remake/remodel

blog shit

Now, in fact (as the proverb says, “A dirty asshole always has a good supply of shit”), what he found was that a few doddering old idiots left over from the last century, have trusted his book and shaped their aphoristic observations and high pronouncements according to his views. They have actually harnessed their mules, dressed their pages, designed their breeches, embroidered their gloves, fringed their bed curtains, painted their banners and flags, composed their songs, and (this is the worst of it) created deception and all manner of deviltry (but secretly) among sedate and otherwise respectable married women—for who knows what evil messages can be sent by wearing the wrong colors?

And this same darkness descends on those high and mighty court followers, those courtly word weighers, who symbolize “hope” in their heraldric drawings by using a “hoop,” who depict “feathers” by “fetters,” “flowers” by “bowers,” “the man in the moon” by “the pan and the spoon,” a “broken bench” by a “token wench,” a “fool” and a “horse” by “force,” a bed with no “curtains” by an absolute “certainty”—all of which is simply inept, insipid, heavy-footed and barbarous homonymerie without the slightest sense. Such exceedingly ghastly stuff, now that this day and age we in France have finally rediscovered real literacy, ought to require anyone who even thinks about using it to have a fox tail tied to his collar and his face smeared with cow shit.

Using the same kind of reasoning (if we have to call this “reason streaming” rather than “seasonal dreaming”), I could “pamper” a “hamper,” indicating that those opposed had better “scamper”; and my “heart’s desire” could be my “fart’s hot fire”; and a “priestly judge” could be a “beastly drudge”; and the “seat of my pants” could be the “heat of my aunts”; and my “glorious codpiece” could be my “uproarious oddities”; and even “dog shit” could become “a frog’s tit,” so I’d be well provided for if I happened to fall in love with a frog.

— François Rabelais, Gargantua and Pantagruel, book one, chapter nine