Lies, slander and slanderous lies!
It is I, the great Reynard! If you did not realize this, perhaps you could tear your eyes away from the recently posted pictures of naked men and spare a glance at the bylines at the top of the posts on this pathetic excuse for a blog?
I have stolen the admin password from your precious little funny man–or, I should say, I have liberated the little orphan boy that your precious little funny man keeps bound and gagged to sate his unholy lusts, and the poor, much-abused scamp gave me the password in gratitude for my noble service. No matter. I do not come here today to dwell on the disgusting extent of your blogger’s fleshly appetites, but rather to defend my good name from the libidinous, lascivious, prurient, and incontinent one. ((By the way, † I do not mean ‘incontinent’ as a synonym for the other three words, though I understand why you might think that, for but three words could hardly suffice to cover the extent of his disgusting proclivities. But no, he is also incontinent, this blogger of yours. He soils himself day and night.
† And, if you have not already concluded as much, know that I have also hacked the footnote password from your blogger, and am in control here as well, yea, even in the footnoted-footnotes. ‡
‡ So powerful is the great Reynard, he may even footnote the footnoted-footnotes! Queck before me.))
I have included this recent snapshot of me doing the Lord's work. This is how a true fox of the cloth comports himself. Forget you ever heard the blogger's lies.
Yesterday, your blogger maintained that I have a habit of carrying off fair fowl by their innocent necks, and that this habit has been documented in the margins of manuscripts over these many years. Outrage! Perjury and Forgery! I am but a true, honest, humble fox. Those pictures were taken out of context, I tell you. Why, I was merely helping my friend the rooster escape that hound, and likewise helping my true bosom companion the chicken escape the wrath of that she-witch with the distaff.
I know it is hard to believe. It seems as though I ask you to doubt the evidence of your eyes, does it not? But all the evidence you need is there in the original post. For the last image your blogger showed contains my acquittal:
The look of surprise on my face is merely due to the duck's sudden talkativeness. Usually he maintains impolite, leaden silence as I ferry his ungrateful feathered ass about.
Neither you nor the blogger with shit-stained panties ((Yes, I meant panties. I will say no more, for the truth is so embarrassing for the blogger he might never show his chancrous face here again.)) speak the language of ducks, not even the debased dialect that fouls the bills of your modern ducks with their sailor caps and multi-million dollar orange juice contracts. In true High Middle Low Duckese, ((And Old Duccitan and Old Church Duckonic, if you must know, for it is a word of ancient and august etymological significance. Though there are too many umlauts in Old Church Duckonic for me to bother with it beyond what you need to tell the damned duck whoremonger her monging is not up to your exacting standards of succulence.)) I assure you, “queck” is equivalent to your modern phrase, “I am over the moon with delight and gratitude suffuses my every pore.” ((It is a compact tongue, High Middle Low Duckese–it has to be, for ducks prattle on all day about every little thing. Their incessant noise is almost enough that you wish to crack their necks between the sixth and seventh vertebrae so that they lose the power of speech but remain alive for the trip back to your comfortable home at Maupertuis, where Hermeline will baste him and roast him alive so that the flesh remains tender and healthful. But I digress.)) It should not be confused with quëck, or “I am cheesed off and in a black humour, for this fox’s teeth do pinch me terribly”, which does sound the same to untrained ears, I will give you this, but to the true aficionado of the Anatidae language group, the difference is night and day.
In the end, you must merely ask yourself, whom do you believe? The noble, witty, humble, athletic fox who is, though it embarasses me to say, a sexual dynamo surpassing even the black private dick that’s a sex machine to all the chicks, ((I’m talkin’ about Shaft.†† You’re damn right.
†† Though many people do not know that “Shaft” is an ironic nickname, for though he is a bad mother–shut your mouth–the shaft of Shaft is to that of the great Reynard as a shrub is to a mighty Sequoia. I assure you, the fair lady Hersent can dig it–even though she cannot take its girth fully without pain.)) or the false, betraying, pig-sodomizing ((Too terrible a story to tell, but know I can never eat bacon without shedding a tear for so many young piglets abused so by your precious funny man. The horrors my eyes have seen. He could at least have the dignity to use one of their naturally occurring orifices to–no, I have said too much already.)) blogger who has the audacity to try to charge his readers thirty dollars to read the pedestrian, meandering, self-congratulatory masturbatory exercise the fools at postmedieval saw fit to print? Yes, he says he has no control over the price, and begs your forgiveness by noting that the journal ((As if postmedieval were a proper journal to begin. Conspicuous lack of capitalization meant to signal a divergence from the scholarly norm? Really? Did my watch speed ahead by 28 years when I was not looking? Could it be that I am wrong, and it is still 1983? ††† Next you’ll expect me to believe that the issue in which this blogger’s crapulent fodder appears is devoted to “new critical modes” of engagement between scholars and their wider audience beyond academia. For if that were the case, why would they bury the blogger’s fetid pile of inanities heaped upon critical gibberish behind a paywall?
††† If, against all reason, it is somehow still 1983, then I congratulate the journal’s editors and wish them well as I depart, for I am not yet late for my scheduled tryst with Madonna–who, if you will recall, is quite attractive in this era.)) article is free for the entire month of January, but have you not noticed that January is almost at an end? Come tomorrow, it will once more be thirty dollars for one scholarly article! Who does he think he is, William Fucking Shakespeare? Or perhaps I should say instead, “Who does he think he is fucking? William Shakespeare?” ((Just a figure of speech. Sexing up old Willy won’t get you much more than a bag of cold peanuts and tickets to stand with the groundlings. I can tell you this from experience. If you wish to fornicate your way to a thirty dollar price point, might I suggest you favor Edward de Vere, the Earl of Oxford, with a reacharound. It worked for Willy.)) Reynard will not be parted from his money so easily, that much is certain.
And do not get me started on the False Chaucer with whom he collaborated. I will say only that the real Chaucer, who I had the great privilege of knowing ((And whose wife I had the greater privilege of knowing, †††† if you catch my drift.
†††† In a Biblical sense. This is a clear euphemism to you, yes, or must I spell it out? ‡‡ Even modern heathens who have forsaken the true church know of the Bible, yes? The pretty leather bound book your grandmother kept on her nightstand? The one with all the pornographic stories in it about patriarchs whoring out their daughters?
‡‡ Fine. The Bible is my penis. Unlettered cretinous fools. Understand now? I raped his wife. And yours,♣ too. When? Why, what do you think she is doing while you read these nestled footnotes, hmmmmm? Exactly! Reynard strikes again!
♣ And if you protest and say that you have no wife, for you are a pretty young lady thing and do not live in a godless state where such things are allowed, then I say to you, “Sweetheart, put the computer down and come back to bed so we can go again. Do not be surprised at my stamina. Does the Bible not have two testaments? And you are truly blessed tonight, for mine has the Apocrypha, too–and a full concordance.”)) never fashioned a cushion for his swollen, pock-marked ass with hundred pound notes that he acquired by selling tender young orphans fitted with gags and bindings to the author of another popular medieval blog that will remain nameless.