Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Geoffrey Chaucer, Call Your Office

Hello, Geoff? Hey. It's me, Desperate. We've been out of touch for a while. Like, since about ninth grade.

But I remember you, Geoff. I can even remember that tongue-twister of yours our English teacher made us memorize. OK, so I can only manage the first two lines... but still, I'd think after all these years you'd be flattered:

"Whan that aprill with his shoures soote
The droghte of march hath perced to the roote..."

Impressed? Now for the contemporary version:

"When April with his showers sweet with fruit
The drought of March has pierced unto the root.."

Now here's the bad news. Geoff. Those showers ain't exactly as sweet as you made them out to be. Today, for example. It's one thing to wake up in the morning and see a gentle dusting of snow on the landscape, or your car, in December. But seeing it today is just too much. Today is the 20th of April, Geoff. And we got snow.

It might not be so depressing if I'd never heard of The Canterbury Tales. I mean, come on, the expectations you set up! Hooray, can't wait for April, it'll be sweet! The Zephyrs! The tender shoot and buds! The "many little birds that make melody!"

Unless they FROZE to death, right, Geoff?!! Unless the tender little buds all DIED in the KILLER FROST! You never thought of that, did you GC?

Well, take a look outside my window and think about it now. I expect a whole new Prologue on my desk by this afternoon. Otherwise I'm going to start spilling what I really know about your little set of pilgrims, and as you know, it won't be pretty.

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