lundi, janvier 29, 2007

Whatte Schal I Be Lyke in MCD?

Benedicitee, good readeres all. I have recovered from myne indigestioun brought aboute by the cuisine of Scotte-land, and I thonke yow alle for yowre goode wishes. I am now burnynge the taperes late in New-Castle, on my retourn to Londoun.

Thys evenygne I thoughte aheed, to the futur, and whan I arrived in New-Castle I took thys quizz, the whych promises to foretell my futur, in the yeer MCD. Heer are the results:

The Knight

You scored 28% Cardinal, 30% Monk, 44% Lady, and 67% Knight!

You are the hero. Brave and bold. You are strong and utterly selfless. You are also a pawn to your superiors and will be lucky if you live very long. If you survive the Holy wars you are thrust into you will be praised for your valor and opportunities both romantic and financial will become available to you.

Though I am pleesed that I schal stille be a knyght a few yeeres hense, I am somedeel concerned that I am xliv per cent the ladie. I hadde y-heard talke of men of myne age who are single, thynne, and neete, but xliv per cent? Sheeshe.

Until nexte,

Sir John

the moost sincere form of flatterie

BSL! Ich am y-chuffed and eek astonyed to see that sum ffolke haue maad a MynSpace page for me. Ich assure yow, gentil rederes, that be nat me, thogh it doth quote from myn blog. The ffolke who haye made the page knowe much about me, saue that ich abhor beethoven, and ich wolde nevir a mynspace page y-make (lowys hath mad a bargayn with me that ich shal nevir to mynspace go, so that he and his freendes may nat feare that ich mighte 'fugazi their shenaniganz all up'). So gentil rederes, if ye haue seisin of land on mynspace, ich urge yow to befreend this othir avatar of me that is by kynde folk y-written in my honour.

vendredi, janvier 26, 2007

Sir John in Scotteland

BSL, but I have been sore ill thys nyght, and I begge yow, gentils alle, yowr pardoun yf I muste take hasty leave of thys poste for to run to the privee. Though that I have traversed the whoole erth, and though I have eten of many a straunge sustenance, fro the fisshe of the gravelly see of Asie to skewered crocodile sowthe of Ethiopie, nevere have I been so dyscombobulated in my bellye as I am now, northe of oure Englysshe border.

After I posted laste I was sent northe to Scotteland on the kinges privee busynesse. Havyng conducted thys in Edinborough I came northe alonge the see, past St Albans to Forfar, in Angus. Heere I have an oolde freende, the whych gentil I met many yeeres ago in Parys. He is of the clan yclept Guthrie, a moost noble and oold family of Scottes who longe have serven their kynge. My freende, James Guthrie, ys a smale man, greetly fond of whiskie and ale, and I had fro long tyme wanted to see hym agayn. Lyke hys fellows heere in Scotteland, he can nat do ynough for his guests, but readeres, I fain that he woulde have done not half of whatte he dyd!

Oo, freendes, he commaunded a greet feest to be prepared in mine honour, but nevere had I seen food of the lyke! Our meel was served with bread deep-fryed. I was y-given some thyng called "the haggis of honour" that semed to me to be the verray spare partis of a sheepe, but whych James swore was "spices and lovely thynges". For a sweete we hadde deep-fyed Mars bars, whych were nat red, but dyd make mine blood to y-boil within mine bellye. And wyth these accursed comestibles came endless whiskie, whych drynke is moost injurious to kynghtes and oother lyving thynges.

The Scottes be verray true and freendlie, that ys no dowte, but, for goddes dignitee, pakke yowr owne lunch. O! My belye! I must away!

I remain, queasilie yours,

Sir John Mandeville

mardi, janvier 23, 2007

Myn first quizz!

O gentil rederes, now that ich haue completid a meme, ich wolde fayne lerne much of the oothir VII liberal arts of blogging, the which aren:

the bloviatrivium
I. angrye commentes that run for pages
II. lengthie monologue advocatinge my political posicioun
III. bringing nazis yn to an argument
the procrastidrivium
IV. memes
V. quizzes and surveys
VI. makynge avatars
VII. poosting pictures

Ywis, having nowe tryed my hande at memes, ich haue to the next art of the procrastidrivium y-moved, and haue made a quiz of medieval trivia. Ich warne yow, this ys hard-core stuff, nat for the casual redere. Yt ys meant to test the depth of yower lore and knowlech:

The Gret Quizz of Medievale Trivia

Update: Thogh earlier it semed that ther was sum problem at the syte, the quiz semeth to werke nowe. Also, ich warne yow that it is full of questiones the which aren trewely obscure, so be nat discouragid. If ye haue questiones about the questiones, ye may ask heere (yet may ye plese write 'spoilerz' bifor yower comment so as nat to ruin it for oothirs).

Anothir Update: For thos consultinge the internet, Ich haue discoverid that wikipedia is soorely incorrecte concernynge oon of the answeres. Be war er ye be wo!

mardi, janvier 16, 2007

Mongrel Nacion: Regnum Anglorum, en demi-part Ynglisshe

Mesemeth that Mongrel Nation sholde be a showe of televisioun of muchel plesaunce and sentence. Yt peyneth me soore that ich haue nat yet viewed it. Yet, may the wyse and witty Therese Niels-Son Heydon be thonkid, ich (and ye) kan watch it vpon ye-tube. Certes, Eduard d'Eissard ys a man of muchel charme, and certes Guillaume de Bragge singeth trewely. nota bene: Ich am curteisly and fairly corrected by e-mayle from Patrick Niels-Son Heydon that the name ys nat in no way spellid "d'Auyden" but rathir "Heydon" lyn vnto the toun in Northefolk. How Gower of me, to add in Frensshe whersoevir ich mighte.

vendredi, janvier 12, 2007

V Thinges Meme

Ich haue now twies y-tagged ben for the ‘V thinges ye knowe nat concerning me’ meme.

A meme, gentil rederes, is a smal taask the which oon writer of blogges performeth and then passeth on to othirs for to doon hemselves. Mesemeth ther aren many memes yn the court of King Richard (at which ich and my famille did spende the holidayes), swich as “King Richard now uses a smal scrap of cloth to clene his nose, YE MUST ALSO SO DOON OR YE SHALL HAUE YOWER LANDES FORFEIT AND YOWER HANDES CUT OFF” or “King Richard now uses a smal metal rod wyth a cup on its end for to drinken of his soupe, YE MUST ALSO SO DOON OR YE SHALL HAUE YOWER LANDES FORFEIT AND YOWER HANDES CUT OFF.” By Seynt Dawkins, good King Richard ys the gretest creator of memes that ich knowe.

And yet for to speke of moralitee, a meme ys a thing that draweth attencion to the habits and natures of ffolk and tendeth toward pride and surquidrie, for the doing and making of memes prompteth ffolk to talk at gret length of their maners and opiniouns and historyes. And the word ytself containeth the treuethe of this lesson in its verye spellinge -- in the same maner as yn the langage of the romayns the word signyfiynge frendship or love, amicus cometh from the word for hook, hamus, for freendes and loveres hook yn to ech othirs soules lyk velcro. And thus considereth that the word meme ys writ 'me me', and thus a meme is a reduplicacioun of a singuler self and a gloryinge in ego. Ich wolde that sum wyse folk sholde make 'theethees', the which wolde be actes of charitee and goodnesse that yive vnto othirs. Ich haue a theethee for yow, my gentil rederes – yive a freende a copye of my poemes for the feest of Seynt Hilary.

But to retournen to my matir, ich haue ben asked to participate yn a meme, the nature of which is to telle V thinges that fewe peple knowe concerning me. And thus ich shalle, for to be gentil and curteis towardes thos othir bloggeres who haue me y-tagged. Ich shalle vse thys meme to telle sum detayles of my personal lyf and newes of my blogge, and thogh my face ys sum deel reed wyth embarassment at certayn detailes, yet ich shall share yn the maner confessionale wel suyted to blogges.


Iste thinge: Whan ich was yonge, oon yere for Christemasse my fadir announcid that he wolde buy me an englisshe longebowe for my gifte, so that ich mighte practice the art of archerie and lerne to defend the realm. Ich soore resisted, seyinge ‘Ich shal shoote oute myn eyen.’ Every daye of advent he wolde speke to me sayinge, ‘Jeffie, ye shall haue a fyne longebowe for a gift at Christemasse.’ And ich wolde saye ‘nay, fadir, ich shal shoote oute myn eyen, yive me rathir a boke of cicerones dreme of scipioun or peraventure a gothic belt.’ And whan Christemasse cam, the gifte was in sted a gift certificate for pizza, for my fadir is a good man and a mery.

IInde thinge: Ich haue a cat named Christopher who loveth marshes and swampes. Ich haue composid a poem to hym entitled Jubilate Stagno.

IIIrde thinge: Thogh thys be recent, yt hath nat been well y-publicised. After a short misundirstondinge, ich haue joyned in sworn brothirhede wyth Sir Baba de Brynkmann, a good man that maketh dope rymez of my poemes for the delit and edificacioun of studentz. Knowe all ye haterz present and future that thos who wolde mess wyth Sir Brynkmann shal also get a tun-full of Geoffrey. Ich am soore annoyed to heare that sum folke see nat the worthe of hys makinges and musique - and sum write him saying that “chaucer would have none of this rap crap.” Litel knowe thes ffolk that NWA’s “Expresse Yowerself” ys oon my favourite poemes. Noli nothis permittere te terere, Baba: Ich mynself haue receyved swich criticism. Ywis, whanne ich gan writen myn poemes yn fyve-stress ryming englisshe coupletes, oftimes ich got muchel grief from snooty nobles who seyd: ‘La poesie est proprement composee en langue normande, gros vilein avec ton petit chapeu de laine! La langue anglais est langue des pesauntez et labourerz & nest nemye belle! Par Seint Eloy, cest langue anglais est seulement pur escrivre le doggerel alliteratif, come les poemes del horrible escripteur qui sappelle Anonymous.’ O, fooles all: for Englisshe has bicom the hot newe trend and ich am on top of yt y-surfynyg, lyk to Keanu yn Poynt Break! As Dant the Italyen seyd: 'ther is oon thing worse than to have tales of yow y-told, and that is nat to have tales of yow y-told.'

IVthe thinge: My biggest compleynt: Whan wil ffolk stop saying ich nam nat real? Whan wil thei stop asking for my “real name”? What part of G-E-O-F-F-R-E-Y C-H-A-U-C-E-R do thei nat vndirstonden? An editor from WIRED magazine did contact me to aske if that fyne publicacioun mighte printe a part of my poost concerninge internette abbreviacions. Thys was gentil and did plese and honor me gretli, and ich consentid. And yet thei wantid to yive credit to “Geoffrey Chaucer (aka your real name)” and thei wanted to knowe what ich do in “in real lyf.” Whan ich toolde hem that my trewe cristen name was Geoffrey Chaucer (Galfridus in latina) and that ich am a justice of the pees in Kente and a member of parliament, thei seyd thei coud nat print it. For thei seyde thei coud nat printe writinge “without attribution to a real person.” What am ich, liver y-chopped? Reality ys harder to com by than a duchy thes dayes, mesemeth.

Vthe thinge and final: Helas, in the custom of thes memes, much of the aboue ys complayning and whining. And yet peraventure that ys in my nature. For whan ich was yong, ich was sum thing of a goth (or gothic): the which ys a depressid yong person who wisheth to be part of an ancient culture. Ich wroot lettres to my gothic frendes yn visigothic script, and studyed Jordnes boke ycleped Getica. At night, ich went to goth clubbes – constructed wyth horshoe arches withouten key-stones - at which ich was ycleped ‘Alaric’ by my freendes. Ich dressid mynself yn rough robes wyth big ornate belt buckles, and oones ich got in trouble wyth myn parisshe preest for pretendinge to be an Arian. Ther was many a feud bitwene the Visigoths who lovid the musique of soft ethereal synthesizers and the Ostrogoths who listned to the harshe musique of guitares and powernoyse. And everichon complained about the musique at the club the while smokinge clove cigarettez. Yt was pretty foolish, to think back upon it, and yet being a yonge goth was part of who ich am – it dooth myn herte boote that I have in a club freakie y-got to The Systren of Mercie. Certes, being a goth led me to lerne of Boethius, who was by the goth Theoderic murdred. So a shout-oute to all yonge goths out ther: sai atgaf ïzwis waldufni trudan ufaro waur me jah skaurpjono · jah ana al lai mahtai fijandis jah waihte ainohun ïzwis ni gaskathiith, children of the night!

vendredi, janvier 05, 2007

Margerye Kempe at the Feest of MLA

Gentil rederes, ayen ich crave yower pardoun. Of late, ich haue ben busier than Britney Spearses PR agentes. Many dayes haue passed sithen ich haue last y-blogged. But for to yiven yow sum mattir for redyng, ich haue a text of gret sentence to share, thogh nat by me ywrit. Ich haue many freendes across thys gret erthe and oftimes thei sende me their werkes and such. Oon of hem ys a ladye of much spirituale knowledge who oft writeth of her aventures. She hath sent me thys her latest tretys, the which speketh of a straunge festival ycleped MLA, be it of fayerye or of devilrye ich knowe nat. Ich nam nat no theologien, nor nam ich a mystique lyk my freend Margery. Ich shal poost her boke heere and ye maye maken yower owen interpretaciouns.

Date: 3 Janvier

(Ye maye just poost the text belowe. My loue to Lowys and Philippa and Thomas.)

Here begynnyth a schort narracioun for synful wrecches, of the gret merci that ower Lord Christ Jhesu did unto a synful caytyf at the rite of MLA amonges the paynims and the scolers of blakke magick. (Thys synful caytyf and creatur is callid Margerye Kempe and her bookes can be yfounde in many fyne scryvyneres shoppes).


In the seson of Cristemasse, thys pore creatur and caytyf did fynd herself in a straunge launde. For sche had maad passage to Ba'alt-Ymoor, the which citee she thoghte was yn the launde of the Sarazines ner the citee of Jerusalem. And she had gret compuncion and wepynge for the synfulness of her ignorance of geographie, for Ba'alt-Ymoor was in no wyse close to tho placez wher ower Lorde dyed on cross, but was in sted across a gret see and ytself was a place of passinge foulness wher ffolke did etyn only of the crabbes that walked on the floor of the bay Chesupyk and did watch the filmes of Johannes des Eaux (Pink Flamingoes did frighten her gretly). And thys creatur was sore afreyd of the synneres of that place and so sche went forth northewardes on the heighway XCV. Yet the way was long and her feet ached swich that she threw off her manohlo blahnikes and sat by the syde of the heigh way wepynge. And this was on the feest of Seynt John. As thys creatur lay in contemplacyon, sor wepynge for the peyne of her feet sche prayid to ower lorde for deliverance from this launde. And ower lorde seyde to her, “A, dowter, why wepest thou for the peyne of thy feet for thou knowst how soore my owene feet were woundid on mount calvarie? And therfor to bringe the to spiritual helth and contemplacioun I shal sende thee on a desperaat tryal and a terribil oon amonges devils and hir ministeres and necromanceres. For thou shalt fynde a tan volvo that schal be ful of clerkes and thes clerkes shall taak thee to the moost terribil place on al the erthe.” And the creatur seyde, “A, Lord, what ys this place so terribil?” And the lord seyde to her, “It is callid MLA.” And ther cam gret thundirkrakkys – thogh cleer was the daye – in the maner of a film of James Cameron.

And right so it befel in dede that a volvo did pulle up and a voys from it seyd, “You going to Philadelphia?” And thys creatur seyd, “I go to MLA,” and the voys seyde that MLA was part of Philadelphee and thus sche cam with hem. And in the volvo was a cumpany of thre yonge scolers, to wit I woman and II men. And thys creatur spak to them and seyd, “Tell me what maner ffolk ye aren.” And oon the men seyd, “My dissertation addresses the pressing question of the relation of the Owl and the Nightingale to the paradoxes of materiality and to changing ideas of spirituality at the same time that it questions what I would call outmoded models of allegoresis. Essentially, I propose that this heavily mediated text engages with debate poetry not as a generic exemplar but rather vis-a-vis an interstitial combination of truth claims and bestiary passages about cephalopods.” And thys creatur was soore confusid, and sche prayid to ower lord and wepid gret teares for the passioun of the child Jesu who had been born in a maunger to taak awey the synnes of all ffolke and also to deliver her from MLA. And alle the cumpany did wepe with her vntil the ladye who drof the van schouted at the oothirs and seyd, “Could you please be quiet? I’m trying to listen to the sparknotes for ‘Beloved.’” And thys creatur knewe litel of thes wyse clerkes wyth whom sche travilid and she askid what maner ffolk thei weren. Oon the men was named Genderstudyes and the othir man was named Medievaliste and the woman was named Americaniste-but-really-Faulknerstudyes. And thei were from Bigresearchuniversitee.


Than thys creatur and her felawshep cam to Philadelphee wher thys MLA did stonde. And Sir Genderstudyes seyd that al the cumpany scholde be herberwyd in I room togedyr and this creatur assentid for sche had but litel goold. And thei took hostelrie at a gret paleys called the Merry Ott and thys creatur seyde, “Forsooth thys name ys contrarie to the wordes of ower lorde for we oughten nat be merrye but rather we oughten be sadde for ower synnes.” And Sir Medievaliste seyde, “That’s pretty Robertsonian of you.” And thei cam to the room and sche had gret feere for her chastitee but eftsoon sche saw that the yonge clerkes cared oonlie for lamentaciouns and for gret studye of manye smal pieces of paper and the seyinge of preieres yn quiet voys and sumtyme gret wepynge.

Thys caytyf had ben in many cumpanyes and in all of hem sche had ben the moost ful of wepynge and sorwe. But amonges the thre yonge clerkes, and amonges the othir yonge scolers in the Merry Ott, sche felt lyk the oonly cristen soul whos puppy had not given up the goost the day bifor. Trewely, thes yonge folk wyth hir lamentaciouns and hir gret vigiles and fastinges did semyn to be trewely greved by the synnefulness of the world. And thys creatur tryed to cryen and wepen wyth sumwhat greter force and yet sche stil semed to be right joyeful in comparaisun to thes scolers.

And thys creatur had grete wondir at the holiness of thes yonge clerkes, for thei weren nat full of pryde and vanitee as were the friares and bishoppes yn Engelonde who lyved in ese and wyth pleasaunce. And sche wondrid that Ower Lord had in his revelacyons to her seyde that MLA was a desperaat and terribil tryal, for to her it semed the oonlie place on erthe sche felt at hoom. And sche seyde to Ower Lord, “A, Lord, wherfor sholde I feere thes folke? For thei aren lyk the harlem globetrotteres of self-mortificacioun.” And Ower Lord seyde, “A, dowter, ask thes folke to what seyntes thei prayen and thou shalt see.”

Than sche askid the clerkes to which seyntes thei prayid, and nat oon seyde a holy cristen seynt. For sum seyd thei prayid to Seynt Agamben, and sum to Seynt Schischek, sum to Seynt Foucauld and sum to Seyntes Deleuse & Wauttaure, and sum to Seyntes Jamison and Egleton and eek sum to Seynt Blume. And lo thys creatur had gret feere and terror for thes weren nat holy cristen seyntes. Hir names weren al straunge and were nat writ in ony legendes of seyntez and thus thei weren assuredly the names of devylles and feendes of helle. And thes clerkes seyd thes devils gave hem grete powers for to undirstonden textes and to gloss hem, and also gave hem poweres to deconstructen thinges and to unpacken thinges and to see the privee menynges of wordes. Than the creatur knewe that al the semynge holiness of thes yonge clerkes was but devocioun to ower goostly enemy, and hir gret piles of papir were but devylles writtes and hir gret tomes weren but grimoyrez and bokes of necromancie. She tok hede to listen to the murmuringez of the clerkes, and thei al spak of “My dissertation addresses the pressing question of...” the which ys nat a prayer but an incantacioun. And than she fled doun-stayres to get a frappucino for she was so soore adraad so sche cam to the elevatours.


And yit thys creatur got out at the wronge floore for sche had so much drede, and sche found herself in an halle of the same lengthe and breadth as the halle aboue wher the room of her cumpanye was. And ther thys creatur saw II men clad in clokes, and oon wyth a laurer wreath vpon his heed wyth a mighti grand nose. And the othir did shimmer lyk vnto the proiection of Obi-Wan Kenobi that out of RII-DII’s holographick projector y-came – for it semed hys body was goostli. And thogh thes men spak nat on Englysche, Ower Lord gave her grace to undirstodyn hem. And yet thogh sche herd hir wordes, thei made but litel sense.

(he wyth the nose and laurer wreeth spak):

O great Mantuan, you who lead me through
This hosteltry of madness, at your will,
Do tell me what transgression these souls made

To be so foully ensepulchred here
Among such reams of paper and such cries-
Do we draw near to hell’s frost-covered core?”

(he who did flicker lyk a flourescent light yn the bathroom of a nightclubbe spak):

O Tuscan, at the gates of Albuquerque,
We should have leftwards turned our path, for see:
This is not that despairing pit we seek,

Only its earthly image, where the faction
Of those with suits and snappy colon titles
Comes to seek reward at price. Let’s go

And get some water-ice before we leave,
For in the miserable place we seek
The only snack is Ruggieri’s head,

And I could use a nosh.”

And as thys creatur stood in gret mervayle at thes men sche saw nat that a door had opened behind her. And a man yn a navy blue suit cam out of the door and addressid the creatur, saying, “Are you the twelve thirty?”

And the creatur seyd to hym, “Sir, I am afreyd of the folk heere and I prey yow nat be desplesyd yf I ask yow to take me into secrecee and safetee from the many cruel folke and necromanceres who are heere.”

And he laughed, “That’s one way of putting it. Please, come in.”

Than in the room thys creatur saw the two felawes of that man, and the man bad her sit vpon a smal chayre while he and the oothirs sat vpon a bed. And sche bigan again to be soore adrad, for thei also had many paperes and portfolios and semed to be necromanceres and clerkes of derke knowlech. And it semed thei wolde interviewyn her, and sche was basicallye freakinge out and hyperventilatinge. Owr mercyful Lord, spekyng in hir mind, blamyd hir of hyr fear, seying, "Why dredist the? Why art thu so aferd? I am as myghty her at MLA as in the paleys of a Bishoppe or in the land of Judee. Why wilt thou mistrustyn me? Suffyr paciently a while and have trost in my mercy. Wavyr nowt in thy feith and answir all questions quicklye and honestli and make sure to emphasyze thy research.”

And the man in the suit put doun hys papirs and portfolios and seyd, “I’m very sorry, but we seem to have misplaced your CV. Could you please refresh us on your name?”

“I am a wrecchid synnere and a pore caytyf who seekes God. And for that sum call me a lollard and a heretik.”

“Okay Ms. Anda-Heretic. We were all very interested in your work; really, it’s very affecting. Could you tell us a little about your future plans?”

“I schal spekyn of God and chastise folk that sweryn gret oathes whersoevyr I go unto the tyme that the pope and holy chirche hath ordeynde that no man schal be so hardy to spekyn of God.”

And oon of the mannes felawes than seyd, “So you work on control of speech in religious discourse?”

“I praye that Ower Lord Jesu may grant me the grace of undirstondynge yower discourse, madam. And eek I wepe for synnes, rathir a lot of wepyng for ther are rathir a lot of synnes.”

“Okay. Well, could you describe for us your teaching style? How would you, say, teach a lesson about this religious discourse your project deals with?”

"I preche not, ser, I come in no pulpytt. I use but communicacion and good wordes, and that wil I do while I live."

“That’s great. It sounds very student-centered. Now, as you know, research is very important in this department. Do you have any plans for publication?”

“Sir, unworthy creatur thogh I am, I was oones charged that I schuld don wryten my felyngys and revelacyons, so that the goodnesse of Ower Lord might be knowyn to alle the world. And so I had it wryten doun by a man from Dewtchland and then a preest put it into Englysshe.”

“A book, really? You've got a book already?"

"Two, in feyth, sir."

"Well, that’s very impressive. Look, I know this isn’t supposed to be done, but I think I speak for all of the committee when we say that we’re very interested in your application. But we’ve had problems in the past when candidates couldn’t -- well, you know, they couldn't make their personal lives really fit with their plans. Now, you don’t have to answer this, but – what is your family situation?”

“I have a good man, a burgeys of the town of Lynne, to myn husbond.”

“Oh, overseas. That's - unfortunate. Do you think that will be a problem, you know, bringing him over?”

"I prey yow, ser, put me not among men, that I may kepyn my chastité. Myn husbond gaf me leve wyth hys owyn mowthe that I schold goon on pilgrimage and livyn out of hys presence."

“Well, Ms. Anda-Heretic...may I call you Alollard? I know this is quick, but I’d like to extend the invitation of a campus visit. You sound exactly like the kind of candidate we could do with at....”

And thus thys creatur now dwelleth at a universitee wher she giveth instruccion in the wayes of Ower Lord and sche ys called assistante professour. Her studentz drawen much edificacioun from her wepynge and her research assignmentz. And sche praiseth Ower Lord everich daie for he did deliver her from the necromanceres and the sorwe at the hostelrye of the Merry Ott and the derke rite of MLA, in the maner that he deliverid Danihel from the Liones Den and Jonah from the Whale and Sir Neville de Flynn from the Serpentes on a Shippe. And thos of the universitee scholde knowe that thys short tretys counteth as a publicacioun towardes tenure for it was blinde-peer-reviewede by II hooly eremites. Worschepyd be God. Amen.