Greetings, vile internet subjects! Yes, it is I,
Duke King William the Bastard of Normandy Conqueror of England.
I imagine you must be shocked to find me blogging, especially here at this obscure e-hovel of all places. No matter. Things have been said about me that cannot stand as they are.
Whilst googling my name I came across a little-known chronicle calling itself "Return of Kings." This piqued my interest of course, as I am much disturbed by recent societal developments where the people—even the meanest serfs (and women!)—get to choose who is lord of the land. Kings are not kings anymore. I cannot think of a more grievous insult to Lord God the Almighty. Even more interesting in my opinion, the bards and scribes at this meagre publication have lauded me for my wooing capability. Never one to pass up a chance to have my boots licked by groveling courtiers, I decided to give this a read.
Firstly, I must oppose that ghastly portrait of me. That is not me. I certainly have never grown long moustaches, nor have I ever adorned my chin with a forked beard like some barbarous northern heathen. I have always gone clean-shaven like a proper Norman aristocrat (see very top).
My impression of this scribe is that he is most likely some lowborn Saxon churl who only bathes twice a year, and in the local shit creek no less. I must say, I have no idea what this "shit test" he refers to is, nor do I have any memory of ever passing one. Although I am perplexed by such crass esoteric terminology, my cockles were warmed as the scribe recounted this famous story from my early days as Duke:
During his twenties, he sent a request to Matilda of Flanders for her hand in marriage. Matilda sent back a reply that she was far too high-borne to marry a bastard. When his messenger delivered news of the lady's response, William the Conqueror rode from Normandy to the neighboring Flanders on his horse, where he found Matilda. He then threw her on the ground by her long, signature braids, in full view of her servants and onlookers. Then he rode off pridefully without a word.
Ah, Matilda. How I do miss that little woman. Barely four feet tall she was, and as wild as a Welshman. I remember accosting her on her way home from church. Me and a conroi of Normandy's most gallant men-at-arms chased her through a fishing village and cornered her in an alley, whereupon she hissed at us in the incomprehensible Flemish tongue and assumed an arch-backed posture like some threatened cat. I must admit, I was very aroused seeing her in distress like that. The story happened very much like the way the scribe tells it, although he leaves out the best and manliest part where I punch her in the face. A wife needs to fear her husband and forever be his unyielding subject; the Lord God commands as much in the scriptures.
After that, Matilda refused to marry anyone but William the Conqueror. They wed, and she bore him 9 children, including two future Kings. And yes, she was kind of a babe:
Chicks dig jerks. Even hot, high-borne chicks.
I resent the fact that this scribe refers to her as a "babe," as she was nearly twenty years old at the time I abducted her. I would never lay my hands on a poor suckling babe. Furthermore, I vehemently gainsay the implication that Matilda had any choice in the matter; she most certainly did not.
By the way, if I ever meet this lackwit I'm tossing him straight into the oubliette for calling my royal person a "jerk." How dare you insult your betters, fool.
In the Anglosphere, I have noticed a rise in this type of shit test that will henceforth be known as the "Matilda of Flanders Shit Test". This shit test is actually just an unveiled insult. Girls in the Western world will freely say "You suck" or "You're a douchebag" or "Are you gay?" There is no wit. It is all push, no pull. It takes the enjoyable dance and rhythm out of a girl's resistance and makes it a battle. I consider it unartistic and grounds for hatefucking.
Baffling. Utterly baffling. I have never encountered so much vulgar slang in my entire life. What is this soft-minded buffoon going on about? How is this nonsensical jabber even about my courting ability? I feel cheated.
It will happen to you if you go out and approach, and a good Boy Scout always comes prepared. The standard game advice is to remain unaffected, agree and amplify. This is fine and works… the first time. But too much Matilda of Flanders can not be tolerated.
I agree: too much Matilda cannot be tolerated.
Listen, I had to skim the rest of this article because, unfortunately, it's not even about me really. The scribe uses me to promote his demented theories, but in sooth, I never did any of the things he mentions after he recounts my bride stealing exploits.
A real man does not obsess this much over courtship. It's silly and childish and womanly. A real man concerns himself with things like horsemanship, statecraft, and falconry. Marriages are strictly to be arranged for political alliance and monetary gain.
Everything else a man needs can be found in a whorehouse.