‘Oy, Rodney’ Triumphs, Wins Pulitzer

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I have to admit this headline is something less than honest. I’m afraid I got carried away by the readership’s enthusiastic support for Violet Crepuscular’s literary endeavors. The only reader who struck a sour note was some literary critic from The Philadelphia Carp who said all copies of her book should be gathered up and burned, and the ashes scattered in outer space. But who listens to literary critics?

So we are free to return to Ms. Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Chapter CCCLXXXXIX.

Scurveyshire is overrun with monsters, the result of Constable Chumley inadvertently reciting a very difficult incantation, and people are blaming Lord Jeremy Coldsore for it. Actually it’s Violet’s fault, but they are in no mood to listen to reason. Despairing of help from any other quarter, Jeremy consults with the Wise Woman of the Gaol. He is accompanied by the American adventurer, Willis Twombley, who has spent all his adult life thinking he’s Sargon of Akkad but lately has begun to feel some faint twinges of doubt.

In an intimate aside to the reader, Ms. Crepuscular writes, “I do not mean to imply that Mr. Twombley isn’t Sargon of Akkad, nor have I ever stated that he really is. I ask you, dear reader, to keep an open mind.”

Meanwhile, Lord Jeremy receives an oracle from the Wise Woman of the Gaol:

“Beware of a man with a deformed coccyx, carrying a single sandal.”

“How’s he gonna carry a sandal with his coccyx?” demands Twombley.

“When you see him,” intones the Wise Woman, “you must immediately go up to him and ask him a certain question. And when he answers, the monsters will be whisked back to where they came from.”

“And what is the question?” cries Lord Jeremy.

Looking very wise indeed, the Wise Woman lowers her voice and says, “I don’t know!”

We will have to wait for the next chapter to find out whether Willis Twombley shoots her.

[Editor’s note: We can’t find the traditional Oy, Rodney cover. For the time being, we have made do with a picture of a katydid.]

The Future of ‘Oy, Rodney’

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I don’t know about you, but I need a break from the nooze. That last post had me talking to myself. And besides, there’s another very important matter that needs seeing to.

For the past 16 years (well, it feels like 16 years, I haven’t got the energy to go back and check) I have been presenting chapters of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney. I have ignored critics who say Ms. Crepuscular should be confined at the Chateau D’If and her manuscripts burned. Besides, I’d feel kind of silly if she won the Pulitzer Prize just days after I discontinued her.

Anyhow, there’s a very sharp division of opinion and people are gearing up as Roman soldiers and fighting over it. Just like in the picture. Somebody’s gonna get hurt if this continues.

So far Ms. Crepuscular has written 399 chapters and has yet to get to the point. It seems, well, heartless to cut her off after all that. And I would not like to encounter her number one fan, Mr. Pitfall, on a dark night. Not with my knee as dodgy as it is.

One consideration here, at least to me, is to celebrate a novelist who has established herself as a master of saying nothing. I think I would like to do a crossword puzzle now.

 

Violet Crepuscular’s Pulitzer Prize

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Editor’s Note: We are unable to post our usual Oy, Rodney cover today. This vintage Masonori Murakami baseball card is the closest we can come to it.

We find Violet Crepuscular–author of the epic romance novel, Oy, Rodney–feverishly rubbing a battery-powered camping lantern.

“I would not have it said that I am in any way superstitious,” she writes, “but I found this magic lamp for sale on eBay. All you have to do is rub it feverishly while reciting the correct incantation, and a genie will come out and grant your wish. But I’m having trouble with the incantation–Ia, Cthulhu! Ugthn mgawlwha fhtagn, Cthulu fhtagn! Or something like that–one of those crazy languages they speak in foreign countries, I don’t know how they can even hope to understand each other. But now that my neighbor Mr. Pitfall has nominated me for a Pulitzer Prize, I think I’ll need a genie’s help to seal the deal. It’s just that this incantation is devilish hard to pronounce! And I had two years of Latin in high school, too!”

Meanwhile, in Chapter CCCXCVII of her epic romance novel, Oy, Rodney, Ms. Crepuscular, who seems to have entirely lost her train of thought, has introduced a new character–Johnno the Merry Minstrel’s cousin, Ronno the Not At All Merry Minstrel. Ronno has just returned from spending twelve years as morale officer at a Siberian prison.

As soon as he steps off the train, Constable Chumley arrests him.

“Why in the world did you do that?” cries Johnno. “He only just got off the train!”

“Ay, liddie, but aw’ yon frythers macks a Whithle scray,” the constable explains. Johnno has to be content with that.

“In the next chapter,” promises Ms. Crepuscular, “the reader will be treated to non-stop action and well-nigh unendurable suspense!”

We can hardly wait.

Coldsore Hall’s New Roof

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Invoking a little-known law enacted in the year 636 by the Saxon warlord Bobby the Nit, Lord Jeremy Coldsore has drafted Professor Saltinus Facehead’s Egyptian diggers to put a new roof on Coldsore Hall. So begins Chapter CCCXLVI of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney.

Constable Chumley explains the law to Prof. Facehead.

“In yon fillid wi’ King Bobby,” he says, “we fraith the bowyers aw’ mickle groith.” The professor nods sagely, although the constable’s quaint rural dialect eludes his best efforts to understand what has been said. He replies in archaic Portuguese. It is the constable’s turn to nod sagely.

Although the diggers speak no English, and their Arabic is not that hot, either, they throw themselves enthusiastically into their work and in a mere two days, Coldsore Hall has a new roof. The entire population of Scurveyshire assembles to admire it.

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“It’s a miracle!” gushes Lady Margo Cargo. “I wish they’d do my roof like that!”

But when a moderate breeze springs up, the new roof seems to take wing and fly off toward the sunset. It will take some doing to get it back.

Here Ms. Crepuscular breaks in to report on the status of her Pulitzer Prize nomination, filed by her excitable neighbor, Mr. Pitfall.

“I am afraid Mr. Pitfall made an error and submitted the nomination to something called the Patzer Prize Committee,” she writes. “This group hands out prizes for poorly-played chess games. I cannot explain why they have decided to award a special prize to my epic romance, Oy, Rodney.”

The prize awarded is a rusty wheelbarrow. “I’ll have to find space for it on my mantle, somehow,” Ms. Crepuscular says. “It’s going to change the whole look of my living room. Given Mr. Pitfall’s current state of excitement, I dare do nothing else.”

Here the chapter breaks off for want, she admits, of inspiration.

Columnist Suspended for Phony Reporting of Boston Marathon Bombing

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The Pulitzer Prize–for fiction?

In 2014 the Boston Globe won a Pulitzer Prize for its reporting of the 2013 terrorist bombing of the Boston Marathon.

Now one of that reporting team has been suspended without pay for three months… for “inconsistencies” between his reporting and the facts (http://www.breitbart.com/sports/2018/06/18/boston-globe-suspends-columnist-for-fabricating-marathon-bombing-stories/).

In other words, he made up some of it. Some of the details were invented. We aren’t told just what it was he is alleged to have invented: the investigation is ongoing. My guess is that he sort of embellished the story. Kinda, sorta, basically.

It took them four years to smell a rat.

Think they’ll have to give back the Pulitzer? Well, the New York Times still has the Pulitzer awarded to Walter Duranty for egregiously lying about Josef Stalin’s workers’ paradise in the Soviet Union of the 1930s. Stalin’s cheerleader. Some things never change. Our nooze media still loves Far Left dictators, mass graves and all.

Not that this guy at the Globe did anything on that scale: but fiction is fiction, and has no place in news reporting.

Unless it wins you a Pulitzer. Or furthers the progressive cause.