I was the worst time traveler ever. On my very first day selling fudge at Renaissance Faire, I had been running late. The woman who ran the faire allowed me to drive on to the property so that I could quickly drop off the fudge before the grounds officially opened. I unloaded the product as quickly as possible, hopped back in the car, and snapped the key in the ignition.
"Maybe," I told the faire director when she was done screaming at me, "we could tell everyone it's an exotic dragon." She was not amused.
I correctly assumed that if I changed my costume from warrior to court jester, the director would think I was a different person. So the third day of the faire, I went to the costume shop and bought a set of blue and purple tights, a purple shirt, blue cape, and matching jester hat. I also changed my speech pattern and the way I walked. Instead of my usual tenor, I dropped into my low drunk voice. I also began to weave when I walked.
"I cry your pardon, sir." Said one of "The Sheriffs" who was hired to keep order. "I can't help but hath notice that you've partaken in a bit too much mead. Methinks you should repair to the sit-down coffee tents for a while."
I resisted the temptation to kick him in the face for speaking in Ye Old Pigeon English. "Actually," I said completely dropping out of character. "I work here, and haven't had a drop to drink all day."
"Canst thou walketh a straight line betwixt me and yonder tree." I could and I did. "I cry your pardon, my lord. Be merrily on your way."
While our interaction didn't necessarily drive me to drink, it certainly handed me the keys and pushed me in the direction of the car.
One of the worst parts of working at the faire (aside from the personal hygiene of some of my coworkers) was their inability to talk normally. After a long day of being forced to use "my lady", "my lord", "forsooth" and other words that no self-respecting person would say for less than $10 an hour, I was always eager to find a bar where I could drink myself silly and start saying more sensical phrases like "for shizzle my nizzle" and "don't get all up in my Kool-Aid if you doan know the flavor". Unfortunately, a good chunk of the scallywags and wenches I worked with were incapable of conversing in the twentieth or twenty-first century manner.
"The next person who says verily," I remarked on more than one occasion, "is going to find my booteth crammed up their cavity of Anus? Doth thou understandeth?"
original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/1997/08/28/
"Maybe," I told the faire director when she was done screaming at me, "we could tell everyone it's an exotic dragon." She was not amused.
I correctly assumed that if I changed my costume from warrior to court jester, the director would think I was a different person. So the third day of the faire, I went to the costume shop and bought a set of blue and purple tights, a purple shirt, blue cape, and matching jester hat. I also changed my speech pattern and the way I walked. Instead of my usual tenor, I dropped into my low drunk voice. I also began to weave when I walked.
"I cry your pardon, sir." Said one of "The Sheriffs" who was hired to keep order. "I can't help but hath notice that you've partaken in a bit too much mead. Methinks you should repair to the sit-down coffee tents for a while."
I resisted the temptation to kick him in the face for speaking in Ye Old Pigeon English. "Actually," I said completely dropping out of character. "I work here, and haven't had a drop to drink all day."
"Canst thou walketh a straight line betwixt me and yonder tree." I could and I did. "I cry your pardon, my lord. Be merrily on your way."
While our interaction didn't necessarily drive me to drink, it certainly handed me the keys and pushed me in the direction of the car.
One of the worst parts of working at the faire (aside from the personal hygiene of some of my coworkers) was their inability to talk normally. After a long day of being forced to use "my lady", "my lord", "forsooth" and other words that no self-respecting person would say for less than $10 an hour, I was always eager to find a bar where I could drink myself silly and start saying more sensical phrases like "for shizzle my nizzle" and "don't get all up in my Kool-Aid if you doan know the flavor". Unfortunately, a good chunk of the scallywags and wenches I worked with were incapable of conversing in the twentieth or twenty-first century manner.
"The next person who says verily," I remarked on more than one occasion, "is going to find my booteth crammed up their cavity of Anus? Doth thou understandeth?"
original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/1997/08/28/
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