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Story of the day: The jester
Mar. 28th, 2020 12:50 pmTypo (or homophone or malapropism) story of the day. I genuinely saw this particular error online once, many years ago, where it entirely ruined the effect of an angst-ridden fanfic.
The chalice lay toppled on the table in a spreading puddle of red. Golden serpents twined around its stem, rubies for their eyes. They blinked and glimmered in the light of the flickering candles, almost as if alive.
Peterkin tried again. "…it's because they're serfs, sire. Serfs." His bells jingled sadly. The stick of his pig's bladder was slick in his hand. "Sire?"
Nothing. The king was barely upright in his chair, his face blank with incomprehension. There was more life in those fire-sparked rubies than in the king's living eyes.
"An English serf, an Irish serf and a Californian one?" Peterkin prompted. "It's a pun, sire. A play on words. It's about incongruity and anachronism. That's why it's funny."
Still nothing. Go on! the physician mimed at him urgently. Don't stop! The king's hand was like the carved stone claw of a grotesque, unmoving on the arm of the chair.
"So when I said…" Peterkin said. "The Californian fellow in my story, I mean. When he said, 'ah, that's my serf board, it was…"
He was almost in tears. He so desperately wanted to caper. He wanted to mutter rude comments about the barons, knowing that he was the only one in the entire realm who could get away with such things with impunity. He wanted to fall over and hit people with bladders and make rude noises until he was blue in the face. He wanted… Oh, he wanted…
"It's because they sound the same," he tried desperately. "Serf. Surf." Oh, but this was unbearable! You never had to explain a fart joke or a custard pie. He appealed to the physician, almost weeping. "Just one little caper?"
"No." The physician was stern, unyielding. "It is as I said. If he doesn't get the anecdote, he will die."
The chalice lay toppled on the table in a spreading puddle of red. Golden serpents twined around its stem, rubies for their eyes. They blinked and glimmered in the light of the flickering candles, almost as if alive.
Peterkin tried again. "…it's because they're serfs, sire. Serfs." His bells jingled sadly. The stick of his pig's bladder was slick in his hand. "Sire?"
Nothing. The king was barely upright in his chair, his face blank with incomprehension. There was more life in those fire-sparked rubies than in the king's living eyes.
"An English serf, an Irish serf and a Californian one?" Peterkin prompted. "It's a pun, sire. A play on words. It's about incongruity and anachronism. That's why it's funny."
Still nothing. Go on! the physician mimed at him urgently. Don't stop! The king's hand was like the carved stone claw of a grotesque, unmoving on the arm of the chair.
"So when I said…" Peterkin said. "The Californian fellow in my story, I mean. When he said, 'ah, that's my serf board, it was…"
He was almost in tears. He so desperately wanted to caper. He wanted to mutter rude comments about the barons, knowing that he was the only one in the entire realm who could get away with such things with impunity. He wanted to fall over and hit people with bladders and make rude noises until he was blue in the face. He wanted… Oh, he wanted…
"It's because they sound the same," he tried desperately. "Serf. Surf." Oh, but this was unbearable! You never had to explain a fart joke or a custard pie. He appealed to the physician, almost weeping. "Just one little caper?"
"No." The physician was stern, unyielding. "It is as I said. If he doesn't get the anecdote, he will die."
