My Canterbury Tale

I wrote the following when I was a senior in high school. Our assignment was to draw a character from a hat (I drew "Methodist minister") and add that character and his/her story to Canterbury Tales. So my classmates and I wrote introductions and then stories from our characters' perspectives.

I did have a couple semi-conscious inspirations for the story; one came from Twain and the other from Chaucer (of course). In the years since I wrote this story I've also encountered Robert Burns' "To a Louse", which may seem a likely inspiration though it wasn't. (I highly recommend reading it.)

Please forgive the spelling and grammar mistakes, the repetitive vocabulary, the stereotypes a teenager in Nebraska in 1997 had about people in Alabama in 1895, and the assertion that hard work and loving families don't promote good learning and common sense.

-- Matt Oquist, June 12, 2005 (updated October 25, 2007, and May 11, 2008)

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Original text
Methinks, my brethren, that I have a tale so spun that all the Boy Scouts in America could not unravel its plot. I shall place the populace of my anecdote in Wefarthere, Alabama, in approximately 1895.

Now in Wefarthere there lived a young lady whom was called Dottie. Dottie Smythe was one of the simple folk who inhabited the region. Among her peers were the children of blacksmiths, mill workers, and farmers alike, all working their bones raw to provide for their families. They were a rather close lot, as people of this sort tend to be. Neither hard work nor a loving family promote good learning and common sense, however, and Dottie was lacking in both.

Now Dottie was a girl at the tender age of 14. She was at that point at which a girl is transformed into a woman by the ver-present and watchful mother, who offers advice and gives counsel for whatever situation may develop.

It came to pass that, one Sunday as they sat in church, Dottie's stomach began to growl. Now Dottie, although simple minded, was not ignorant to the workings of the gastrointestinal mechanisms. She knew if a stomach goes "rrrwwwwulg," it means "I'm hungry, feed me." She knew "ppbbtp-p-p-pt" with a slight tingling at the bottom of the throat meant gas was on its way up. She also knew that a "ppbbtp-p-p-pt" with any sensation at all at the other end of the system meant gas was moving towards that end.

Now Dottie was used to her mother's watchful eye, and she knew the listening ear was present as well. She glanced at her mother. With relief, she noted that as of yet, Mrs. Smythe had not noticed the digestive disturbance. Dottie concentrated on sitting up straight, with her back to the back of the chair, leaving her midsection relaxed and in the least stressful position possible. For a time, this worked. Soon, though, the noises started up again, and this time Dottie could feel the muscles contorting and working themselves into strange positions.

She quit concentrating on her stomach altogether, and tried listening to the sermon, in hopes that the lack of attention would make her tummy settle down.

It was a right lively sermon, with the pastor jumping up and down, and running to and fro in front of the congregation, holding his arms in the air and gesticulating wildly. "hallelujas" were ringing out from all quarters of the congregation, and the preacher himself added one here and there. Presently, however, Dottie's stomach simply intensified its efforts to be heard and attended to. Dottie's mother had now noticed these gurgles, and was giving Dottie looks of reproval.

Now Dottie knew it was unladylike to let one's stomach rumble, so she tried hard to stop it, but Lord, no, it could not be quelled, try as she might. Needless to say, it was driving Dottie batty.

Now Dottie began to get more uneasy. Without a doubt, the gurgle was signaling a gaseous substance, and she had begun to sense the most queer ticklish feeling in her lower abdomen.

She was not slow to realize what the situation was. Determined that never should gas pass from her in church, she wedged her rear end into that pew, crossed her legs, and tensed her muscles, resolute in her determination.

She concentrated on the pew in front of her. It was a strong, sturdy pine, stained dark brown as all the others. The grain stood out sharply, following the contours of the pew as if the contours had been there first.

She noticed an old lady two pews up. Her white hair was curled and relatively short, as most older womens' is. A fly had nestled itself in it, and the older lady seemed not to notice.

Gurgle. There went her stomach again. She gave a quick, sideways glance toward her mother. Mrs. Smythe must have been listening for some time, judging by the look on her face. The corners of her mouth were pulled down so far she thought they would be pulled off her face, and there was fire in her eyes. Dottie's heart skipped a beat. She would have some explaining to do later, after church.

Quickly she turned her attention back to the fly. It was now buzzing around in the woman's hair, seemingly in circles. Dottie stifled a laugh, and thought "That old lady should get that fly out of her hair before the situation becomes even more embarrassing."

Suddenly, without warning, that's what the old woman did. She reached up and gave herself a tremendous "THWACK" on the back of the head.

The fly was now dazed, and it managed to find its way out of the hair maze and begin flying in confused, lopsided circles in the air.

Dottie's stomach chose that moment to let go with a tremendous groan and her mother's whispered "Dottie!" made Dottie squirm.

The fly did another circle, the preacher another "Hallelujah!", and Dottie's stomach again made a loud, offensive noise. This time her mother's "Dottie!!" was not so quiet. After a hurried glance of acknowledgment to her mother, Dottie began to panic. She could feel a lot more activity going on in her midsection now than before. What if she could contain herself no longer?

Now pressure is an interesting thing. Released a little at a time, such as when one blows through a straw, it is hardly noticeable, just a soft "Phooooooh." Released all at once, such as when a balloon pops, it can be very noisy.

Well, Dottie had been allowing pressure to build up in her digestive system for so long, that it came to the point where all her muscular control was no match for the raw power of nature. All the pent-up gas was released in a belch from the bottom so forceful that the hymnals rattled five pews over.

Before the entire congregation could even turn to locate the source of the rude noise, Dottie's mother stood up, her face bright red. Dottie recognized the signs and mentally prepared herself for a very humiliating public tongue-lashing. Her mother's nostrils were flared, and her mouth was wide open. She sucked in a huge breath with which to initiate a verbal tirade.

At that moment, the unfortunate fly happened to be flying directly under her mother's nose. It was sucked in with the large intake of air, directly through the right nostril and into her windpipe.

This was not a good thing to happen to Dottie's mother, who immediately began coughing and clawing her throat, trying to rid herself of this annoying tickling thing. Dottie's father was, of course, deeply concerned, and, with the curious congregation watching the whole spectacle, tried to ask her what was the matter. She, attempting to look proper and dignified, with her purple face, bulging eyes, and hair rapidly coming undone, couldn't tell him.

So it ended that the Smythes went to find the doctor, who was a Lutheran.

The three elderly women in the back pew immediately leaned in toward each other to discuss the situation.

"Dreadful." said the first.

"Shocking!" said the second.

"Indeed," said the third. "Mrs. Smythe should know better than to pass gas in church by now."

I'm a Metallica fan.

I considered my fanhood official when (after deliberation) I purchased a Master of Puppets t-shirt this year.

Having grown up in the wastelands of CCM, I've been playing cultural catch-up since sometime toward the end of high school (mid-nineties). I now own and listen to every Metallica studio album, as well as Garage Inc. and S&M. My experience over time has followed this pattern:

1. I hear a Metallica song I don't know, and I enjoy the sound.


2. As I listen to the song repeatedly, at some point I catch a bit of the lyric that interests me.


3. I look up the lyric and realize that James Hetfield is actually singing seriously and with depth about a weighty topic that interests me.

The first occurrence of this was when I borrowed Ride the Lightning from a friend at work in 2001. I got to the song Creeping Death and realized that it's about the 10th plague of the Exodous -- hardly the sort of thing I was expecting from one of the four defininitive 80s thrash-metal bands.

Fast forward three years, and I hear S&M being played at a friend's house. I decide I like the sound (of course - I like film scores and Michael Kamen arranged and conducted!) and purchased a copy for myself. I also purchased their self-titled 1991 album around this time. Sometime during the next year of listening, the lyrics of Through the Never sank into me and I realized how thoroughly this band was considering the same philosophical questions that preoccupy me. (I also recall contrasting that song with Joe Diffie's "Third Rock From the Sun", which I believe is inclined toward a darkly humorous escapism.)

In addition, Holier Than Thou echoes Christ's teaching in Matthew 7, and The God That Failed is about disappointment when God fails to meet our expectations. This was likely written in relation to the death of Hetfield's mother, though I believe the title phrase is a double entendre referring also to Christ's unexpected self-sacrifice.

Conversations with friends left me with low hopes for Load, but I've been very pleased over the past three months to come to appreciate "Bleeding Me", "Thorn Within", and "The Outlaw Torn". Additionally, I could listen all day to Hetfield singing

My body my temple / this temple it tilts

in The House that Jack Built. (Now I want a Load t-shirt, too.)

I'm not settled on this, but I read Bleeding Me as a reflection on the consequences of being part of fallen humanity.

The Outlaw Torn is a beautiful and plaintive prayer -- one I pray regularly, but more quietly, more privately, and with fewer guitars.

Thorn Within demonstrates that Metallica has a better understanding of sin than most culture-shunning American Evangelicals.

As so often happens when I have an idea, it turns out that somebody else has already had that idea and done something significant with it. (For example, Augustine pre-empted me on a theology of God and time.) In this case, it just now occurred to me to search for "Metallica theology" to see what other people have said, and lo and behold! Metallica and Philosophy is available for purchase.

So I decided to write this up now, before I read that book. In any case, I think there's plenty of room for a whole adult Sunday School curriculum built around serious consideration of Metallica's music...but I'm not going to search for "Metallica Sunday School" yet. I need to give my wounded sense of originality a break for now.