A retraction

Now I implore all that viewed this little project, if there is anything that you enjoyed, then thank you to the muses who bring wit and goodness. If there is anything that you didn’t like, please blame my lack of wit, not my will. I would have liked to do better if I had the talent. It’s written somewhere that all that is written is for our teaching; that is my intent. I hope that you think kindly of me, have mercy, and forgive my mistakes—especially my poor compositions and vanity: my fanfics, doodles, videos, and recordings, and any of my other little stories, if I could remember them. But I hope that the good stories, the ones that provide you goodness and delight, I hope they will immortalize me in the halls of literature.

Please enjoy.

~Geoff Chaucer

Missy Tyne, Praise the LORD in Houston Town

And now, the smooth sounds of Missy Eglantine Prior.

Houston Town (Billy Boy’s Ballad)

 

Daddy died in Houston town, 

Mamma pushed, put to the text. 

Billy boy so meek and mild, 

Mother Mary he loved best.

 

Singing Hallelujah, 

Sing through the Brokeback part of town.

Billy sang for degenerates, 

Those men tried to put him down.

 

Those men like boys not Jesus,

How it tears my soul apart.

Billy was the sweetest child, 

Those men blackened in the heart.

Men love men not Jesus, 

They make their moves real slow,

Watching Billy from the door, 

Planning how to take the floor.

 

Billy praising every day,

Four men take him from behind.

Come with us, boy, come go away, 

You can do more on your knees than pray.

 

Took turns upon that sweet little child, 

They tore him limb from limb.

Stuffed the boy in a suitcase black 

But still they heard him sing.

 

Mamma searched, cried, 

She wept all through the night.

Billy, where is that child?

I need him by my side. 

 

A suitcase by the river

Makes a song to heaven on high.

What they found was a bloody mess, 

Somehow Billy’s voice survived. 

 

Those men love men not Jesus, 

To Old Sparky one by one.

Hateful skin and bones were fried, 

Justice good and sure was done.

Billy sings forever on high, 

He sings with the angels now, Singing Hallelujah, 

 

It was a story of Houston town. 

Expectedly rude but surprisingly coherent: ‘The Shipman’s Tale’ by Denzil Gurnard.

Yachtsman, Denzil Gurnard, was told this fabliau by a slurring Biarritzian on the tail end of a brandy binge. He (Denzil) wrote it down on a beer mat in drunken shorthand and passed it on to a couple of scholarly deckhands, who then performed it on pain of shark hook! To keep Denzil harmonious, they combined the tale with his two great loves; football and dirty jokes.

Follow the secret link to the ‘The Shipman’s Tale’  

An Unusual and Troublesome Tale

Cas Husseini, MD, left this in my inbox this morning. I presume he is using Pilgrim's Prize as a platform for spreading the word. Do with this what you will.

~Chaucer

LETTER TO

UK Police force

Petition for a FULL INVESTIGATION into the disappearance of Ginny Lindsay

Recently, many ex-church members of a small, underground group based in the South-East (which, as of yet, cannot be named for fear of current members safety) have provided reason to believe that Ginny Lindsay, who was fourteen at the time and is known to have familial ties with the sect, did not run away from home as has been reported to the authorities, but was, in fact, the victim of an honour-killing. 

It is known that Lindsay is (was?) the only child of one of the most respected members of the church.  One individual, who does not wish to be named, told us; “She was always a quiet, pensive girl.  She would always leave early from church gatherings and didn’t seem to like being the centre of attention.  Don’t get me wrong, she was easy enough to talk to but she really seemed to prefer her own company.”  Other sources commented on Ginny’s kindness and her eagerness to help those in need, but there are few who we talked to who did not comment on her quietness. 

It is understood that upset was caused in the church when an elder filed a complaint against Ginny’s father to the church council, stating that he was allowing Ginny to grow up “in corruption.” 

“It was completely out of the blue,” one of our sources stated.  “Everyone knew what kind of family they were and anyone who had ever met that girl could tell you she was the last person who’d be up to anything untoward.” 

Defectors, who have since come forward, now believe that there was a darker motive involved in the complaint: 

 “At first we thought it was just strange, especially since the Reverend upheld the complaint without question.  We reckoned he must have had good evidence so we didn’t do anything at that point.  It was when he ruled that Ginny was to move to his house, under his “divine” care, that we finally saw what was going on.”

The “Reverend,” sixty-three-year-old Mr. Graham Apsley, our own investigations have found, has a history of convictions relating to harassment and intimidating behaviour.   It is thought that the complaint filed against Mr. Lindsay was a ploy for Apsley to gain access to Ginny. 

Ginny Lindsay was last seen on August 18th last year, the night before she was to move her belongings into Apsley’s abode.  The disappearance was recorded by the local constabulary who have concluded after their investigations that Ginny ran away from home to be away from the church. Members, however, tell a different story:

“When I heard that she had gone missing, I decided to talk to the father to see if there was anything I could do to help.  He just stared at me; it was devastating to see the expression on his face.  All he said was “Leviticus. Twenty-one nine,” and walked away.” 

Leviticus 21:9, “And the daughter of any priest, if she profane herself by playing the whore, she profaneth her father: she shall be burnt with fire,” is, of course, a reference to the Old Testament law.  Many members of the church have defected since the incident and fear that Ginny may have been murdered to save her family’s honour.  Reverend Apsley has been unavailable for comment in this investigation. 

It is for the above reasons that we, the undersigned, demand a full, extensive investigation into the case as soon as possible;  Ginny Lindsay’s sixteenth birthday is approaching and the case will no longer concern a missing child.  For the sake of the safety of those left behind, either too afraid to leave or captivated by Apsley’s bizarre brand of religion, it is imperative that Ginny Lindsay’s case is solved once and for all.

To sign the petition, visit Change.org

Once upon a time...

Frank McDonald, MSP has given us a good old fashioned fairy tale, filled with knights and honour, oaths and, of course, true love. 

Now if you'll excuse me, I have something in my eye.

~Chaucer

In the little town of Brenton on the coast of Cornwall, there lived an accomplished and honorable knight, Arviragus, and his lovely wife, Dorigen. They had grown up together and had been childhood sweethearts, giving each other their first kiss under an apple tree on the edge of town. That early sweetness and innocence had never faded from the relationship, leading to a happy marriage full of mutual understanding and simple love.

When they had been married for about a year, their easy relationship was given its first trial. There was a war going on in France, and a battle had crossed into an English territory, forcing them to get involved. A week into the war, a messenger brought a letter to Arviragus, summoning him to France. Dorigen cried and begged for him to stay, but he had no choice. The penalty of desertion was death by hanging.

On the appointed day, Dorigen accompanied Arviragus down to the docks beneath the white cliffs. Knights and their sweethearts lined the shore, kissing or murmuring to each other or just holding each other close. Dorigen and Arviragus joined this line, facing each other with matching grave expressions. The day was grey and windy, and the waves broke against the black rocks that lined the seashore.

“I’ll write you as often as I can,” Arviragus said, taking Dorigen’s small hands in his.

“I’ll do nothing but wait by the doorway for your letters,” Dorigen replied.

The horn on the ship blew, and the knights dutifully trudged towards it. Arviragus cupped Dorigen’s face in his hand and kissed her gently.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice almost disappearing on the wind whipping from the sea.

“I love you too,” Dorigen replied.

And then he was gone, following his fellow knights towards their ship. Dorigen watched Arviragus’s back until it had disappeared into the crowd. Then, she ran up the small cliff-side path. At the top, the ship was small as a toy and the men merely ants. She watched as the ship maneuvered its way out to sea. Her breath caught in her throat as the ship got too close to one of the large, sharp black rocks. Brenton was famous for its shipwrecks, as even the most experienced captain had trouble navigating the swirling sea around the black rocks. After an agonizing few minutes, the military ship navigated its way out of the port and was on the open sea. Dorigen watched it until it disappeared into the horizon. Then, tears dripping down her nose, she turned and went home.

As the months went by, Dorigen’s mood never lifted, and she knew that she would not be happy again until Arviragus was at her side. Dorigen spent much of her time sitting on the muddy grass on the top of the cliff, watching the sea, hoping that maybe, somehow, Arviragus’s ship would appear. Every time a ship did navigate its way to the port, she held her breath as it made its way through the black rocks, and once it landed she ran down to the dock, always hoping, always wishing. But it was always just a lone fisherman or a relative coming to visit someone in Brenton. Once, as Dorigen sat on the cliff on a particularly rainy day, she witnessed a shipwreck. It was a small ship, holding about ten men, and the captain couldn’t manage to fight off the rain, the wild sea, and the rocks. His ship smashed into the rocks nearest to town, the boat splintering into a thousand pieces and the men falling into the sea.

The men were strong swimmers and they all managed to get to the shore, but the incident sent Dorigen into a panic. What if Arviragus’s ship came in on the day of a storm? What if he wasn’t as lucky as these men and was caught in a riptide? Or, what if he was killed by the rocks before he even got a chance to attempt to escape? Growing up, Dorigen had always liked the rocks. She liked how they guarded Brenton like sentries, keeping them safe from intruders, and she liked the sound of the waves breaking against them, the sharp clap that had always been the background noise in her life. But now, she regarded them as enemies, the one obstacle between herself and true happiness.

Dorigen was still thinking about the rocks at the town’s annual May Day party. As usual, the party was a big affair, with musicians playing and food piled high on a table in the town square. Children ran around the May Pole, giggling as their ribbons got tangled up in each other. The adults danced gracefully with their spouses or suitors, looking elegant in their colorful dresses and tailored suits. Dorigen had let herself be dragged to the party by her friends, but she couldn’t bring herself to dance. It made her think too much of all the times she and Arviragus had been here together, twirling on the dance floor late into the night, until the candles had melted down to nothing and the stars were their only light. Dancing with anyone else would be a betrayal to him.

Unbeknownst to Dorigen, she wasn’t the only one who wasn’t dancing. At a nearby table, Aurelius, a friend of Arviragus’s, was also sitting lost in thought. And his thoughts were focused on Dorigen. Wonderful, lovely Dorigen, who he had had feelings for since…well, for as long as he could remember. But unlike Arviragus, he had been too shy to act on them, too awkward. Arviragus had always been easily charming, never having a problem speaking to anyone, even beautiful girls like Dorigen. Then there was Aurelius, whose tongue tangled into a stuttering mess when he tried to talk to Dorigen. To Arviragus, flirting with her was as easy as cutting into butter. Aurelius hadn’t even bothered to tell Arviragus how he felt; he knew there was no point, it wasn’t like Dorigen would choose someone like him over someone like Arviragus.

As the years went on, he had watched as Arviragus and Dorigen’s flirtations turned into something more, something unbreakable, and cursed himself for not letting his feelings for Dorigen be known. Maybe then, things would have been different.

Now, it was the first time since childhood that Dorigen was alone. In the months that Arviragus had been gone, Aurelius had been looking for an opportunity to talk to Dorigen, and this party was his chance. His last chance, maybe. So he took a deep breath, pushed his chair back, and walked over to her.

“Hello, Dorigen,” he said, attempting to keep his voice from shaking.

She looked up and gave him half a smile. “Oh, hello, Aurelius.”

“May I sit with you?”

She nodded, and Aurelius clamored into the seat next to her, moving so quickly he almost missed the chair. His face reddened, but Dorigen didn’t even notice.

“Are you having fun?” Aurelius asked.

“Honestly? No, I’m not.”

“Oh, would you maybe want to leave? With me, I mean. We could have a pint at the pub.”

Dorigen chuckled. “Why, Aurelius, are you asking me out?”

“I—I might be,” Aurelius mumbled. Then, he quickly added, “Or maybe not.”

Dorigen laughed again and put a hand on Aurelius’s arm. “Aurelius, I’ll go out with you when...” She paused, trying to imagine the most outrageous thing she could. She thought of it, and smiled. “I’ll go out with you when all of the rocks are removed from the coast.”

“Tr...truly?” Aurelius stuttered.

But Dorigen didn’t hear him—her friend had called for her from a few tables over.

“Farewell, Aurelius,” Dorigen said.

Aurelius rushed home, the task that Dorigen had given him repeating in his head over and over again.

At home, Aurelius’s older brother Cornelius was tending to the fire. He glanced at Aurelius when he rushed inside. “Dorigen has given me a task,” Aurelius announced. “If I remove all of the rocks from the coast, she will be mine.”

“How are you going to do that?” Cornelius asked.

Aurelius shook his head. “I don’t know.” He groaned and sank onto his bed. “This is impossible, isn’t it?”

Cornelius put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “We’ll think of something.”

But they couldn’t think of anything. As the weeks went by, they brainstormed every day, but they came up with nothing. Aurelius became more and more despondent as it became clear that there was no feasible way to accomplish this task. Cornelius, who hated seeing the brother he loved in such dire straits, tried his hardest to think of something, any loophole or any solution. But there was nothing.

One day, Aurelius went out to the market to buy bread. As he was paying, someone behind him said his name. He turned to see Arviragus and Dorigen. Arviragus had a brown bandage around his head and a bandage on his arm.

Arviragus limped up to Aurelius and clapped him on his back. “Hello, old friend.”

“Arviragus got a minor injury in battle, and he was honorably discharged. Isn’t that wonderful?” Dorigen said, beaming up at her husband. Arviragus put his arm around Dorigen and kissed her forehead.

Aurelius grasped his bread so hard it crumbled. “Yes, it’s a miracle,” Aurelius said, his voice small.

“You must come over for supper soon,” Arviragus said to Aurelius.

“Certainly. Farewell, Arviragus.”

Aurelius went straight home and laid down on his bed. He didn’t move again for the next two weeks. He may have stayed there forever if his brother didn’t finally come up with a solution to his impossible problem. Cornelius told Aurelius his idea as Aurelius sat on his bed.

While away on business, Cornelius had come upon a traveling magician. This magician practiced in a small house that was filled with brightly-colored potions, ancient books that were covered in dust, and cauldrons that bubbled and gave off the most peculiar smells. When Cornelius first walked in, he had thought this magician was one of the many frauds who believed if he filled his home with enough strange things, people would believe he was truly magical. So, to test him, Cornelius had bought a potion that supposedly made anyone who drank it two times larger. He fed it to a field mouse, and sure enough, the mouse doubled in size. Cornelius, now convinced of the magician’s talent, told the magician of Arviragus’s troubles.

“...And he said, for a thousand pounds, he will remove the rocks!” Cornelius finished. “He will come down to Brenton in a fortnight.”

“But I don’t have a thousand pounds,” Aurelius said. “I don’t even have a hundred pounds.”

Cornelius sat down on the foot of his brother’s bed. “I have a thousand pounds.”

“I can’t ask you to do that for me.”

“I want to. I’m sure you’ll pay me back when you can.”

For the first time in a month, Aurelius smiled. “Thank you, Cornelius.”

“It’s my honor. It’s not every day you get to help your brother win his true love’s heart.”

As promised, in a fortnight, the magician rolled into town in a large caravan with the words ‘The Great Horace’s Magical Remedies’ written across its side. Aurelius and Cornelius met the magician at the cliff-side spot where Dorigen had spent so much time sitting and waiting for Arviragus’s ship. When they got there, Aurelius was surprised to see that the Great Horace was rather ordinary looking. He had long silver hair that was tied back, and he wore a plain brown tunic. He held a large, leather-bound book.

“This must be our lovelorn chap,” Horace said as Aurelius and Cornelius walked up to him. “Do you have the thousand pounds?”

Cornelius handed over the money, and Horace quickly counted it.

“How long will it take you to remove the rocks?” Aurelius asked.

“This is an easy task, my boy. I just have to read a little spell out of his book of runes, and it will be done.”

Aurelius nodded, his heart hammering away. Horace opened his book, releasing a cloud of dust. Then, he began chanting in a strange, ancient language. As he chanted, the air around Aurelius seemed to still, and the sound of waves clapping against the shore and seagulls crying became muted. After a few minutes, Horace closed the book, and the world returned to normal. Except the waves sounded quieter, like they were gently rolling to shore. Holding his breath, Aurelius glanced over the cliff.

The rocks were gone.

“Thank you,” Aurelius said to Horace, who was counting his money again.

“Of course, my boy,” Horace muttered distractedly.

“I’ll be right back,” Aurelius told Cornelius. He turned and ran back into town, not stopping, not slowing down at all, until he reached Arviragus and Dorigen’s door. He knocked on it so loudly it shook. Dorigen opened it, revealing Aurelius’s flushed face.

“Aurelius, what’s wrong?” Dorigen asked.

“Nothing is wrong, nothing at all! Come with me. And bring Arviragus too.”

Dorigen, frowning slightly, went back inside. She reemerged a minute later with Arviragus, and the two followed Aurelius to the cliff-side, where Cornelius and Horace still stood.

“Look,” Aurelius told Dorigen and Arviragus.

Dorigen and Arviragus both looked over the cliff. Dorigen clapped a hand over her mouth, and Arviragus’s eyes widened.

“The rocks...they’re gone,” Dorigen said faintly.

“You told me that if I got rid of the rocks, you would go out with me. Well, Dorigen, my love, I have removed the rocks.”

Arviragus looked at Dorigen. “You told him that?”

“I...I said it in jest. I never thought he really would...” Dorigen’s face went pale. She glanced back and forth between the two men who loved her. Arviragus stared at her with betrayal etched into all of his features. Aurelius grinned triumphantly.

Arviragus ran a hand through his hair, staring out at the sea. When he looked back at Aurelius, a new expression had crossed his face: resignation. He took Dorigen’s hands. “Dorigen, you must go with him.”

“No, I can’t! I don’t love him.”

“That doesn’t matter. You made a promise, you swore an oath. And when you swear an oath, you have to obey it, even when you don’t want to.”

Tears filled Dorigen’s eyes, but she nodded. She kissed Arviragus, so sweet and tender Aurelius had to look away. He couldn’t bear to see it, to see how much love was in that one simple kiss.

“I love you,” Dorigen said.

“I love you too,” Arviragus said.

He let go of Dorigen’s hands and walked away, not looking back. Dorigen silently wept. Aurelius put an arm around her, and Dorigen stiffened.

“Please don’t touch me,” Dorigen said.

Aurelius let go. He turned away from Dorigen and looked out towards the sea, the sea that was calmer than he had ever seen it before. It looked so strange without the rocks. So empty. He wasn’t sure that he liked it.

As Dorigen sobbed next to him, Aurelius knew what he had to do. This wasn’t the life he wanted—he didn’t want Dorigen if she wasn’t really his. And it was clear to him now, she never would be. She would always belong to Arviragus, and he to her. So Aurelius shouted, “Arviragus!”

Arviragus  had been walking slowly, shoulders slumped and limp even more pronounced than before. When he heard his name, he turned. Aurelius jogged over to him. “I’m sorry. What I did was wrong. Dorigen is yours.”

Arviragus clapped a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You’re a good man, Aurelius.”

Arviragus limped back to Dorigen as quickly as he could. He shouted her name, and when she saw him coming, she grinned and ran up to meet him. They embraced, and Aurelius looked away again.

“I’m sorry, Aurelius,” Cornelius said. Aurelius had forgotten that Cornelius and the magician were still there, witnessing his humiliation.

“It’s for the best,” Aurelius said, looking over at Dorigen and Arviragus. They were walking back towards their home, hand in hand.

Horace glanced at the brothers, and then, with a painful sigh, he handed the thousand pounds back to Cornelius. “You’re having a bad enough day,” Horace said to Aurelius.

“Thank you,” Aurelius said.

Horace walked away, leaving the two brothers alone.

“I’ll meet you at home,” Aurelius said to Cornelius.

Cornelius nodded and left. Aurelius stood on the cliff’s edge, looking down at the green-blue water.

“Goodbye, Dorigen,” Aurelius whispered.

And he too walked away, leaving the empty sea behind.

                                        

 

 

 

Bert Cassidy, Oxford Philosophy Student and Tale Teller

Bert Cassidy doesn't say much, but when he does express himself he tries to do it intelligently and concisely. Here is his tale.

~Chaucer

Dear readers,

Harry Bailey asked me for an adventure story--something that will be enjoyed by all. I had to think long and hard about how to convey my masterful tale to a common audience. I think I've succeeded. Please, enjoy my tale. Maybe you'll learn something.

Bert.

Seb Poena's Tale

We were starting to worry at The Pilgrim about what happened to Seb. Finally, I received this message today, along with his entry. Here is Seb Poena's Tale

~Chaucer

Dear Harry,

I know I'm late to post my tale. My last job united me with an unexpected partner and, well, to be honest, I'm not sure what happened. I just woke up a couple hours ago. I'm not sure how, but I blame Hugh for this, that bloody devil.

Anyway, here is my tale: the truth about "Life Coaches" and their pathetic existence.

~Seb

19.jpg

Hugh Fryer's Tale

Well this was slightly unexpected, but Hugh Fryer asked for his tale to be posted immediately It seems he sort of just fell upon it. Here is his tale.

~Chaucer


Dear Wife of Bath

Author’s Note: For many years, I have run an advice column in the Bath Daily Gazette under the pseudonym “Wife of Bath.” During my time at the paper, I have helped hundreds of men and women solve problems related to dating, work, child rearing, and much more. For consideration in your esteemed contest, I present to you one entry from my time as Wife of Bath, complete with the original letter written to me for context.

Dear Wife of Bath,

I’ve been married for just over a year, and while in many ways the marriage has been successful, there is one big, glaring issue that is keeping me from being completely happy: my husband doesn’t know what I want unless I explicitly tell him. This may not sound like a big deal, but it’s driving me crazy. For example, last month my sister was throwing a cocktail party. My husband hates parties, so he decided not to go. But I really wanted him there with me, since I can’t stand my sister’s friends and knew I would be miserable if I had to deal with them alone. I dropped plenty of blatant hints about my feelings—I talked about how horrible my sister’s friends were, how I would have no one to talk to, how I wish there would be a familiar face there with me, but he didn’t understand. I didn’t want to force him to go, since I knew that would lead to a huge argument and him sulking all night. I wanted him to get that I needed him and come of his own accord. Needless to say, I went to that party alone. And that’s just one example of an all too common issue.

    What can I do to make my husband better understand my needs?

Sincerely,

Frustrated in Somerset

 

 

Dear Frustrated in Somerset,

I’m going to start by telling you a little story.

Once upon a time, there was a man working in a big marketing company. Let’s call him Eric. Eric was known around the office as “the sleazy guy.” He wasn’t completely terrible looking, but the way he came onto his co-workers was so lecherous no one ever returned his advances. Still, nothing deterred him from trying, and one day he went too far and pinched one of the intern’s bums. The intern filed a sexual harassment suit, and Eric was called into his boss Wanda’s office. Wanda gave Eric the standard warning, telling him he’d be fired if he didn’t cut his behaviour out. She also decided to suspend him, but the way she did it was a bit unusual, and frankly, probably a bit outside of the law. Wanda told Eric that he had to figure out what women wanted most in the world. When he came back to her with the correct answer, he’d be allowed to start working again.

So Eric went around to all the women in his life, asking what their deepest desire was. Of course, all of their answers were different. His sister wanted love, his mother wanted happiness, his friend wanted money, and on and on. Finally, after a couple of weeks of this, he was approached by his sister’s friend Ashley, a homely creature who had had a crush on him for years. She shyly told him she knew the right answer, but she’d only tell him if he promised to go on a date with her. He agreed, she told him, and he ran into his boss’s office the next morning, shouting, “I know the answer! The thing women want most in the world is  to be in charge of the men in their life.”

Wanda told him that he was right, and Eric got his job back.

The next day, he went on the promised date with Ashley. It went well and they got along nicely. And so, when they got back to Ashley’s flat she invited Eric inside. Eric hemmed and hawed, and Ashley soon figured out the problem.

“It’s because of my looks, isn’t it?” she asked.

Eric, deciding to be honest, nodded.

“What would you say if I told you that I can change my appearance? I can become beautiful.”

Of course, Eric didn’t believe her. But then, she changed, and all of sudden she looked like a supermodel. Before Eric could comprehend what was happening, she changed back.

“If you want, I can look like that. But, if you choose that appearance, I’ll be unfaithful and mean to you throughout our whole relationship. If, on the other hand, you decide to have me like this, I’ll be the most devoted girlfriend you could ever wish for. What will it be?”

Eric thought for a while, unsure if it was worth pursuing a relationship with those caveats. He was about to call the whole thing off, when he thought about the correct answer to the “what do women want” riddle. And, smiling, he said, “I trust your judgement. I’ll let you choose what’s best.”

Ashley smiled too, and transformed back into the supermodel. “Correct. Since you learned your lesson and let me have the authority in the relationship, I’ll be both faithful and beautiful for you.”

And they lived happily ever after.

So, my dear Frustrated in Somerset, you may be wondering what this has to do with your situation. What I’m trying to say with this story is that men don’t know what we want. They simply can’t comprehend it. As you can see, Eric could never have come up with the answer to his boss’s question on his own. He had to find out the answer from the women in his life. And then, once he had the answer, it wasn’t like he just forgot it instantaneously. He used what he learned with the homely woman-turned-supermodel, and for that, he was rewarded

with a beautiful and faithful girlfriend.

So, the best thing for you to do is stop just dropping hints and hoping your husband understands. After all, he isn’t being obtuse on purpose. For both your sakes, just tell him what you want. If you want him to go to a party, tell him to go to a party. Sure, you may get into an argument, but at least he’ll understand that it’s important to you—which he probably doesn’t now realise . And even if he still bows out of this party, he’ll know for future parties that it will be a big deal if he doesn’t go. Like the man in my little story, he’ll learn his lesson and use what he learned to make you happy. Drop the coy act and be straight with your man, and everyone will be happier in the end.

           Best,

           Wife of Bath

 

 

Robbie Miller's Tale

What should I say about Robbie Miller? He insisted on telling his tale in this format. I have to admit I wish I didn’t have to publish this tale here. So, to our respectable readers I say please, for the love of God, don’t think that I am posting this story to be a troll. I have to post all the contestant’s tales for better or worse or else the contest isn’t fair. So, I’ll remind you all that if you don’t want to read this story, click back and choose another tale. I’m sure you will find enough entries that have historical merit, tales about good people, or even tales with a moral. Don’t blame me if you don’t like the story. Robbie Miller is a rude guy; you’ve seen that already. Again, don’t blame me for this tale.

At the same time, people need to learn not to take jokes so seriously.

Visit the forum thread "How was that for a kickoff" to read how Robbie Miller jumped the tale telling queue. Also, notice that Ozzy Reeve, the contractor, doesn't seem too impressed by this tale to come.

~Chaucer


Right, as I mentioned in the Forum, I was drunk when I managed to get ahold of this hilarious conversation. Hell, I'm drunk again while I'm sending it in. (What of it?) All I'm trying to say is hopefully I get everything in the right order. But if I don't, go easy on me and blame it on the drink. This tale is about Ali--who is a real looker, some student nerd who is fresh on her called Nick, and her old man, John, the idiot contractor who has no idea what's going on.

--RM

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And there you have it! John's the butt of a joke, Ali got screwed, Abz got a piece of Ali in the end, and Nick's ass got burned! That's how you tell a tale! Good luck to the rest of you.