Sunday, August 17, 2008

Ask a Wood: Tragedy for a New World

Dear "Sandra,"

You are very, very right to believe that your demise is imminent. I'm sure it will come as uplifting news that you need not carry the pressure of trying to find your fault (as it is apparent) or waiting listlessly for ill fortune (as it is precipitate). As anyone with half a brain knows, hubris is the most common hamartia, and you, my friend, are chin-deep in it. In words a plebe like you would understand, this means that the great gum-gobbed shoe of tragedy is already on its way down, and only a deus ex machina could stop it.

 You are blind to the truth of your doubtlessly dissipated family life (just how "little," curiously, are your boys? Is this a genetic inheritance (perhaps you yourself are a "fox" in stature alone?), or is it the result of syphilis or drug use?). You are indecently vain about your corporeal charms, and your "husband," "Ronaldo," has plainly blindsided you in all but the most obvious of arenas. He is probably having multiple affairs with men and women of all social classes; the best you can hope for is that he's not paying for it (or, more aptly, that they're not).

Allow me to help you out. As fine tragedists like Euripides, Shakespeare, and Middleton labored tirelessly (but usually unsuccessfully) to prove, a hubristic downfall is not always entirely predictable, and it is crucial that you have a gameplan. I shall now go about suggesting a number (2) of possible tragic scenerios, and you can decide which sounds like the most fun.

1. You, in your foxiness and desire for revenge on "Ronaldo," begin a torrid affair with one of his brothers, Geraldo and Craig, only to discover that they have been abusing your sons for years with the help of your avuncular priest, hence the boys' crippling syphilis; you contract the same infection from said Craig, dying dramatically in the vestibule at the very moment you hear your husband confessing to said priest that he did, once, plan a liaison with a prostitute, but, out of fear and shame, backed out and passed the reservation off to his brother, and that he has felt guilty ever since Craig fetched the Syph the very same night, and that he wishes his penance to be a life of unfettered service to his wife's whims


2. You, in your vain quest to look a bit less like a fox and more like, say, a Brazilian fox, decide to have every hair plucked from your body; the resulting pain forces you to use your societal connections to acquire an under-the-counter prescription of Oxycontin; your drug-thirsty son, finding the stash, overdoses and dies, after which your bereaved husband subtly poisons you, only to marry a young, fearlessly furred fox in less than three months, commenting all the while that he has always preferred more "natural" women.

I personally recommend Option 1. 2 just sounds heinous.

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