Look, Point, Shoot, Shakespearean Insult: Stream of Consciousness Saturday #socs

I struggled with the prompt today because I had no clear way to start.

Today’s Stream of Consciousness Saturday from Linda G. Hill prompt is grab the closest book, close your eyes, open a random page, point to a word, and write about that word.

I was sitting in the green chair when I read the prompt yesterday.

You see my dilemma.

Find the closest book, the prompt says.

Both shelves to my left and right are equidistant. My eye first fell on my copy of Ulysses, which I’ve opened a few times to start and never have gotten past page 10.

One. Day.

Just not on the traditional day to read it, June 16, that’s my birthday.

Reminds me that I also need to read U.S. Grant’s autobiography (top shelf, left in the bookcase behind the chair), written while he was dying of throat cancer and broke so he could leave money for his wife and children. I hope to eventually pick up a copy of Grant by Cherkov/Chernov/Whatever in a bargain pile at some point.

For you non-Civil War buffs or presidential historians, the “U” stands for Ulysses.

Last thought on Grant: he wasn’t a drunk, that was vile calumny by his enemies. He also wasn’t a butcher. He was an excellent general and outmanuevered Lee a few times. And his siege and victory at Vicksburg put a giant nail in the coffin of the confederacy. Enough with the history lesson, Duhon.

I pretend that I’m going to read the Homeric Odyssey as well (that is Ulysses, right? Or is it the Roman version by Virgil? Never can remember which way round that is.). I probably never will. Now Gilgamesh, I’m going to get around to that. That book has some crazy shit in it that proves that folks had some whacked out imaginations even before cat videos.

I’m also going to read all the Icelandic Viking Sagas, some of which I read in my favorite college class of all-time. Njall’s saga is nucking futs and someone should make a movie out of it. There’s one part where Njall is trucking down a frozen river on skates (made out of deer horn) with his axe and skates by and chops a dude’s head off. In another, the wife of a Viking refused to give him hair from her head to fight off enemies who were burning down their longhouse because he had insulted her and not apologized. So they burned to death.

THAT is fucking how you hold a grudge.

Oh, yeah, back to the book conundrum. I was paralyzed by indecision until I noticed my Shakespeare Insult Generator under my notebook, which was under my left elbow.

WOOT! A closest book.

So, turning the pages at random gives me …. oh, too good, I’m using all three:

Ooooohh, meta. That’s the draft of the post behind the book. Also, I still mourn the closing of the Daedalus bookstore 3 miles down the road. Endless, ever-changing remaindered books. Ordering from the website just isn’t the same.

Wanton sheep-biting scut

Next time your whorish friend is off on one, you’re welcome. “Scut” means “erect deer tail.” No idea how that’s an insult, but sure as hell sounds good.

I literally have no ideas here, beyond my belief that deer are simply tasty hooved rats who deserve to be killed and eaten as sausage or venison medalians.

I may or may not have hit a deer on the way home from the Saturn dealership after buying my first ever brand new car (immediate 500 dollar deductable for a new hood).

I also had a deer hit me while Kirk, his girlfriend at the time, and I were driving back on I-81 after a trip to Shenandoah Caverns and Luray. We were the only 3 in the group at Shenandoah for the last tour of the day. About 10 minutes in, we talked the girl doing the tour to turn off all the lights and just lead us through with the flashlight on her helmet.

One of the coolest experiences ever.

NEVER want to be stuck underground without a light. There’s dark and then there is complete absence of light.

Anyway, let’s wrap with a few more insults:

  • Lubberly eye-offending baggage
  • Plumpy Ill-tempered malignancy
  • Gorbellied lily-livered scum
  • Greasy rug-headed fashion-monger
  • Slobbery dull-brained quatch-buttock

Heehee, that last one sounds like the quatch-buttock and his corrupt hindquarters currently polluting the Oval Office; but I digress.

No music this week, just the sound of a lawnmower, birds, and two boxers bitching because they want their tea.

Oscar, in full-on sulk.

About the Author bryantduhon

Editor. Dad. Husband. Writer. Content marketer and strategist. Serial constructive procrastinator. Pizza eater. Beer drinker. Not always in that order.

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