This Guy Gerould

Note: This was written and intended to be read in a Jackie Masonesque manner.

See, the thing is, I'm feeling the same way as Mr. Gerould, there, about how this guy, the "Pardoner", was wasted out of his mind and let spill a little something he normally would flip his lid over people finding out about. After all, "Now that I have drunk a draught of malty ale," certainly puts it into, might I say, "plain English?" that alcohol was at least in his system. Wait, did he speak plain English? I don't know about this "middle English" stuff. Forget it. What a tough crowd. About his thinking, though, that the "ambiguity in the Pardoner and his Tale is a literary fault that needs to be explained away rather than worked with," I'm altogether happy with.

I'm saying, I'm in accordance with the thing Mr. Gerould says about how "a man so depraved and so intent on getting for himself every possible creature comfort would not," I mean, come on, if we still had pet stores like they did back then, I'd have to go and ask for one of those foot rest creatures, what are they called? Never mind, sheesh, boos are bad enough, what are these? As I was saying, "would not have, unless his natural inhibitions were suspended, have stripped himself naked in mixed company." You got that right. Strip naked in mixed company? Maybe in the presence of one fine young... What? Is my physique really that bad? Sheesh! In all honesty, though, he's right. A Eunich! Ha, don't even get me started! Anyway, he would most certainly have done everything he could to have any pleasure in life he could get his hands on. Hey, come on now, there are no children here! What is this, Oprah? So, what I'm thinking is, alcohol must have been the active catalyst. It wasn't even that he had the balls to reveal it, he just let it slip! What? What's the big deal? All right, all right. OKAY. I'll get on to my next point, sheesh.

Secondly, I'd say that, really, this guy Chaucer, needs to be given a little something called "credit". He poured his heart, his soul, his time, his energy, and probably his life into it. The accusation made on him is quintessentially unfair. Let's see... 1, 2, 3, 4... Right! (Of course, the reason he was able to write what he did was mostly due to the fact that he could. He was, after all, the heir of a long line of *weal*thy *mer*chants and the inheritant of a certain number of shops in London, so he wasn't doing too bad at the time that he wrote his so called Tales of Canterbury.) What I'd like to know is what this guy could have written that maybe would have made Groucho, I mean Gerould, happy? If this Gerould guy can take an absolutely outrageously difficult piece of fine writing and criticize it, I don't think there's a written word on the face of this God-forsaken planet he couldn't criticize. I mean, what's this guy's deal? "Explain away." Posh! Why not leave it the way it is?? That's not even the worst of it! Whoever said the Chaucer guy's "literary fault" needs to be "worked with" is a little bit into themselves, or maybe a bit into the "glug glug," if you know what I mean. I mean to say, does one "work with" the Mona Lisa? Does one "work with" an urn? No, I think not! The Pardoner's Tale is not something one "works with!" Maybe if the point Gerould was trying to make was of a more serious consequence, then I'd be a little more forgiving, but this is UNforgivable. Not really, I just forgot to take my meds this morning.

Anyway, I do think that this Pardoner is like "the drunkard whom most of us have met at one time or another." Sheesh, if I got a nickel for all the drunks I've known in my lifetime... and the stuff they let spill! If they had been rich, I could have stripped them down to the clothes they had on their backs! Fortunately, they happened to be acquainted with a certain few people that meet such criteria, or I would not be so flourishingly well off as I happen to have, um waiter, another martini, thank you. Well, folks, looks like we're out of time. Thank you, thank you. What? Clapping because the time's up? Of all the nerve. Sheesh, I'll get off the stage. What are you, wild animals? Good night, for heaven's sake!