ther is no coincidence heere!

"Los Angeles police detectives are investigating a report by "American Idol" judge Paula Abdul that a man threw her against a wall and left her with spinal injuries and a concussion after they argued at a private party over the weekend on a Hollywood studio lot.

Police Lt. Paul Vernon said the incident, alleged to have occurred about 1 a.m. Sunday at a private party at Sunset Boulevard and Gower Street, is being investigated as a battery case."

Straighte-uppe, nowe telle me: what hastow ayeinst Paula Abdul, o Mayster Gowere, that she scholde be so accostede on thyn strete?

20 comment "ther is no coincidence heere!"

  1. Bot for my wittes ben to smale...

    What wys man that it underfongeth,
    He schal drawe into remembrance
    The fortune of this worldes chance,
    The which no man in his persone
    Mai knowe, bot the god al one.

  2. Ys that why all the hoors are all ways about Gropecuntelane over in London?

  3. Poore Paula!
    Ich hopes thet she recovere soone froom thys peynfull ordele!

  4. Be ther werde as to the fellowes identitie? Ich thinke maye haps the musicall Prodegie, smaccinge up his byche, as it wer.

  5. Y tak gret kepe of redynge thyn blogge, and y kanst saye thou (yf y kan be so nycelych) that this ys the moost funneye of thyne entreyes yet!

  6. Mayhap there be collusion bitwene gowere and a certayne Simon de Cowelle.

  7. mayde abdul deserveth alle the contumelie and dysrespecte that kann be heapen upon her emptye and uselesse heade, yet no violaunce physicall ys propre. ye are natheless correcte to seeke ye fine hande of ye conspirator gowere in thys mattere...

  8. For-hwan cwiðð ðu swylce uncuðlice spræc, bokere?

  9. It is very sad that violence begets violence. After Chaucer's pwning of Gower, this was an inevitable consequence.

  10. Maitre Chaussier,J have with effort traduced the wordes of my maitre Villon the which J wolde fayne posten here yf that it pleseth yow but J yow warne that the poste be longe and yf yt pleseth yow not J wol axen at Maitre Goire yf that he wolde posten yt for yowre reders that can not reden the francois tongue.

  11. Ma cher Grosse Margot,

    Aye, plese do posten thyne translacioun of liveli Mayster Villones wordes vnto me. Ywis, thogh I kan reden the frensshe of paris wel enow, manye of myn rederes kan nat, and wolde thanken thee for thyne laboure.

    Le Vostre Servaunt


  12. For-hwan cwiðð ðu swylce uncuðlice spræc, bokere?

    ungelic is us?


  13. BSL, whan that I abided in the cite of angeles, ich used oft to wondren hwether the strete of Gower was ycleped aftir that same wanker who did writen the Confession Amantis, and now I knowe yt is trewe.

  14. Postez-le ou il vos plait, maitre Chaussier:

    Maitre Villon seyth that It is cume to myne attention that J owe to be sorry some words the which I sayde the whiles an even that one passyd at the taverne. (J, Margot, wisse not this signe *) It was not myne intent to maken a reference to yowre frendschipe with the daiseye-poet the while J named sume arses. (J ne wisse this signe ** neyther.) Ytt was myne intent only to mocken at the dirty Angleish biere. Margot the Great (why seyth he thys? J am Fat Margot, all the world calleth me Fat, for that J am a womman of grandeur and J am fierce of it), my soft, my lovely, my verray dear frende (maitre Villon asketh hymselfe whatte he doth withouten me and J aske myselfe why that he sayeth thes swetenesses, what taske doth he asken me and nowe this signe J wisse nat) d’ailleurs, Margot explayneth to me that yt ys not ryght to mocken the drynke of the hoste ne to showen opynioun of the dirty custumes of the Angleish who habben (she seyth, J Villon wisse nat how sche wisseth yt, ne J wille nat wissen yt) maitres en escholes who doth thynges with the scolaires, also yt ys not the faute of the litle ones who aren nourisshed in this foul aire. (J wisse thys for that J hadde a frende in Paris, a maitre at the Sorbonne who was angleishman and he tolde me of his souffrances en eschole, pauvre gosse, he pleased hym muche with my grands tetons.) Maitre Villon seith that he wished not to don yow evil, ne yow ne yowre minion poete (J leve that mignon wisheth to seyn another thyng in angleish, dyd not the bisaieul of yowre kynge haven a mignon namyd Pierre?) and J hope that the whiles again one drinketh together that yow bryng there yowre Philippa, the recognizance of which Margot wisheth much to make. (Agayne this signe, ****, but J doe not so muche wishe to seen Madame Philippa, she ys a ladye and J am nat) When to our frende Jehan Goire, he yeveth me a miroir to lernen me the custumes of good people; though that J am too much debauched for repent, it is noble in him to worry himself for my soule and J can not to hear evil agaynst him.(*****)

    *Thys ys to sayen, Margot menaces me the balls if J offer yow not my regrets. J leve that she showed to yowre stable boys the which yow angleish namen her “belle chose” (verrayment, yow namen le sadinet “pretty thyng”?). How much J love yowre usage of owre luvely tongue. Besides, it seemeth that they finden it luvely. Now J, Margot, leve J comprehende these signes *. Maitre Villon useth them for to seyen thynges he willeth not seyn apertly. Jt semeth nat polite to namen balls in a message of regret. J seye not nothing here of my sadinet and the boyes of the estable. But Maitre Villon heareth about this anon.

    **Let him feel shame who thynketh shame of it, eh?

    ***J wolde goon in pilgrimage to Nice, where J hear that there be a devil named Grimalkin or somme suche, who tempteth Saint Nicolas with his gamen of dice and of cartes and of the wheel of Fortune. And yt is not so much cold down there in winter. Oh la la. Maitre Villon, yow finde trouble suffisant in Paris, withoute that yow go to Nice, and me, Margot, doe J not maintaine yow warm in the winter?

    ****Well, it may perhaps be better to bringen her sister, she hath more in ordinary with Margot. Mais non, la dame Katherine is also a ladye, and intelligent to finden a noble man who maketh hire party of his house. Bettre a noble thanne a poet, hein, maitre Villon?

    *****At end, he findeth me plaisant and he has histories of his youth that make me curl the hair. Old saint, yonge devile. Maitre Villon is poet, he pleyeth with his words. One seyth on ordinary, Jonge seint, olde devile.

    J hope that Maitre Villon may be plesed that J traduce his wordes here. He wisseth nat that J can scriben though that he wisseth that J can speken Angleish. He wisseth only “bigot” and “broulard” and somme othere wordes that he oweth not to seyn biforen preudehommes.

  15. If I Coude, I wusshen I cun helpen her bistadde this adoe. Abdul A-cennen should be arreest[ed]. What was *his Achesoun ?

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