Sunday, March 13, 2011

You've Just Seen a Face OR: A Real Bad Napoleon Complex

You disgust me. I'll let that sink in. Skip ahead a line.


No, not this one. Skip ahead again.


Nothing to see here. Skip forward, just one more line.


Hi there! What can I help you with? No, you've got the wrong line. You need to skip forward.


Howdy, stranger! What can I do ya for? Nope, I reckon you've been misinformed. Skip ahead.


GET THE FUCK OFF OF THIS LINE! SKIP AHEAD, AND TELL NO ONE WHAT YOU SAW!


Best to just skip forward.


These aren't the words you're looking for. You can go about your business, down at the next line.


FINALLY! We've been waiting for a half-hour for you to sho--wait, my apologies. Next line.


Italics only...bitch. Next!


Hiya. Me again. I promise. This is the right line. You made it! Okay, now go to the next line.


Over the last 15 minutes of line-skippin', you've been provided with ample time for self reflection, which has undoubtedly devolved into mere panic. What on Earth could he have meant by 'You disgust me?' 'Tis only a mere fortnight since my last rag-washin'! No, your physical hygiene (finally!) isn't the source of my grand repugnance towards all that is you; rather, it is the feculent condition of your mind.


Listen, junior high was difficult. Some of you spent most of your time trying to hide erections that lasted for upwards of 17 hours; some of you spent most of your time ruining pair after pair of panties with newly-flowing chick blood and trying to convince your asshole stepdad that just because he'd murdered your mom didn't mean that he couldn't go buy you tampons, and then, when that failed, having to talk your way into a waitress job--at the age of 13--in order to pay for Maxi Pads and replacement undies; and some of you spent your time both hiding hard-ons AND cleaning endless amounts of blood from your groin (you dudes remember that time that Stinky Stevie Washington got his cock stuck in his boxers, and when he unzipped, he sliced clean through his plantain and passed out? Dude, the janitor was so pissed! EPIC!!). Whatever you were up to, one thing is clear: you weren't studying your History textbook.


Indeed, my contempt towards your general ignorance knows no bounds; alas, my pedagogical duties are equally unrestrained, leaving me with little choice but to share with you this tiddlebit of good news: I'm gettin' a history book published! The timing of this grand achievement (for me, not for you ... well, except for in as much as you are part of society at large, and will thus benefit, if somewhat vicariously, from the great leaps that society takes as it benefits from the historical insight in my new book!!) could not be more serendipitous. Remember how I called you "disgusting"? There was a reason fo--okay, really? You don't reme--that was literally, like, five minutes ago. Seriously ... just go back to the top of this entry. We'll wait for you here. No, it's cool--I'm sure we've all got time to burn. Definitely nooo chance that anyone will be resentful ... we're waiting ... finally! Jesus freaking Cripes. The kind of assholes that I deal with on a daily basis...


Anyway, I find you disgusting, remember? Alas, the universe offers you but one chance of redemption; fortunately, it can be found nestled deep in the annals (don't get too excited; you misread that last word) of time. So, without further adieu, I present to you an illustrative citation from Incredibly Loud History: Finally, A History you can Understand (Chenowith, AM. Texas Education Agency Publishing, 2011.):

CHAPTER 73: SACK UP, NAPOLEON!

Michel Ney was a creature of habit. 22 June 1812 was a day like any other, and Ney began his morning ritual in kind, desperately pumping at the bulge underneath his fine silk pajama trousers. Terrified that the semi-commotion would arouse the attention of his bunkmates (the original Marshals of France), Ney found himself racing desperately against the sun, whose ascent regularly threatened to peak before Ney's morning acclivity had been equally conquered.


Yet, the morning of 22 June began like any other. Wiping himself clean with his fine silk pajama socks, Ney rose before the rest of the Marshals. Resentful of the sun that began to filter its way through the cracks in the shoddily-assembled canvas tent under which eighteen men were supposed to sleep (without any heavy petting, according to the bogus Napoleonic Code that governed employment at that time), Ney wiped the dried-up sleep from the corners of his eyes (and groin).


The break of dawn was never cathartic for Ney; rather, it served as an ever-present reminder that reality would once again strip Ney from the nocturnal utopia where he preferred to reside. The morning of 22 June began like any other; Michel Ney wished with all of his might for the ability to return to his dreams.


And yet, sleep itself was little relief. While daylight seldom found Ney in reverie, he'd been having the same dream for years, could pinpoint its exact beginning. 19 May 1804 was a day that had begun like any other, but had ended with Ney standing in front of the entire French Army (an experience that, for Ney, was preceded with terror so great that he invented the technique of imagining an audience in their underwear in order to assuage one's fear of public speaking...thanks, Ney!) while supple, tender Napoleon Bonaparte, Emperor of France and King of Italy, conferred upon him the rank of Marshal of France.


Napoleon had concluded the coronation by dubbing Ney "Bravest of the Brave." As the French Army erupted into celebration (they had all gotten pretty boozed up beforehand), Napoleon turned to shake Ney's hand. The feeling of Nap's soft, sinewy fingers that somehow seemed to crawl beyond the knuckles and creep past the wrist before burrowing deep down into one's soul was one that Ney would never forget; the wink that Napoleon gave as he slowly released Ney's hand (and, Ney felt, heart) was etched into Ney's persona so deep as to alter it forever. That night, the dreams began.


For eight years, each night was like any other. Napoleon appeared to Ney in his dreams, majestic and proud atop a white steed (which was slightly less-endowed than your average steed, due to Napoleon's totally reasonable request to not risk his own genitalia becoming fodder for ridicule by the men who bathed both the horse and his majesty) and took Ney's hand once more. Ney's eyes would well with tears. "Nappy, it's been eight years. Why haven't you called?" he'd sniffle. "Have you waited for me?" would come the reply. "Bonnie-baby, I would wait an eternity." With this, Napoleon would lean in towards Ney, whose trembling hands crept towards Napoleon's bon--and at just this point, each morning, reality would impose itself once more, leaving Ney to "finish the dream," if you will. Was that a bit vague? I mean to say that he'd wake up and masturbate. (All ACCURATE historic recounting MUST account for the amount of masturbatin' that went on. Those ol' history guys LOVED crankin' it! Not the chicks, though. Okay, some of them.)


22 June 1812 had begun like any other day; little did Ney know that he was about to change history (see what happened there? This is a history textbook, and this story is about history, so using the word "history" kinda makes it a pun!). The Marshals of France were incensed:

"He's just too damn nice to be an effective leader!"

"Look, I love the guy, but if you start to listen to the man on the street, you'll wind up living with him."

"The purpose of government is to RULE the people for their own best interests, as decided by US! What about that concept is so hard for Napoleon to understand?" "For an emperor and king, the guy sure doesn't know much about imperialism."


Ney knew all of this to be true. Napoleon was far too eager to acquiesce to the desires of those under his rule, and while this trait made him incredibly popular to the denizens of his hegemony, it had also lead to the impasse at which the Marshals of France--and, indeed, the French Army as well--had reached upon arriving at the border of Russia. The people of France had been clear: No more war. This was a prosperous time for the contented citizens of France--hundreds if not thousands of years before or since any sort of revolution--and they wished to be left to their business of wine drinking and fried-food invention (ever heard of a li'l dish called "french fries"? Guess where them shits are from? That's why they didn't want to battle Russia; they were already kicking some ass with food creation!!).


This was a major problem. The Marshals of France knew that the march towards hegemony could not stop now; stemming the tide of imperialism would prove to have disastrous results for France, should it be allowed. However, Napoleon always bent to the will of the people. "Take Italy!!" they screamed, take Italy he did. It was a stroke of luck that Napoleon had become Emperor of France to begin with (France, at this time, was using a convoluted physical contest to determine political seniority; the contest entailed a weird combination of juggling, pull-ups, and tap-dancing, and Napoleon, drunk and high, had stumbled by just in time for his buddies to enter him into the election contest as a joke. What happens next? History, brah!). After much success, his adherence to his populace threatened to cost him his reign.

Napoleon at home, 1804

Michel Ney was not about to let this happen. 22 June 1812 was a day like any other day; Ney was determined to live an evening without precedent. Bursting forth from the cacophonous gang of Marshals and sprinting through the army's base, he arrived in short order at Napoleon's encampment, which, as always, was a small hut hastily arranged with an insufficient amount of twigs and mud. Napoleon loved makin' those damn huts.


Ney reached the hut and, gasping for air, called out to Napoleon. Even as he did so, he peered through the cracks in Napoleon's shack. His heart sank; inside, Napoleon was making out with that asshole freshman dude from that stupid fucking frat. "One second," called out Napoleon. "I've waited for EIGHT FUCKING YEARS! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?" questioned Ney. "Just calm down, and let's ta--" "No! I shall never! As a Marshal of France, it is my duty to inform you that you must invade Russia. As Marshal of your heart, it is my duty to inform you that the time is now for you to become your own man. If you are to become a great leader--and I know that you can--you must break free from the confinement of common thought, and do what you know is right. If you never learn to think for yourself, you may just develop a complex. You wouldn't want that. Russia is there for the taking, even if I no longer am. Go get 'em, cowboy."


With those words, Ney sprinted back to the Marshals' tent, where he shot himself (to death) with whatever the old-school French guns back then were like. I bet they were pretty cool.


However, things did turn out pretty well for ol' Napoleon--and indeed all of France--after this whole crazy experience. Napoleon finished copulating with the college dude (during which he coined the term "froggy style"), and decided that Ney was right. The next day--a day like none other before it--marked the beginning of the greatest march of imperialism in world history. France quickly raped and pillaged its way through Russia, taking it over, and re-branding it as the world's greatest tourist attraction for all things french-fry. Napoleon lived to be 173 years of age, and never listened to a word that any of you damn idiots had to say ever again.


Whew. That was exhausting for you, huh? Wipe the tears of confusion from your face ('cause I ain't touchin' you), and let's get to the moral of this inspiring tale.


"Social Networking." There, I said it. Your rage is palpable. "Don't do it! Sellout, sellout! What are you, 13 years old? Hey, asshole, why not be less of a dick? Social Networking is for people who have friends! Dude, don't get on Facebook! Only rapists use Twitter! What if The Beatles would have used Myspace?" ENOUGH!


Let's bring history back into the mix. Remember Napoleon? Well, the--wait, you don't remember? That's what you JUST rea--you know what? That's enough of this shit. Some people have places to be. You go back to the beginning of the chapter, and read it again. The rest of us are moving ahead. You can see me at recess. Well, if you love basketball so much, you better learn to fucking read better, 'cause "recess" may as well be a French word for as little as you'll be saying it.


The REST of us better remember my exhaustively-researched rendering of the life and times of Napoleon Bonaparte. But what greater lesson can we extrapolate from it? Seriously? Isn't it obvious?


You don't want me to spread my joy around the rest of the Internet. I get it. You're jealous. It's even a little bit cute. However, the tides of imperialism must never be stemmed by the naive vociferation of the proletariat.


I've recently come to understand something very important about myself: I have a Napoleon Complex. That's right, like in the story above. As you've learned, this means that I have a hard time asserting my dominance, and am often afraid to put my foot down when it comes to my less-astute followers. I'm simply not as manipulative and destructive as I need to be, and for this, I apologize to you all sincerely.


So, by now you've figured it out: I used the Napoleon story to illustrate how little about history you really know (So you just got history-schooled! See what just happened there? "Schooled" is slang for humiliated--which you were--but also an improper way to say "educated"--which you certainly were as well. Wait, now I just grammar-schooled you too, see?), but also to tell you to shut the FUCK up and let me go about my business. The story also serves as a warning to the rest of the Internet: Incredibly Loud Writing is coming.


And so, it is despite the great consternation of the fanboys-'n-girls here at Incredibly Loud Writing that I announce the official launch of Incredibly Loud Facebook and Incredibly Loud Twitter.


Like the French before you, you have two choices: Either fall in line, support the cause, and follow me on those sites, too, or shut the hell up, keep to yourselves, and go back to singing awesome songs about discord amongst the proletariat, thievery, revolution, and redemption (you wacky "miserables" ;-) ).


So, here's the Facebook link: http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Incredibly-Loud-Writing/205330422826959


Here's the Twitter link: http://www.twitter.com/AMChenowith


You can find both perma-linked on the side of the blog (where, in the near future, you'll be finding all sorts of wacky links and features).


Well, we've been through a lot today. You're visibly upset, and I understand why. However, I've already made it up to you. How's that, you say? Remember that new picture that you saw at the top of the page when you first surfed on in? (Thank god we left that dude that can't remember anything behind a while back, huh? Frickin' dunce.) That was me! Go ahead, look at it again. I'll gladly wait.


That's right: This Omniscient 'NetLord has a face to match the hubris. Look into those baby-blues. Smell the beard. Taste the beard. Come closer. Closer.


The time of full subjugation draws near. Stare into my photo for the next 45 minutes, and I'll meet you back here next time.


You're welcome.



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