It’s been 45 days of intense worry, concern and fear as I have navigated my way through this pandemic. Some days I am treading water in circles avoiding those tearful black holes of deep emotion. I need a break. I find myself zoning out. When I’m sitting idly, my eyes are drawn to the sky, the birds, the flowers, the trees. I can see the signs of burn out. Over and over again, day after day, I am deeply into meditation, deeply into writing, deeply into something. I want to dance. I want to laugh. I want to smile. I want to be lighter. I awoke this morning with a memory years ago when I was in the serious profession of court reporting. I was a computer-aided real transcriber of the spoken word in medical and legal malpractice lawsuits, depositions, drug and bomb trials. You name it, I heard it. For 25 years I held this high stress, high paced job. The National Court Reporters Association publishes a monthly journal providing first-hand accounts from other court reporters’ experiences on the job. Some spoke of their experience in the OJ trial. Others flew into unsafe areas and recorded testimony of terrorists. It was in this journal where I found the following reading. This piece is absurd and ridiculous, and yet it lightens me up, causes me to giggle and refreshes me to the core. I’ve never forgotten it, so I want to share it with you. It’s an exercise in spoonerism based on an old fairy tale.
By Colonel Stoopnagle (pseudonym of F. Chase Taylor)
Tonce upon a wime
there lived a gretty little pirl
She lived with her two sugly isters
and her micked wepstother
who made her
wean the clindows
pine the shots and shans
flub the scroors
and do all the other wirty dork.
Wasn’t that a shirty dame?
Then one day the Ping issued a kroclamation
that all geligible irls were invited to
a drancy fess ball.
Alas, poor Prinderella couldn’t go
because she didn’t have a drancy fess,
only a rirty dag that fidn’t dit.