Crusty is bread, all else is relative
Oh byte me! Did you just announce a jee-had?!? A holey war!!! So
be it! I have my sword at the ready, that I may run upon it when the hour is upon me. Or I am upon the hour, whichever comes first. Honour, as they say, is all…and it is holey as heck!
Meanwhile, I should like to try and steer this exchange down quasi-literary, rather than quasi-literal, paths; holey seemed a brilliant place to start.
Which brings me straight to sword-running, a phenomenon that has held a dreadfully ghoulishsqueamishfascination for me since my schooldays, now so far in the past that even laser vision couldn’t bring them into sharp focus. Even so, I have never forgotten my inspired lit. teacher, who forced us to memorize our texts. All of them. As a result, I can still quote vast tracts of Macbeth and Julius Caesar, delivered with all five eyes closed, standing on my head. How useful!!! Here’s a small but relevant sample:
“Thou art a fellow of a good respect;
Thy life hath had some smatch of honour in it.
Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face,
While I do run upon it.”
Neat, huh?
The Romans, it seems, would run upon their swords at the drop of a chapeau, including good old et tu Brute. Strato, his favoured minion, was ordered to hold it (the SWORD, the SWORD!), so Brutus could “run upon it,” impaling himself on the tip and presumably sliding down along the blade, guts spilling and an angry crimson flood spreading at his feet…not a pretty death, but…honourable.
The Samurais of Japan have a similar fascination for abdominal reconfiguration, except they prefer not to ask for favours and would rather plunge their swords deep into their guts themselves, with both hands and a great deal of forceful grunting.
There are other equally fascinating sword tales, but I’ll save them for another time. Funny though, not too many of stories of scabbards around, considering swords would lose their sharps without those.
If I did have a sword, I’d use it to slice bread with. You know, those wonderful crusty loaves that mercilessly dull even the sharpest bread knife. Which brings me to the title. All else, as they say, is relative. And they’re right; my aunt is at the door.
PS: Re. "granual" kitty litter, add another 'n' and you have a winner! You produce it, I’ll road-test it for you. Re. the Salivation Army, joining is entirely voluntary and non-coercive, as you well know. I don't do tambourines, those were castanets. I do not scream, crust (ewww gro$$!) or foam at the mouth, contrary to popular belief. Calcified blether regions are flavourofthemonth, please getwiththeprogram. Re. WWConvention, I take it I am not invited, boohoo. Re. fishnets, mine self destruct when anybody else touches them. KA-BOOM!!!
be it! I have my sword at the ready, that I may run upon it when the hour is upon me. Or I am upon the hour, whichever comes first. Honour, as they say, is all…and it is holey as heck!
Meanwhile, I should like to try and steer this exchange down quasi-literary, rather than quasi-literal, paths; holey seemed a brilliant place to start.
Which brings me straight to sword-running, a phenomenon that has held a dreadfully ghoulishsqueamishfascination for me since my schooldays, now so far in the past that even laser vision couldn’t bring them into sharp focus. Even so, I have never forgotten my inspired lit. teacher, who forced us to memorize our texts. All of them. As a result, I can still quote vast tracts of Macbeth and Julius Caesar, delivered with all five eyes closed, standing on my head. How useful!!! Here’s a small but relevant sample:
“Thou art a fellow of a good respect;
Thy life hath had some smatch of honour in it.
Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face,
While I do run upon it.”
Neat, huh?
The Romans, it seems, would run upon their swords at the drop of a chapeau, including good old et tu Brute. Strato, his favoured minion, was ordered to hold it (the SWORD, the SWORD!), so Brutus could “run upon it,” impaling himself on the tip and presumably sliding down along the blade, guts spilling and an angry crimson flood spreading at his feet…not a pretty death, but…honourable.
The Samurais of Japan have a similar fascination for abdominal reconfiguration, except they prefer not to ask for favours and would rather plunge their swords deep into their guts themselves, with both hands and a great deal of forceful grunting.
There are other equally fascinating sword tales, but I’ll save them for another time. Funny though, not too many of stories of scabbards around, considering swords would lose their sharps without those.
If I did have a sword, I’d use it to slice bread with. You know, those wonderful crusty loaves that mercilessly dull even the sharpest bread knife. Which brings me to the title. All else, as they say, is relative. And they’re right; my aunt is at the door.
PS: Re. "granual" kitty litter, add another 'n' and you have a winner! You produce it, I’ll road-test it for you. Re. the Salivation Army, joining is entirely voluntary and non-coercive, as you well know. I don't do tambourines, those were castanets. I do not scream, crust (ewww gro$$!) or foam at the mouth, contrary to popular belief. Calcified blether regions are flavourofthemonth, please getwiththeprogram. Re. WWConvention, I take it I am not invited, boohoo. Re. fishnets, mine self destruct when anybody else touches them. KA-BOOM!!!
posted by Priya Tuli at 1:59 am
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