The Man Inside the Tin Can: Launcelot

(This is a biography.)

Now, I must admit that Howard Pyle got it pretty close when he wrote that Launcelot was raised by the Lady of the Lake. But he left out some important details, which are as follows: Launcelot was raised by the Lady of the Lakeside Resort, and many people did call her the Lady of the Lake. Pyle, however, decided to ignore the historical evidence and wrote a very unrealistic book. (I can assure you that I will never ever write a book that isn’t one hundred percent realistic.)

Anyway, I should now get down to fully explaining the life of Launcelot. In the early years of Arthur, when he was merely a big business tycoon, there was this lesser king called Ban who lived somewhere up north (probably in Canada). Ban had a son named Jack, and Jack loved to play with little toy knights. He would hold tournament after tournament after tournament with all his little friends.

One day, one of these friends said, “I don’t want to play jousting anymore.”

“Why not?” asked Jack. “Look, here’s how things work around here: I say we play something, AND WE PLAY IT. And I say we play jousting.”

“Look ‘Mr. Lance-A-Lot’, we’ve been playing jousting for the past two years straight. Why can’t we play something else?”

I think you’ll like Jack’s method of getting his way. He threatened to kick his friend out the window.

“I’d like to see you try,” the friend said.

So, Jack grabbed his friend, squashed him up into the general size and shape of a football, and drop-kicked him through the window. After that, Jack’s friends all gladly played jousting with him, and Jack christened himself Launcelot in honor of his lost friend’s nickname for him. (And he did lance a lot with his toy knights.)


Published in: on July 8, 2007 at 8:06 PM  Comments (2)  

The True Story of Robin Hood

(This is not what you heard in kindergarten.)

If you were a environmentalist in medieval Nottinghamshire, then you would love the laws of Sherwood Forest. The trees were never cut down, no one ever went hunting or fishing, and few people ever walked under the thick foliage except for the foresters who helped wounded animals and kept the forest clean. Of course, if you voiced your love of the laws anywhere within a hundred miles of Sherwood, well, heh, heh, the peasants would probably tear you limb from limb and dump you in their stew invite you to dinner. The peasants hated the laws that forbade anyone from hunting in Sherwood almost as much as they hated obeying them, and that was quite a bit.

Many is the time some hungry farmer, unable to survive after paying the large amount of taxes demanded by the baron of Nottingham, would sneak into Sherwood and try to shoot a deer. They almost never succeeded (not realizing that the 30-06 hadn’t been invented yet), and would inevitably be found out by one of the foresters who would say: “Hey pal, I wonder if you would mind posing there with your nonexistent rifle while I snap a picture so I can prove you broke the law and get a reward.”

The farmer would graciously strike an elegant pose while the forester (who, by the way, was an early form of the mean type of conservation officer) fumbled with his lens cap. Then, when the forester finally realizes that his camera is digital, the farmer would vanish in a similar fashion as that of a ten-year-old boy who has hit his baseball through the old grouch’s window.

Still, later that day, a tall man in a black cloak and hood would come to the farmer’s door and say politely: “Ah, would you mind coming with me to this evening’s hanging? We’ve arranged for your limo, and your coffin is being carved even now. It won’t cost you a thing!”

The farmer, never one to pass up anything that was free, even if it was his own execution, would hop into the limo and ask the driver to take the shortest route to the gallows (probably suspecting that he would have to pay for the gas).

Finally, as the farmer was led up to the hanging platform, he would lean over to the executioner and ask: “I won’t have to make a speech, will I?” Public speaking was the number one fear even in those days.


Published in: on July 7, 2007 at 10:05 AM  Comments (8)  
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Dear Reader,

This blog is where I hope to share the stories I write. I have attempted to write several novels, but none of them worked out, so now I will write short stories that are about 1200 words long (give or take a few hundred). Most will probably be farce, but I might also write some serious things (if so, then I will arrange my work in categories so they will be easy to find). Some of my writings may not be of the best quality, because I am having to write each one in one or two days, but I will try my best to fix all grammatical mistakes before posting them. I hope that this blog will be a place where people can come whenever they want and read a short story that will lighten their mind or calm it down from the normal chaos of everyday life. I sincerely hope you enjoy my stories.

God bless, Chickenfoot.

Published in: on July 6, 2007 at 8:29 PM  Comments (3)