back to the writing
Nov. 10th, 2004 07:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragonlady7since, competent or no, I can do that, and for hours on end...
(I will respond to all comments, which are much appreciated, once I've finished this very full-of-Jack Jack&coke and had some brain-space-time.)
I need a bad joke.
A kind of dirty, not-quite-one-liner kind of joke.
One of those bad stupid-ethnicity jokes.
Like the Minnesotan Olaf & Lena jokes that make fun of the old Norwegians, or one of the Canadian Newfie jokes, or an American Polack joke (Why on earth do we make fun of Polish people, anyway? I've only ever known a few of them and they seemed like quite witty people, to me, not the sort one really tells jokes about), or an English Paddy & Mick joke, or an Irish Kerryman joke. Everybody's got somebody they make fun of.
Why?
I want my Norseman to tell a Dumb Saxon joke to a Welshman. That's something they'll have in common, at least; nobody liked the Saxons.
But I'm awful with jokes.
Preferably, it should be dirty, should involve poor hygeine or social skills on the part of the protagonists, should be of the "So Paddy says to Mick" kind of genre, and should be relatively brief but quite filthy.
I cannot remember a single one except the one I heard in Cork about these two Kerrymen fishing off a bridge, and they don't have a pole so Mick's holding Paddy by the ankles and Mick says to Paddy "did ye get anything" and Paddy says "no but pull me up quick, there's a train comin'!"-- which isn't adaptible to 10th-century Britain at all.
Also, i like the idea of people leaving comments with bad jokes in them. I can never remember a joke for longer than ten minutes (except 'there's a train comin'' and the one about Little Red Riding Hood and the pistol) but I enjoy them tremendously when I hear them even if they're not worth it.
Added: Super Bonus Sneak Peek Awesome Yay!!!
OK, to stir the imagination, I here include the scene, a special bonus behind-the-scenes peek at the Novel In Composition, wherein you can get A Sneak Peek at the characters, dialogues, and situations! Are you excited? Oh c'mon, at least pretend. Yay! Yay!!!
There, was that so hard? Thanks.
(It's brief. Don't worry.)
Background: Heroine, a Welshwoman named Nyvaine, was captured by Norsemen (Vikings, pointy helmets and beards and all). In a shocking reversal, the Norsemen then were intercepted by the Welsh, she was recovered, and her captor, the hero, Njall, was then captured in his turn by the Welsh. He has, by this scene, resigned himself to his rather embarrassing fate, and is passing the time in pleasant conversation with Nyvaine, who is guiltily aware that she is rather fonder of him than she should be. (Surprise: it's a romance novel.) Cynan, another character appearing in this scene, is the Welshman, distantly related to Nyvaine by marriage, who carried out her rescue. Nyvaine's lord is trying to ally himself with the Saxons, but Cynan is not exactly 100% behind this scheme. All of this is peripheral to my point, but there it is.
Note: This scene is much sillier than the rest of the book, which is more melodramatic than this.
Note #2: Saxon and Old Norse/Danish were mutually comprehensible dialects of the same Germanic parent language. I don't know how different they were, but apparently speakers of one understood the other quite easily, even more so than modern Swedish and Norwegian. Which is really damn handy, I have to admit, in making my plot easy to write.
"Which reminds me," Nyvaine said, "and I wanted to ask you this: why do you speak Saxon?"
"I don't speak Saxon," Njall said, indignant. "I speak Norse. It's the Saxons who speak Norse, not the other way around."
"And how do you know that?" Nyvaine asked, suppressing amusement with an effort.
"They speak it wrong," Njall said. "You sound like one of us now, but when you first opened your mouth I almost laughed. Saxons sound ridiculous to me. Of course I understand what they say, but they say it so… so…" He trailed off, gesturing. "Arr," he resumed, grinding the r sound gutturally at the back of his throat. "Brring me my supperr. Arr. I am a barrbarrian. Grr. Watch me rrape horrses and eat small childrren for brreakfast."
She couldn't help but laugh out loud. He did sound like a Saxon, she had to admit, but she covered her mouth, trying to compose herself. "Saxons don't rape horses," she protested. "They are perfectly indifferent horsemen, and I've never seen them act even remotely fond of the beasts."
"Arr," Njall said, grunting like a Saxon, "but you admit they eat childrrrren?"
She giggled again at his accent. "They mustn't eat very many of them," she said, "because there are always more and more Saxons."
"Arr," Njall said again. "Babies arre good eating. When I can't get-- Welsh women!" He snatched her hand and put her wrist into his mouth, mumbling noisily as though he were trying to bite her hand off. His teeth were gentle against her skin, but she involuntarily shrieked with laughter before she snatched her hand back.
"Arr," she giggled, "at least you're not a Norseman. They are the worst barbarians in the whole world."
"But what of the Welsh?" Njall asked, aggrieved. "The Welsh are by far the most notorious barbarians to walk the earth. They never bathe, they speak most uncouthly, they fight dirty, and they have the most barbarously unpronounceable names."
"Ach," she said, "they don't fight dirty."
"Nyvaine?" It was Cynan's voice, sharp with concern; he rode up beside the cart and peered down into it. "I heard you shriek."
"I was laughing," she said guiltily. "I am sorry to have alarmed you."
"Laughing," Cynan said, raising his eyebrows.
"Yes," she said sheepishly. "He was telling me jokes about Saxons." Njall was watching them earnestly, but he still had no grasp of Welsh.
"I take it the patient is recovering well," Cynan said, eyeing Njall. Njall eyed him back suspiciously.
"Yes," Nyvaine said. "He had a bit of a fever yesterday but he slept soundly last night and in his sleep he defeated the infection. I am quite pleased."
"You seem so," Cynan said, a little dubiously. He returned Njall's suspicious look. "Will you tell me one of these Saxon jokes?" he asked.
Nyvaine turned to him, and Njall looked from one of them to the other blankly. "I am sorry," he said, "I still don't understand a word you've said."
"Oh," Nyvaine said with a nervous laugh, "Cynan thought my laughter was a scream, and he is a bit concerned over what would make me laugh like that. I told him you were telling me jokes about the Saxons and now he wants to hear one."
Njall smiled, though it was a tight smile that showed all his teeth rather than his usual bright one. "I would not wish to give offense," he said. "You are allied to the Saxons, after all."
"Not I," Cynan said darkly, in his indifferent Saxon. "I have little enough love for them, and don't they come howling through here all the time making trouble for all and sundry?"
Something gleamed in Njall's eye, and he closed his mouth. "Hrothr says to Wulf, [insert really bad dumb-[ethnicity] joke, preferably involving crudeness and adaptible to Dark Ages technology, here]."
Cynan's eyes widened and he threw his head back, roaring with laugher. "Oh," he said, "that's a good one."
See, that's not a very good ending for that scene.
(I will respond to all comments, which are much appreciated, once I've finished this very full-of-Jack Jack&coke and had some brain-space-time.)
I need a bad joke.
A kind of dirty, not-quite-one-liner kind of joke.
One of those bad stupid-ethnicity jokes.
Like the Minnesotan Olaf & Lena jokes that make fun of the old Norwegians, or one of the Canadian Newfie jokes, or an American Polack joke (Why on earth do we make fun of Polish people, anyway? I've only ever known a few of them and they seemed like quite witty people, to me, not the sort one really tells jokes about), or an English Paddy & Mick joke, or an Irish Kerryman joke. Everybody's got somebody they make fun of.
Why?
I want my Norseman to tell a Dumb Saxon joke to a Welshman. That's something they'll have in common, at least; nobody liked the Saxons.
But I'm awful with jokes.
Preferably, it should be dirty, should involve poor hygeine or social skills on the part of the protagonists, should be of the "So Paddy says to Mick" kind of genre, and should be relatively brief but quite filthy.
I cannot remember a single one except the one I heard in Cork about these two Kerrymen fishing off a bridge, and they don't have a pole so Mick's holding Paddy by the ankles and Mick says to Paddy "did ye get anything" and Paddy says "no but pull me up quick, there's a train comin'!"-- which isn't adaptible to 10th-century Britain at all.
Also, i like the idea of people leaving comments with bad jokes in them. I can never remember a joke for longer than ten minutes (except 'there's a train comin'' and the one about Little Red Riding Hood and the pistol) but I enjoy them tremendously when I hear them even if they're not worth it.
Added: Super Bonus Sneak Peek Awesome Yay!!!
OK, to stir the imagination, I here include the scene, a special bonus behind-the-scenes peek at the Novel In Composition, wherein you can get A Sneak Peek at the characters, dialogues, and situations! Are you excited? Oh c'mon, at least pretend. Yay! Yay!!!
There, was that so hard? Thanks.
(It's brief. Don't worry.)
Background: Heroine, a Welshwoman named Nyvaine, was captured by Norsemen (Vikings, pointy helmets and beards and all). In a shocking reversal, the Norsemen then were intercepted by the Welsh, she was recovered, and her captor, the hero, Njall, was then captured in his turn by the Welsh. He has, by this scene, resigned himself to his rather embarrassing fate, and is passing the time in pleasant conversation with Nyvaine, who is guiltily aware that she is rather fonder of him than she should be. (Surprise: it's a romance novel.) Cynan, another character appearing in this scene, is the Welshman, distantly related to Nyvaine by marriage, who carried out her rescue. Nyvaine's lord is trying to ally himself with the Saxons, but Cynan is not exactly 100% behind this scheme. All of this is peripheral to my point, but there it is.
Note: This scene is much sillier than the rest of the book, which is more melodramatic than this.
Note #2: Saxon and Old Norse/Danish were mutually comprehensible dialects of the same Germanic parent language. I don't know how different they were, but apparently speakers of one understood the other quite easily, even more so than modern Swedish and Norwegian. Which is really damn handy, I have to admit, in making my plot easy to write.
"Which reminds me," Nyvaine said, "and I wanted to ask you this: why do you speak Saxon?"
"I don't speak Saxon," Njall said, indignant. "I speak Norse. It's the Saxons who speak Norse, not the other way around."
"And how do you know that?" Nyvaine asked, suppressing amusement with an effort.
"They speak it wrong," Njall said. "You sound like one of us now, but when you first opened your mouth I almost laughed. Saxons sound ridiculous to me. Of course I understand what they say, but they say it so… so…" He trailed off, gesturing. "Arr," he resumed, grinding the r sound gutturally at the back of his throat. "Brring me my supperr. Arr. I am a barrbarrian. Grr. Watch me rrape horrses and eat small childrren for brreakfast."
She couldn't help but laugh out loud. He did sound like a Saxon, she had to admit, but she covered her mouth, trying to compose herself. "Saxons don't rape horses," she protested. "They are perfectly indifferent horsemen, and I've never seen them act even remotely fond of the beasts."
"Arr," Njall said, grunting like a Saxon, "but you admit they eat childrrrren?"
She giggled again at his accent. "They mustn't eat very many of them," she said, "because there are always more and more Saxons."
"Arr," Njall said again. "Babies arre good eating. When I can't get-- Welsh women!" He snatched her hand and put her wrist into his mouth, mumbling noisily as though he were trying to bite her hand off. His teeth were gentle against her skin, but she involuntarily shrieked with laughter before she snatched her hand back.
"Arr," she giggled, "at least you're not a Norseman. They are the worst barbarians in the whole world."
"But what of the Welsh?" Njall asked, aggrieved. "The Welsh are by far the most notorious barbarians to walk the earth. They never bathe, they speak most uncouthly, they fight dirty, and they have the most barbarously unpronounceable names."
"Ach," she said, "they don't fight dirty."
"Nyvaine?" It was Cynan's voice, sharp with concern; he rode up beside the cart and peered down into it. "I heard you shriek."
"I was laughing," she said guiltily. "I am sorry to have alarmed you."
"Laughing," Cynan said, raising his eyebrows.
"Yes," she said sheepishly. "He was telling me jokes about Saxons." Njall was watching them earnestly, but he still had no grasp of Welsh.
"I take it the patient is recovering well," Cynan said, eyeing Njall. Njall eyed him back suspiciously.
"Yes," Nyvaine said. "He had a bit of a fever yesterday but he slept soundly last night and in his sleep he defeated the infection. I am quite pleased."
"You seem so," Cynan said, a little dubiously. He returned Njall's suspicious look. "Will you tell me one of these Saxon jokes?" he asked.
Nyvaine turned to him, and Njall looked from one of them to the other blankly. "I am sorry," he said, "I still don't understand a word you've said."
"Oh," Nyvaine said with a nervous laugh, "Cynan thought my laughter was a scream, and he is a bit concerned over what would make me laugh like that. I told him you were telling me jokes about the Saxons and now he wants to hear one."
Njall smiled, though it was a tight smile that showed all his teeth rather than his usual bright one. "I would not wish to give offense," he said. "You are allied to the Saxons, after all."
"Not I," Cynan said darkly, in his indifferent Saxon. "I have little enough love for them, and don't they come howling through here all the time making trouble for all and sundry?"
Something gleamed in Njall's eye, and he closed his mouth. "Hrothr says to Wulf, [insert really bad dumb-[ethnicity] joke, preferably involving crudeness and adaptible to Dark Ages technology, here]."
Cynan's eyes widened and he threw his head back, roaring with laugher. "Oh," he said, "that's a good one."
See, that's not a very good ending for that scene.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2004-11-11 02:05 am (UTC)"What do you call a busload of Saxons at the bottom of the ocean?
A good start."
"What do you call 40 Saxons buried up to their necks in sand?
Not enough sand."
Mmm, the first one's not quite there yet, but the second one's at least feasible...
no subject
Date: 2004-11-11 05:34 am (UTC)The hair under her armpits is braided.
no subject
Date: 2004-11-11 05:41 am (UTC)I can't use that one, though-- Nyvaine's fiancee (plot point!) is a Saxon so she'll be the bride at a Saxon wedding (unless the forces of good prevail... hey, this is a romance novel. Nothing against Saxons really but my hero is Norse.) and so she probably won't think that's terribly funny.