the tree of woe

Ethelred the Unready served as King of England from 991 to 1016 AD.  As you can probably guess, he was one in a long line of British Monarchs that are unintentionally hilarious to the rest of the world, a line that continues to this day.

I picture poor Ethelred getting to the front of the line at Wendy’s, and when asked, “Welcome to Wendy’s, how may I help you?” he stands there mute, staring at the menu.

“I’ll have…    I’ll have a…   Do I want a frosty? I don’t need a frosty, but do I want a frosty?… Hmmm…”

HEY ETHELRED! JUST ORDER SOMETHING ALREADY!  Poor dumb sap. Maybe I’m assigning too much blame to Ethelred. Perhaps one day Ethelred was walking to class when he heard someone cry out, “HEY ETHELRED! THINK FAST!,” and he turns around to be greeted by a football to the chest. His tray of food drops to the ground, his glasses fly off his head, and Ethelred stands there nursing his wounded pride as the bullies saunter away, high-fiving each other for another job well done, making Ethelred look like a moron.

They probably didn’t plan on him becoming King, though. If they had, they probably would have been friendlier to him, mostly so he wouldn’t have them killed later.

Roughly 85% of my generation was exposed to the classic video game Oregon Trail during our formative elementary school years. This game is the singular reason I’ve never been further west than St. Louis.

A visit to Oregon is now very high on my list of fears. First of all, the mortality rate of a trip out west is roughly 25%. Even if you do survive, you almost certainly won’t make it without enduring some sort of tragic or potentially life threatening event. You might break your leg. Your wagon might break down. Your oxen will probably die at some point, either from being overworked, or you’ll drown them in a river, or something. Sound rough? Add to it all the never ending dysentery that could claim you any day now, and you have an idea of what pioneer life was like.

I have to admit, I don’t remember much about the game. I do remember parts were very unrealistic. Rest, for example, is not a correct medical treatment for a broken leg. Oh, it’s part of it, to be sure, but a nap isn’t going to make that bone whole again. It seemed to work pretty often, though. (Unless that character was named after someone I didn’t like. In that case, those people would be denied the most basic medical help.  Instead, I would work them to the bone, dysentery or not.)

I believe you got to choose from some different “professions” for your character, possibly Banker, Farmer and Carpenter. The banker started out with the most money, which is why I was always the banker. How would being a farmer even help you?

“Man, this is a long road trip, and I’m getting hungry.  We should stop for food somewhere.”

“That’s a great idea. There’s nice plot of land at the next exit.  Let’s get off there, and I’ll plant some corn.  Then, we simply will wait for 6 months for it to grow.”

And that’s why I was never the idiot farmer.  He would be the first one eaten by the rest of the starving party.

As I picked up a copy of the Grand Rapids Press today, I noticed the headline on the front page.  That is, after all, its sole purpose.  It read:

“Will Thieves Spoil Your Picnic?”

First of all, who says “thief” or any of its variants anymore?  Maybe if you find yourself in London, circa 1880, then “thief” would be a completely appropriate word to say.  If you were sitting on a London park bench in 1880 and turned away from the over-cloak you had just laid next to you in order to find your snuff tin and smooth your waistcoat, only to see a burglar dash away in the distance and the distinct lack of an over-cloak next to you when you turned back around, you could yell out “Stop! Thief!”, hoping to attract the attention of a nearby constable without sounding like an idiot.  In any other instance, saying the word “thief” will only serve to alert those within earshot of your mind-shattering stupidity.

I didn’t actually read any of the article.  Didn’t seem to be worth my time.  If I had to guess, I’d say there is someone out there in Grand Rapids ruining picnics, darting across picnic blankets and swiping sandwiches, swinging by on a rope just as some unsuspecting picnic goer was about to take a bite out of a delicious hot dog, but only biting at the air where his hot dog was fractions of a second earlier.  A Hamburgler copycat, if you will.

Where are you, Ronald McDonald?  Save us!

Like the majestic Phoenix rising from its ashes, McGladdery.org is born anew!   Everything else is changing in my life, so I figured my blog could stand a major overhaul, too.

“But Kevin,” I hear you ask, “What of your old posts?  What will happen to them?”

They are gone.  Lost forever in the sands of time, to resurface only if I can’t think of anything else to write about.

“Huh..” you say, without the slightest hint of interest in your voice.   ”Hey…” you continue, “What do you think of people who put ice in milk?  I mean, really?”

It doesn’t make any sense at all.  How cold do you need your milk, exactly?  And what happens when the ice melts?  It gets all watered down.  That’s so nasty.

“People who put ice in their milk should be pushed down a staircase.” You conclude, quite melodramatically I might add.