Savonarola, the Mad Monk who ruled Florence in the late 15th century, is one. A cove after my own flinty heart. What he didn't know about making people's lives miserable could be written on the head of a match. A match used to light a bonfire under such fripperies as fun. And pleasure.
That he himself finished up having a bonfire lit under him himself is an irony that has always escaped me.
Scrooge is my other hero. At least until C. Dickens copped out and turned him into a namby-pamby, do-good wally. Damn wimpy writers catering to their audiences!
You'll never catch this boofheaded scribe catering to anyone bar himself.
Take Christmas.
Please! Take it away!
This is what the two-legged dogs made of Christmas:
Savonarola would've had a 15th century bonfire under that little lot quicksmart.Scrooge would've been apoplectic. Until he turned into a milk-sop.
And noi? Which is to say, in inglese, us? Barbra and me? What did we find for ourselves under the tree amidst the SatNav devices, boxed-set Pirates of the Caribbean DVDs, books, et al?
Two each of the above.Not two packets. Two Schmackos. Each. Gift-wrapped.
Same as last year.
And the year before.
The same - not to put too fine a point on it - as every dang year since I joined this circus they call a family.
Now I'm a boofhead with principles. Never let it be said that I'd compromise my passionate beliefs for a mere piece of frippery.
But I'm here to tell you - I'd call Savonarola for the 15th century fruit loop that he was, and Scrooge for the shining example of the possibilities of human redemption that he was -
- for a boxed-set of Lassie DVDs!
Barbra, of course, would roll over for a second-hand VHS copy of Yentl.
