The Regular Writing Rampage

The Absolute Truth (From a MALE, and Therefore Superior Perspective)

Why is it that everyone always automatically sides with that smart-mouthed broad Elizabeth? I was always the better sibling, not her. When we were children, I would spend my afternoons in my bedchamber, studiously drilling my world capitals and Latin verbs, and then painstakingly laying out my clothing for the next week. Meanwhile, Elizabeth would tear all over the royal courtyard on her Big Wheel, her prized G.I. Joe doll perched in the front basket, an expression of frozen terror painted indellibly on his plastic face. VrRRRrrrOOOmMMMM!!!! Meanwhile, my successes would go unnoticed, my A+ papers suffocating under the Elizabeth Museum of Parental Adoration, a veritable gallery of lopsided drawings of dragons, sea monsters, and other hideous creatures on our Frigidaire. But I kept my mouth shut, I never said a word. I was the better one. Me, Ronald, honour student. Me, Ronald, captain of the chess team AND president of the Star Wars fan club. Nobody gave a damn about me, though, it was all Elizabeth this, Elizabeth that. My hatred toward my sister stewed inside me, stoked by the cruel ember of her fencing trophies, and the praise that gushed from our parents’ mouths, and burned me like lava. "Well done, sweetie!!! MVP for the third year running!!! Now, I only hope that girl Grizelda recovers from her concussion soon."
Years later, in the dead of night, that vile hatred finally erupted, from the lungs of a fire-breathing beast, laying waste to our lovely home. Oh, no!!! All my limited edition Star Wars Action Figures, GONE!!!! Oh, and I think the family’s dead too. Damn, that’s a kick in the pants. At least I was staying over at my friend Cedric’s house that night, so I remained uninjured from the dragon’s deadly blaze. And as for my family, well, good. They DESERVED what they got. Kind of fitting that, after all these years of being made invisible by my family, THEY were the ones who disappeared in a poof of smoke. Okay, okay, maybe that sounds a little harsh…..but I was particularly angry with my parents at that point, because my father had decreed that Elizabeth and I were to be married the day after her twelfth birthday, so as to keep all the lovely royal blood in the family. And, well, what the king wants, the king gets. Nobody was as outraged about this arrangement as I was, except maybe my sister. All SHE wanted to do was fence, she said. She wasn’t READY to get married. Tempers flared, doors were slammed, and the atmosphere in our castle was like a well-camouflaged land mine. Everything was hunky-dory on the surface, but ONE false move…..KABOOM!!!! Really, that picture of Elizabeth staring at me all goo-goo eyed, that was just propaganda that the folks down in P.R. told that Robert Munsch character who came to interview us for his book, and if you really want to know, the only way they got her to put on that stupid dress was by bribing her with a trip to Dairy Queen.
Surprisingly though, there was a downside to this unexpected windfall. I barely had time to celebrate, when, suddenly, just as Cedric and I were in the middle of an argument over who was cooler, Darth Vader or Chewbacca (As IF it was any contest!!! Darth Vader can kick Chewy’s hairy butt any day!!!), the dragon swooped over Cedric’s immaculate white bungalow like a Condor jet, popped off the roof as if it was the lid of a Pringles container, and devoured Cedric in one bite. Well, he DID have it coming to him. He had more meat on his bones; that’s what you get for being the fat kid in school, it’s been statistically proven that obese individuals are 33.9% more likely to become a midnight snack for some overgrown lizard. I was only slightly luckier, though. I guess the dragon was full, or maybe he was watching the calories (After all, kids Cedric’s size ARE worth 1,000 Weight Watchers points, and bathing suit season has a tendency to sneak up on you), so he took me “to go.” Frantically, I grabbed the closest thing to a weapon that was within reach: a tennis racket. Well, it didn’t take a genius of my calibre to predict what happened next. No matter HOW many times I swung and thwacked at the dragon, he didn’t even wince. Hmm….we simply MUST get some dragon skin armour plating for our knights, it’s TOTALLY worth the price. No wonder it costs so much, though. As a rule, most dragons are, umm, less than willing to give it up.
After the initial panic of my capture, it was the usual rigamrole; you know, he said some menacing words, and locked me up in his terrifying dungeon. It was HORRIBLE!!!! The décor was SO 1983, and all that blasted dragon had was Coleco Vision. Holy eyestrain, Batman!!! For gosh sakes, if that dragon was going to hold me captive, the least he could do was provide me with video games with decent graphics. And movies? No such luck there either, all he had was Sweatin’ to the Oldies. Obviously, this dragon was going through some kind of mid-life crisis. Some take it better than others, and this one was aging about as gracefully as a pair of intoxicated Siamese twins doing gymnastics. In fact, I saw him, from the tiny window in the dungeon, showing off to some girlie dressed in an impossibly tiny sack dress covered with what looked like ashes. Please. The “broken-in” look was SO last year, and besides which, her dress looked almost like PAPER. And messy hair was one thing, but THIS chick? Most of her hair had been singed off. Anyway, the dragon just HAD to prove to her that still had it, he COULD still burn up ten forests in one breath, he COULD still fly around the world in thirty seconds flat, he was STILL handsome, still youthful. Of course, all that exertion made him fall sound asleep, destroying whatever charade he was trying to put on. Sad, really. When I get to be that age, I hope somebody puts a bullet in my head, or something.
Just as I was contemplating the woes of the aged, and praying to God, Santa Claus, and the Easter Bunny that I would never suffer such a horrible affliction, I heard a knock at my door. Rapraprap!!! Slowly, I dragged myself to my feet. Finally, I can get out of here!!! Finally, I’m going to go back to the present—wasn’t there a movie called that? Oh my God, I’m losing my memory!!!
With a superhuman effort, I swung open the heavy wooden door to admit my visitor. But any gratefulness I might have had for this moment evaporated when I looked into the face of the person standing in the doorway. It was that girl, the one-person audience of the dragon’s pathetic “youthful antics.” Really, who was SHE to come rescue ME?!?!? Everyone knows it’s the handsome prince who’s supposed to rescue the damsel in distress, not the other way around. And this damsel didn’t take nearly enough pride in her appearance. Had she no shame?
“Ronald?” Now, where did I recognize that voice?
“Who are you?”
“Ronald, you geek!!! The dragon has you in here for less than an HOUR, and you forget who your own sister is?!?!?”
Okay, THAT was the last straw for me. My own sister, who is a full two years and thirty-eight days younger than me, thought she’d come and be a hero, dressed up in nothing but an oversized lunch bag!!! She HAD to be put back in her place, before she started getting crazy ideas in her head. Fuming, I told her, on no uncertain terms, that I was the guy, I was the one that wore the pants. “What do you mean, ‘I am woman, hear me roar?!?!’ Keep it down, bitch!!! The football game’s starting!!!”
Sometimes it takes a little yelling to get these things through her thick, feminist skull. So, I spelled it out to her. Loud. And. Clear.
“Elizabeth, you are a mess. You smell like ashes, your hair is all tangled, and you are wearing a smelly old paper bag. Come back and rescue me when you are dressed like a real princess.”
Well, by then she had had it. According to HER, I was all flash, no cash. I LOOKED like a real prince, but I was a “bum.” She THOUGHT she was so great, didn’t she??!?! Didn’t she?!?!? SHE just marched in here, about to save ME from the dragon, and totally ruin my reputation in the process. Oh, and of course, she broke every law known to the Fashion Police while she was at it. So, why is SHE everyone’s favourite? Why am I the bad guy?!?!? Screw that. I don’t need any help from a chick. If I sweat to the oldies long enough, I can break down that freaking door myself.


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