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A New Author Guy Interview

February 8th, 2009 · 3 Comments

A New Author Guy Interview

More of my self-involved crap presented
by the Arts magazine at the University of Texas as Dallas:

It’s PDF, so you can open it in your browser or download it…

My Lovely, Lovely Crap

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What if the Crusaders had Trained T-Rexes

February 4th, 2009 · 5 Comments

In which author Michael P. Spradlin and I interview each other about new novels and shed light on the Dark Ages… answering age-old questions…

Authors in the Dark

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Hey, Chicago, Minneapolis, Boston, Phoenix, Detroit, Toronto, Guess what?

January 28th, 2009 · 20 Comments

Chicken Butt!

That’s right, I’ve gotten the final confirmation on the tour, and all those cities that were on stand-by?

No! Big ginormous No to you. Turns out, that the economy is, uh, not doing that well, so my five week tour is, uh, two weeks long.

I guess the powers that be are punishing Chicago and Friends because I ate a Snickers out of the mini-bar on the last tour

and costs got out of hand.

But the good news is, you can order SIGNED first edtions from the links below. But you need to get your orders in BEFORE February 10th, so they’ll have the books on hand for me to sign when I get there.


Fool and/or Lamb (Lamb’s the leather edition, not a first edition.)


Canadians – I’m pretty sure both these stores will ship to Canada, but you’re going to have to call them.

Now, Chicago didn’t make the cut, so don’t go on about why I’m not coming to your town. Because I think we all know that Chicago can kick the ass of your wussy little town. Maybe the economy will recover by the time the paperback comes out and then I can come to everyone’s house and personally read the book to you.

Here’s the tour as it stands. We still may add Capitola and Petaluma, California, but for now (check back for corrections, too, times and whatnot, if you’re coming to an event):

Christopher Moore’s Fool Tour

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WIN COOL FOOL STUFF!

January 27th, 2009 · 6 Comments

I’m starting to feel like Billy Mays, that guy that sells Oxy Clean on TV by screaming at you. (Who, I would, by the way, like to see in a death match with Chris Matthews,  a yell-off, if you will.)

But still. Can you believe it?!!!  William Morrow is going to give away a bunch of Fool hats, signed copies of Fool, and an Iphone, to the readers who posts the funniest pictures of themselves, their kid, or the pets, or all three, and their copy of Fool on the site below.

I know, you can’t get your pictures in quite yet, but a lot of you have access to an advanced readers copy, I think that counts. I’ve been wearing my Fool hat around town for about a month, and I can tell you, it gets attention.

Details are forthcoming.

http://www.flickr.com/groups/christophermoore/

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Author Guy Fans Save the Economy, And Get Free Fun!

January 27th, 2009 · 12 Comments

Everyone is saying two things about the economy. First, it won’t get better until people start spending money, and it won’t get better until banks start lending money.

I know that you guys are going to do your part by buying Fool when it comes out, and books are expensive. You guys are going to fix the economy by making that simple purchase. And banks will be all, “Hey, they put this book on thier card. Let’s lend out some of this major bank that the congress gave us.”

So, in thanks to you, until February 10, when Fool comes out, you can read A Dirty Job, my 9th and very funny book, for free. FREE!  No, you can’t download it, or save it, but you can read it.

Here:
READ A DIRTY JOB FREE!

Have Fun!

PS: PS. Hey, I know you most of you guys are saying you’ve read this book already (bless you, my children), but what a great opportunity to turn a friend on to giant hellhounds and other Dirty Job goodness without risking losing your own precious, glow in the dark copy. Send them the link.

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Me, talkin’ like a big tard, about Fool.

January 24th, 2009 · 7 Comments

Me talking about my book, Fool.

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A Crystal Heart

January 19th, 2009 · 46 Comments

I watched the Inaugural celebration at the Lincoln Memorial. There were singers singing about freedom, and actors reading the words of great Americans from the past. And above it that great stone effigy of Lincoln scowling down like a great prophet who had delivered his message of freedom and was waiting to see how badly we’re going to fuck it up.

And I have to admit it, I got a little choked up.

And I thought,
Am I being cynical enough?

I thought,
Do I need to keep my guard up?

I thought,
Am I being suspicious enough?

I thought,
Will people think me a fool, if I’m earnest in my hope?

Then I realized, I wasn’t choked up
Because of the Rosa Parks story
Or the Lincoln quotes
Or the talk of a nation built on an idea.

I was choked up because I was tired.
Ever been that tired?
So tired you feel like you might weep?
I was tired of being lied to, and manipulated, and treated without respect,
Like I was some sort of moron.
I was tired of freedom and love of country being thrown in my face
Like ads for soap, in order to sell an unjust agenda.
I was tired of my patriotism being questioned because I had the audacity
To point out that I was being lied to.
By leaders who became avatars of cynicism, and doubt, and mistrust.
And yes, death.

I was exhausted.
And cynical.

Shouldn’t I be?

Because if I go into this new era,
With a heart clear of cynicism,
I could get hurt.
Disappointed.
I could look the fool.
I could get heartbroken.
Again.

Cynicism seems so attractive when compared to heartbreak.
You could be cool.
Heartless, but cool.

When I was talking about Death a lot.
I talked about how we may not all charge the machine gun nest
Or save the passengers from the freezing water
Or carry the child out of the burning building
But we would, we will, all face death
Maybe many times.
And how we behave at those times
Is the measure of our courage, of our character.

And so maybe now,
Like taking the chance to fall in love,
We face another one of those moments,
But instead of facing it one at a time
Small, trying moments, large in our little lives
We face this together.

We can be cynical. Hold back. Be safe.
We can be suspicious, and doubtful,
Or we can go forth openly, hopefully
Unguarded
With a heart
Clear of the cloud of cynicism.

A crystal heart.

And if I were still on speaking terms with God,
That’s what I’d pray for.
A crystal heart.
Clear in purpose,
Clear in righteousness
Clear in resolve
For us all.

And it might get broken.
And it will take courage to face that.
And it will hurt like a bitch if it does.

But then again,
Have you ever fallen in love?
Pure, sweet, illuminating, edifying love?
It makes us better than we could ever be.
Stronger, taller, kinder, more generous.
Tolerant, patient, and assured.
Better.

Should I be more cynical?

Should I be more suspicious?

Should I keep my guard up?

I think not.

To be right, to save face in retrospect, to live for the hope
Of profitable hindsight.
Is safe, and shallow and cowardly
And more likely to bring about a future darker than today.

No, I think I’ll go into this fresh American future
With a crystal heart.
Take the risk.

After all, you guys will all be there.
We’ll all be there.

Thanks for helping me think this through.

Happy Martin Luther King Day
Happy Inauguration

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Signed Books – Even in Monkey Butt!!!

January 13th, 2009 · 6 Comments

Due to the overwhelming whinage in the blog comments, we’re going to make signed copies of Fool available to you guys who are outside of the tour area. I probably won’t be able to personalize them, but they’ll be firsts and they’ll be signed by me. Mysterious Galaxy Bookstore will be handling the transactions and mailing. (I am only signing them. That’s it. Do not complain to me about shipping and whatnot. I don’t know about Canada yet. )

Here’s the link: ORDER SIGNED FOOLS

This is a brand new link. They’ll be adding specifics about it being signed and whatnot soon, but if you order, it is for the sighed book.

They have to order the books and have them in the store on the 12th of February when I get there, so don’t wait around if you want one. There won’t be a make-up test. Sorry I won’t get to hang out with you in person, but you can clasp your signed book and watch the upcoming virtual book group video and it will be just like we’re BFFs.

More bookstores may come on line for mail order. Stay tuned.

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Author Guy Tour Update -Still no Monkey Butt Event!

January 9th, 2009 · 30 Comments

You guys, here’s a few updates to the tour schedule. They’ve added another event in L.A on the 14th, as well as the Philly and D.C. dates at the end. Ann Arbor, Chicago, and perhaps other Midwest venues yet to come, and probably another Bay Area or two.

Feb.10: Books Inc, Opera Plaza, SF (Launch)
Feb. 11: Book Passage, Corte Madera
Feb. 12: Mysterious Galaxy, San Diego
Feb. 13: B & N, Santa Monica
Feb. 14: Borders, Northridge
Feb. 15: 3rd Place, Seattle
Feb. 16: University, Seattle
Feb. 17: Powell’s, Portland
Feb. 19: Tattered Cover, Denver
Feb. 20: Boulder Bookstore, Boulder
Feb. 22: Bookpeople, Austin
Feb. 23: Wordsmith, Atlanta
Feb. 25: B & N Lincoln Center, NYC
Feb. 26: Chester County Books, PA
Feb. 27: Politics & Prose, Washington DC

→ 30 CommentsTags: Events and Interviews · Tour

Fool, Chapter 1.

December 25th, 2008 · 65 Comments

Well kids, here’s my Christmas present to you. It’s not much, but it’s what I do.
The chapter will be footnoted in the book, with some of the more obscure
terms defined, but I couldnt’ figure out how to get the footnotes to hyperlink
in the blog, so they’re at the end of the chapter.

Fool Cover, full

Fool

by

Christopher Moore

WARNING

This is a bawdy tale. Herein you will find gratuitous shagging, murder, spanking, maiming, treason, and heretofore unexplored heights of vulgarity and profanity, as well as non-traditional grammar, spit infinitives, and the odd wank. If that sort of thing bothers you, then gentle reader pass by, for we only endeavor to entertain, not to offend. That said, if that’s the sort of thing you think you might enjoy, then you have happened onto the perfect story!

Chapter 1 – Always a Bloody Ghost

Tosser!” Cried the raven.

There’s always a bloody raven.

“Foolish teachin’ him to talk, if you ask me,” said the sentry.

“I’m duty-bound foolish, yeoman.” said I. I am, you know? A fool. Fool to the court of Lear of Britain. “And you are a tosser[1]” I said.

“Piss off!” said the raven.

The yeoman took a swipe at the bird with his spear and the great black bird swooped off the wall and went cawing out over the Thames. A ferryman looked up from his boat, saw us on the tower, and waved. I jumped onto the wall and bowed — at your fucking service, thank you. The yeoman grumbled and spit after the raven.

There have always been ravens at the White Tower. A thousand years ago, before George the 2nd, idiot King of Merica, destroyed the world, there were ravens here. The legend says that as long as there are ravens at the Tower, England will stand strong. Still, it may have been a mistake to teach one to talk.

“The Earl of Gloucester approaches!” Cried a sentry on the west wall. “With his son Edgar and the bastard Edmund!”

The yeoman by me grinned. “Gloucester, eh? Be sure you do that bit where you play a goat and Drool plays the Earl mistaking you for his wife.”

“That would be unkind,” said I. “the Earl is newly widowed.”

“You did it the last time he was here and she was still warm in the grave.”

“Well, yes. A service that – trying to shock the poor wretch out of his grief, wasn’t I?”

“Good show, too. The way you was bleatin’ I thought ol’ Drool was givin’ it to you right proper up the bung.”

I made a note to shove the guard off the wall when opportunity presented.

“Heard he was going to have you assassinated, but he couldn’t make a case to the King.”

“Gloucester’s a noble, he doesn’t need a case for murder, just a whim and a blade.”

“Not bloody likely,” the yeoman said, “everyone knows the King’s got a wing o’er you.”

That was true. I enjoy a certain license.

“Have you seen, Drool? With Gloucester here, there’ll be a command performance.” My apprentice, Drool – a beef-witted bloke the size of a draught horse.

“He was in the kitchen before the watch,” said the yeoman.

The kitchen buzzed – the staff preparing for a feast.

“Have you seen Drool ?” I asked Taster, who sat at the table staring sadly at a bread trencher[2] laid out with cold pork, the King’s dinner. He was a thin, sickly lad, chosen, no doubt, for his weakness of constitution, and a predisposition toward dropping dead at the slightest provocation. I liked to tell him my troubles, sure that they would not travel far.

“Does this look poisoned to you?”

“It’s pork, lad. Lovely. Eat up. Half the men in the England would give a testicle to feast thus, and it only mid-day. I’m tempted myself.” I tossed my head – gave him a grin and a bit of a jingle on the ol’ hat bells to cheer him. I pantomimed stealing a bit of his pork. “After you, of course.”

A knife thumped into the table by my hand.

“Back, Fool,” said Bubble, the head cook. “That’s the King’s lunch and I’ll have your balls before I’ll let you at it.”

“My balls are yours for the asking, milady,” said I. “Would you have them on a trencher, or shall I serve them in a bowl of cream, like peaches?”

Bubble harrumphed, yanked her knife from the table and went back to gutting a trout at the butcher block, her great bottom rolling like thunderclouds under her skirt as she moved.

“You’re a wicked little man, Pocket,” said Squeak, waves of freckles riding o’er her shy smile. She was second to the cook, a sturdy, ginger-haired girl with a high giggle and a generous spirit in the dark. Taster and I often passed pleasant afternoons at the table watching her wring the necks of chickens.

Pocket is my name, by the way. Given to me by the Abbess who found me on the nunnery doorstep when I was a tiny babe. True, I am not a large fellow. Some might even say I am diminutive, but I am quick as a cat and nature has compensated me with other gifts. But wicked?

“I think Drool was headed to the princess’s chambers,” Squeak said.

“Aye,” said Taster, glumly. “The lady sent for a cure for melancholy.”

“And the git went?” Jest on his own? The boy wasn’t ready. What if he blundered, tripped, fell on the princess like a millstone on a butterfly? “Are you sure?”

Bubble dropped a gutless trout into a bushel of slippery cofishes[3]. “Chanting, ‘off to do ma duty’, he was. We told him you’d be looking for him when we heard Princess Goneril and the Duke of Albany was coming.”

“Albany’s coming?”

“Ain’t he sworn to string your entrails from the chandelier?” Asked Taster.

“No,” corrected Squeak, “That was Duke of Cornwall. Albany was going to have his head on a pike, I believe. Pike, wasn’t it, Bubble?”

“Aye, have his head on a pike. Funny thing, thinkin’ about it, you’d look like a bigger version of your puppet-stick there.”

“Jones,” said Taster, pointing to my jester’s scepter, Jones, who is, indeed, a smaller version of my own handsome countenance, fixed atop a sturdy handle of hardened hickory. Jones speaks for me when even my tongue needs to exceed safe license with knights and nobles, his head pre-piked for wrath of the dull and humorless. My finest art is oft lost in the eye of the subject.

“Yes, that would be right hilarious, Bubble – ironic imagery – like the lovely Squeak turning you on a spit over a fire, an apple up both your ends for color — although I daresay the whole castle might conflagrate in the resulting grease fire, but until then we’d laugh and laugh.”

I dodged a well-flung trout then, and paid Bubble a grin for not throwing her knife instead. Fine woman, she, despite being large and quick to anger. “Well, I’ve a great drooling dolt to find if we are to prepare an entertainment for the evening.”

Cordelia’s chambers lay in the north tower, the quickest way there atop the outer wall. As I crossed over the great main gate house, a young spot-faced yeoman called. “Hail, Earl of Gloucester!” Below, the greybeard Gloucester and his retinue were crossing the drawbridge.

“Hail, Edmund, you bloody bastard!” I called over the wall.

The yeoman tapped me on the shoulder. “Beggin’ your pardon, sirrah,[4] but I’m told that Edmund is sensitive about his bastardy.”

“Aye, yeoman,” said I. “No need for prodding and jibe to divine that prick’s tender spot, he wears it on his sleeve.” I jumped on the wall and waved Jones at the bastard, who was trying to wrench a bow and quiver from a knight who rode beside him. “You whoreson scalawag!’ Said I. “You flesh-turd dropped stinking from the poxy arsehole of a hare-lipped harlot!”

The Earl of Gloucester glowered up at me as he passed under the portcullis.

“Shot to the heart, that one,” said the yeoman.

“Too harsh then, you reckon?”

“A bit.”

“Sorry. Excellent hat though, bastard,” I called, by way of making amends. Edgar and two knights were trying to restrain the bastard Edmund below. I jumped down from the wall. “Haven’t seen Drool, have you?”

“In the great hall this morning,” said the yeoman. “Not since.”

A call came around the top of the wall, passing from yeoman to yeoman until we heard, “The Duke of Cornwall and Princess Regan approach from the South.”

“Fuckstockings!” Cornwall: polished greed and pure born villainy; he’d dirk[5] a nun for a farthing[6], and short the coin, for the fun.

“Don’t worry, little one, the King ‘ill keep your hide whole.”

“Aye, yeoman he will, and if you call me little one in company, the King ‘ill have you walking watch on the frozen moat all winter.”

“Sorry, Sir Jester, Sir, ” said the yeoman. He slouched then as not to seem so irritatingly tall. “Heard that tasty Princess Regan’s a right bunny cunny, eh?” He leaned down to elbow me in the ribs, now that we were best mates and all.

“You’re new, aren’t you?”

“Just two months in service. “

“Advice, then, young yeoman: When referring to the King’s middle daughter, state that she is fair, speculate that she is pious, but unless you’d like to spend your watch looking for the box where your head is kept, resist the urge to wax ignorant on her naughty bits.”

“I don’t know what that means, sir.”

“Speak not of Regan’s shaggacity, son, Cornwall has taken the eyes of men who have but looked upon the princess with the spark of lust.”

“The fiend! I didn’t know, sir. I’ll say nothing.”

“And neither shall I, good yeoman. Neither shall I.”

And thus are alliances made, loyalties cemented. Pocket makes a friend.

The boy was right about Regan, of course. And why I hadn’t thought to call her bunny cunny myself, when I of all people should know – well, as an artist, I must admit , I was envious of the invention.

Cordelia’s private solar[7] lay at the top of the North Tower on the outer wall, up a narrow spiral staircase lit only with the crosses of arrow loops. I could hear giggling as I topped the stairs.

“So I am of no worth if not on the arm and in the bed of some buffoon in a cod piece?” I heard Cordelia say.

“You called,” said I, stepping into the room, codpiece in hand.

The ladies in waiting giggled, young Lady Jane, who is but thirteen, shrieked at my presence — disturbed no doubt, by my overt manliness, or perhaps by the gentle clouting on the bottom she received from Jones.

“Pocket!” Cordelia sat at the center of the circle of girls — holding court, as such — her hair down, blond curls to her waist, a simple gown of lavender linen, loosely laced . She stood and approached me. “You honor us, Fool. Did you hear rumors of small animals to hurt, or were you hoping to accidently surprise me in my bath again?”

I tipped my hat, a slight, contrite jingle there. “I was lost, milady.”

“A dozen times?”

“If you want a navigator I’ll send for him, but I’ll not lend him Jones or my coxcomb.[8] And hold me blameless should your melancholy triumph and you drown yourself in the brook, your gentle ladies weeping damply around your pale and lovely corpse. Let them say, ‘She was not lost in the map, confident as she was in her navigator, but lost in heart for want of a fool.’”

The ladies gasped as if I’d cued them. I’d have blessed them if I were still on speaking terms with God.

“Out, out, out, ladies,” Cordelia said. “Give me peace with my fool so that I might devise some punishment for him.”

The ladies scurried out of the room.

“Punishment?” I asked . “For what?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said, “but by the time I’ve thought of the punishment, I’m sure there’ll be an offense.”

“I blush at your confidence.”

“And I at your humility,” said the princess. She grinned, a crescent too devious for a maid of her tender years. Cordelia is not ten years my junior ( I’m exactly not sure of my own age), seventeen summers has she seen, and as the youngest of the king’s daughters, she’s always been treated as if fragile as spun glass. But, sweet thing, her bark could frighten a mad badger.

“Shall I disrobe for my punishment?” I offered. “Flagellation? Fellation? Whatever. I am your willing penitent, lady.

“No more of that, Pocket. I need your counsel, or at least your commiseration. My sisters are coming to the castle.”

“Unfortunately, they have arrived.”

“Oh, that’s right, Albany and Cornwall want to kill you. Bad luck, that. Anyway, they are coming to the castle, as is Gloucester and his sons. Goodness, they want to kill you as well.”

“Rough critics,” said I.

“Sorry. And a dozen other nobles as well as the Earl of Kent are here. Kent doesn’t want to kill you, does he?”

“Not that I know of. But it is only lunch time.”

“Right. And do you know why they are all coming?”

“To corner me like a rat in a barrel?”

“Barrels do not have corners, Pocket.”

“Does seem like a lot of bother for killing one small, if tremendously handsome fool.”

“It’s not about you, you dolt! It’s about me.”

“Well, even less effort to kill you. How many can it take to snap your scrawny neck? I worry that Drool will do it by accident some day. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“Father is marrying me off !”

“Nonsense. Who would have you?”

The lady darkened a bit, then, blue eyes gone cold. Badgers across Blighty[9] shuddered. “Edgar of Gloucester has always wanted me and the Prince of France and Duke of Burgundy are already here to pay me troth.”

“Troth about what?”

“Troth!”

“About what?”

“Troth, troth, you fool, not truth. The princes are here to marry me.”

“Those two? Edgar? No.” I was shaken. Cordelia? Married? Would one of them take her away? It was unjust! Unfair! Wrong! Why, she had never even seen me naked.

“Why would they want to troth you? I mean, for the night, to be sure, who wouldn’t troth you cross-eyed? But permanently, I think not.”

“I’m a bloody princess, Pocket.”

“Precisely. What good are princesses? Dragon food and ransom markers — spoiled brats to be bartered for real estate.”

“Oh no, dear fool, you forget that sometimes a princess becomes a queen.”

“Ha, princesses. What worth are you if your father has to tack a dozen counties to your bum to get those French poofters to look at you.”

“Oh, and what worth a fool? Nay, what worth a fool’s second, for you merely carry the drool cup for the Natural[10]. What’s the ransom for a jester, Pocket? A bucket of warm spittle.”

I grabbed my chest.. “Pierced to the core, I am,” I gasped. I staggered to a chair. “I bleed, I suffer, I die on the forked lance of your words.”

She came to me. “You do not.”

“No, stay back. Blood stains will never come out of linen — they are stubborned with your cruelty and guilt…”

“Pocket, stop it now.”

“You have kilt me, lady, most dead.” I gasped, I spasmed, I coughed. “Let it always be said that this humble fool brought joy to all whom he met.”

“No one will say that.”

“Shhhh, child. I grow weak. No breath.” I looked at the imaginary blood on my hands, horrified. I slid off a chair, to the floor. “But I want you to know that despite your vicious nature and your freakishly large feet, I have always–”

And then I died. Bloody fucking brilliantly, I’d say, too, hint of a shudder at the end as death’s chilly hand grabbed my knob.

“What? What? You have always what?”

I said nothing, being dead., and not a little exhausted from all the bleeding and gasping. Truth be told, under the jest I felt like I’d taken a bolt to the heart.

“You’re absolutely no help at all,” said Cordelia.

The raven landed on the wall as I made my way back to the common house in search of Drool. No little vexed was I by the news of Cordelia’s looming nuptials.

“Ghost!” said the raven.

“I didn’t teach you that.”

“Bollocks!” Replied the Raven.

“That’s the spirit!”

“Ghost!”

“Piss off, bird,” said I.

Then a cold wind bit at my bum and at the top of the stairs, in the turret ahead, I saw a shimmering in the shadows, like silk in sunlight — not quite in the shape of a woman.

And the ghost said:

“ With grave offense to daughters three,

“Alas the King a fool shall be.”

“Rhymes? You’re looming about all diaphanous in the middle of the day, puking cryptic rhymes? Low craft and tawdry art, ghosting about at noon — a parson’s fart heralds darker doom, thou babbling wisp.”

“Ghost!” Cried the raven, and with that the ghost was gone.

There’s always a bloody ghost.

———————————————————-

1 Tosser -One who tosses, a wanker

2 Trencher – a thick, wide slice of stale bread, used like a plate

3 Cofishes – other fish in a group, coworkers, cohorts etc. Shut up, it’s a word.

4 Sirrah –form of address, “dude”

5 Dirk – a knife, especially a dagger, or the act of using a dagger on someone

6 Farthing – The smallest denomination of English coinage – equal to one quarter of a penny.

7 Solar – a sitting room or parlor in the top story of a tower

8 Coxcomb – a jester’s hat

9 Blighty – Britain, Great Britain – slang
10 A Natural – the “Natural” jester was one who had some physical deformity or anomaly, a hunchback, a dwarf, a giant, Down’s syndrome etc. Naturals were thought to have been“touched” by God.

Merry Christmas, kids!

Photobucket

February 10th you can get the rest.

Let’s all resolve to buy it on the first

day or two, shall we? A perfect thing

to spend your gift certificate on.

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