Tuesday, October 5, 2004
Whenever the word “fairy tale” comes to mind, I instantly think of the heavy hitters in the fantasy arena: you’ve got your Cinderellas, your Snow Whites, your Prince Charmings, and your porcine pals who couldn’t build houses if their lives depended on it. At least in my eyes, two characters who frequently got gypped out of serious airtime were Rapunzel and Rumplestiltskin. Read their stories if you need a refresher.
You’ve certainly heard of these B-listers, as have I, and they always landed snugly into the second tier of fairy tales. Sure, you’d learn how Cinderella lived happily for all eternity and how she got married after sending her ugly stepsisters straight to hell, but what was the deal with Rapunzel? Was Rapunzel a cat? Who was Rumplestiltskin? Was Rumplestiltskin a cat? How do you even spell “Rumplestiltskin”? Who even cares?
I do. The Rapunzel and Rumplestiltskin of yore, both of whom received shoddy treatment for centuries on end, are beyond help. Their stories are spun and cannot be changed. They can be rescued, in a sense, if we change their names ever so slightly, thereby preserving some of their heritage while ushering them into modernity. As I mentioned yesterday, all it takes is a single letter to change the fates of these two luminaries. With this in mind, I present to you Rappunzel and Crumplestiltskin.
Contrary to what industry pundits predicted, Rappunzel did not live happily ever after with her Prince, who turned out to be a real deadbeat. After regaining his sight, the dumb schmuck celebrated his vision by cheating on Rapp. Not once, not twice, but a fairy tale thrice. She retaliated by gouging out his eyes again, except no tears were shed this time. She sank into a deep funk, and one day she listlessly replied to a Columbia House promotional. Rap album after rap album, all “editor’s choices,” were sent to her doorstep. She kept every one of them, eventually exchanging her fairly tale vernacular for The Speak, or what she thought was The Speak.
Crumplestiltskin refused to die. Rumors that he had torn himself in two were greatly exaggerated, no doubt the work of supermarket tabloids, and he went on to spin plows and pig manure into fine cloth. His peers called him Crumple because, although he didn’t die at the hands of the miller’s daughter, his legs were given to crumpling at the most inopportune times.
It just so happens they met at a bar yesterday evening, Crumple in his expertly tailored clubwear and Rapp in her expertly mixed Cosmopolitan. Crumple promised himself he wouldn’t go home alone. He also promised himself he would climb onto a barstool one day, but that hadn’t happened yet.
“Pardon me, milady, do you frequent this tawdry establishment on a regular basis?” began Crumple with his classic pickup line.
“Boy, don’t even try to talk to me like you got the Roly-O,” came the reply.
Crumplestiltskin’s legs gave out as he vainly grasped for the bar. Rapp reached down and plucked him off the ground.
“A thousand apologies,” said Crumple unctuously, “but I believe I lost my footing because of your sheer attractiveness. Are you perchance Rapunzel, the woman who possesses the beauteous mane?”
“That’s Rappunzel to you, little man. You’re the creep who was messing around with that girl. Jacked all her bling-bling, a real smooth playa. I know you. You’re one of those playground dealies.”
“Heavens above! Let me disabuse you–” he interrupted.
“You talk just like all of them West Sidaz,” she interrupted back.
“And a thousand apologies for that as well. My real claim to fame–“
“I remember now. You change the straw into the Benjamins,” Rapp chimed in.
Crumple, true to his name, crumpled to the ground again. He didn’t even try to grab the bar this time. Rapp waited for him to get up.
“Indeed, that was my previous calling. My new pursuit, mayhap my new passion, involves transmogrifying common farm equipment and, dare I say, pig dross into the finest outerwear,” said Crumple with a flourish.
“Straight trippin’, boo. You make clothes?” Rapp shot back.
“In a word, yes, I spin fine accouterments that would find a happy home only on a stunning specimen such as yourself. Or off, if you take my meaning,” replied Crumple with a bow, which was actually another instance of his legs giving away.
He smoothed his jacket and cleared his throat.
“So you’re still romantically involved with the Prince, I gather?” he ventured.
“Yeah, that’s what those revisionist hataz want you to think!” replied Rapp with a huff.
“Oh?” asked Crumple excitedly, sensing his chance was near.
“I ripped his goddamn eyes out! These?” she said, gesturing at Crumple’s eyeballs. “They went here. Dig?”
She made a clawing motion that ended in a squish. Crumple gulped.
“That wanksta couldn’t scrap a lick,” she finished with a sigh. “It’s a good thing I found me a NEW man.”
Crumple, who up until this point had given up, stopped scanning the room for other fairy tail. His ears perked up.
“You flatter me, my dear, you indulge me, you feed my ego as only Hansel and Gretel’s dietician could,” he loudly declared.
Rappunzel gave him a quizzical look.
“What are you talking about? My new man is P-nocchio.”
“Who? The little wooden–“
“P-noc, that’s my man. And who you callin’ little? He’s a nine…on the roll out.”
Crumple knew he had lost. He dropped the act.
“You mean, like his nose?” he asked despairingly.
“Straight up, dawg. It’s the biscuit.”
Crumplestiltskin threw his hands up and, having unbalanced himself, promptly crumpled to the ground. It took a good nine seconds for him to rise.
“Well, madam, I must attend a fashion conference,” concluded Crumple as he slipped into his old tongue. “I’m the keynote speaker, you know. Tonight’s topic is touchy, very touchy. Pixie dust: mere accessory or glorified dandruff? Farewell, milady.”
“Preach.”