’re having a ball, or at least keep your gripes to yourself.

The Middle Ages! One thousand years of Popes fucking peasants and bubonic plagues, with Guinevere maybe flashing some tit to Gawain riding by on his steed dressed in armor, to see if he’d fall in the moat like the dick-thinking mukluk she knew him to be.

The whole western notion of Romantic Love was born in that moat! The lutemeisters warbled that women were angels, as pure as the snow, and their tits were to die for, but too fucking bad; the Good Thing was out of your league, if you weren’t King Arthur, or Jesus.

This gave the boys blue balls of course…

So then those clowns told them, go slay some dragons and bring home the bacon and you might get lucky.

The boys hopped their horses, went looking for dragons and made sure to miss them, then joined the Crusades to rip off the Arabs and bring home the bank, in hopes that Guinevere would finally get off that Good Thing the next time they rode by the moat.

Then a thousand more years of dick-thinking morons. Crusaders for pussy and all that good shit.

And God’s Greater Glory, of course…

We’re doomed as a species.

And all because Swineflu got stupid.