By CC THE TRAINED MONKEY
Have you ever looked back on some great historical event and thought, “Gee, I wish I had been there for that?” Well, a great historical event occurred just the other day, and this time I was here to witness it.
That’s right, I’m talking about February 4, 2013, the day it was officially announced that they had discovered the remains of England’s most despised King, Richard III, Dick to his friends … and his enemies too, I suppose.
Why is that a great historical event, you ask? Because, there weren’t supposed to BE any remains of King Richard III, that’s why. Let me explain.
Richard III was a member of the Plantagenet dynasty. The Plantagenets were the kings and queens of England. That is until 1485, when some guy named Henry Tudor came along and said, “Hey, Richard III, can I borrow that crown for a sec?” To which Richard replied, “Kiss my what?”
So Henry texted all his peeps, saying, “It is SO on!” And everyone gathered for a fun-filled event called the Battle of Bosworth, which ended, sadly, with the death of poor King Richard. At the news of Richard’s demise, Henry Tudor was purported to proclaim, “Ha-ha!” He then became King Henry VII and had Richard buried under the floor of some church nobody attended, because it was just too far away, and besides, Sunday was the only day they had to catch up on all the shows they’d TiVo’d.
Years later, Henry VII’s son, Henry VIII, after having chopped off the head of his second wife, decided he needed to “lighten the mood around this place.” So, he had King Richard dug up, chopped into pieces and thrown into the river Soar. Then he leveled the church and refashioned it into a modern-art sculpture entitled, “Heap of Rubble With the Fringe on Top.”
To add insult to injury, the Tudor’s, who were social media mavens, hired a team of bloggers saying, “We want you to write about King Richard III. Say anything you like, as long as it’s terrible. And while you’re at it, take that portrait of Richard over there and paint a hunchback on him, ‘cuz hunchbacks crack us up.” And thusly began the vilification of King Richard III.
In their defense, there was possibly one tiny little thing the Tudor’s had on Richard, and that was the fact that he wasn’t supposed to be king. He had two young nephews who
were in line for the crown before him. But their father died, so Richard sallied into town one day to “supervise,” until their Nanny got back from her weekend in Vegas.
To keep his young nephews entertained, Richard often played hide and seek with them in the Tower of London, and the boys were such good hiders that nobody ever found them. Ever. Like … ever.
Did he have them killed? Possibly, but who hasn’t taken out the odd relative now and again?
So, maybe that would have been reason enough to dig Richard up, cut him into pieces, and throw him into the river.
Except, that never happened.
500 and some odd years later, a group of folks, led by some gal who, like me, couldn’t wrap her head around the fact that Richard was gone for reals, started a hunt to find the missing king. Then, on February 4, various people in lab coats officially announced that King Richard III had indeed been found. And there was much rejoicing.
It is a monumental discovery, so big that normal words can’t even describe it. Only made up words, like gigantilactic and incredilificent even begin to convey the magnitude of it. So, I find it unfortunate that there are only two people I know of who understand what has occurred here. One is me. The other is my mother. And this completely baffles me.
See, before, I used to think that if everyone was approached by a genie and given three wishes, one of them would be to know if King Richard III was really a hunchback. Turns out I am the ONLY person who would use that for a wish. But the joke’s on you, because I didn’t even have to use that wish.
Richard III was NOT a hunchback, although he did have wicked scoliosis. Seriously. Wicked. So now I get another wish. Gratis. Also, I have the satisfaction of knowing that, after some of you read this, you will Google King Richard III, only if it’s to see if anything I wrote here is even remotely true.
God save the King!
Missing Missoula,
CC the Trained Monkey
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BIO: Carol Chrest is a bitter old spinster living in Los Angeles. When she’s not working ridiculous hours at her cruddy day job, she writes screenplays. She drinks.