So I have suddenly realized that i start several blogs with the word So. These things are just sort of my stream of consciousness leaking out onto the screen. I think it, my fingers punch it, you read it, you speak it, your children sow it into their children, and those children grow up to be world leaders, astrophysicists, Jugglers, and Candy Canes. Yes, my literary grandchildren will grow up to be Candy Canes. That is how potent this writing is. So live it. Then tell everyone how much of a pretentious poppycock I am.
Because I am. But the big news about that little spread of Crisco is that I do it on purpose. The real crux of the whole situation is which is worse: Being an oblivious gasbag or being a gasbag on purpose to try and mock gasbags and then do it in a way that no one really understands that you are faking.
Story of my life.
I need my life to involve ACTUAL interaction with Pandas…and I want to know what a Penguin smells like. I am good at imagining smells for some reason, and i think i may have penguin down…but i can’t be sure without checking. I sort of have them pegged between the smell of wet horse tail, freshly clipped fingernails, and elmers glue…..just sort of how i picture it. Don’t tell an Antarctic specialist….because then he will make me look like an idiot.
Nobody wants to look like an idiot…unless they aren’t good at skating…then they just sort of get used to it.
Todays Topic: Classic Literature
I hate classic literature. Not all of it, but most of it. Not because of the content, but the shoveled on voracity with which it is forced upon levels of secondary and higher education. Now Geoffrey Chaucer made me laugh, he was basically the 14th centuries equivalent of a fart joke. I like stories that don’t take themselves too seriously.
Unlike every professor I have ever had advocating the subject, I am NOT impressed by antiquity.
Charles Dickens is mopey and can’t carry a metaphor to save his life.
Emily Dickson is a pretentious bat who should have stuck her head in the oven.
Sylvia Plath DID stick her head in an oven. Justice was served.
Homer didn’t even know what was going on when he wrote the Illiad.
Flannery O’Connor is obsessed with amputees and jerks getting their comeuppance.
Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote the Scarlet Letter (that is all i have to say condemning him)
I could keep going on and on sure. I find value in each of these writers, sure. Not when it is stuffed down my gullet and I’m told to love it because it is “classic.” Several of the golden oldies were poor writers, but had a good idea that carried their lack of prose. They were the Stephanie Meyers of their respective generations. Mrs. Meyers is a prime example of a person who is a mediocre (leaning bad) writer who came up with a story that could sell. Same thing for these scamps.
Keep these books where they belong, on the bookshelves of those who appreciate them. Don’t force them onto someone who is too many generations removed to understand what is even going on.
I am a graduate student in college and I have read ONE book over my collegiate career. I was assigned over a hundred to be sure. I don’t think anyone should be every TOLD to read anything they don’t want to concerning faux-pas “literature.” Especially when that word can be roughly translated into “ostentatious and full of itself.” When someone tells me to read something, I tend to do the opposite. I’m a rebellious prick, but I always made my A.
Words of Wisdom:
“Broc Sewell is a pretentious asshole.”