7 Reasons

Tag: murderer

  • 7 Reasons That Jack And The Beanstalk Is A Bad Example For Children

    7 Reasons That Jack And The Beanstalk Is A Bad Example For Children

    As a parent, I’m conscious that I have a grave and onerous responsibility to instil an inherent sense of right and wrong in my son. To make certain that, during his formative years, he is given the equipment which will eventually enable him to become a good and productive member of society. To give him good values; tolerance, a respect for others, for law and order, for property. For that reason I won’t be reading him Jack and the Beanstalk. Here are seven reasons why.

    7 Reasons That Jack And The Beanstalk Is A Bad Example For Children

    1.  Jack Is Feckless. What’s the first thing he does? He – on behalf of his mother – takes their one marketable asset (a cow) to market, but instead of selling it – as instructed – to raise much needed capital, he takes it upon himself to strike a different bargain with a shifty stranger. He swaps the cow for some magic beans. That’s magic beans. Beans that are magic. This says that not only is disobeying your parents the right thing to do, but that if a stranger offers you something highly dubious in return for a real and tangible asset that’s a perfectly good transaction to make. Essentially this encourages both charlatanism and fecklessness. And Paul McKenna.

    2.  Jack Is A Trespasser. Later in the story, he goes through a garden and breaks into a house. And it’s not just anyone’s house. It’s the house of a poor, unfortunate sufferer of the genetic condition giantism. So not only is he trespassing, he’s committing that crime against a minority. Despite being rather high up, Jack’s the lowest sort of criminal bully.

    3.  Jack Is Unapologetic. And what is the giant’s reaction to finding that someone has broken into his home? Well, perfectly understandably, he’s not best pleased. He wants to set about Jack (and he is perfectly within his rights to defend himself and his property using reasonable force). But what does Jack do? Like the weasel he is, he slinks off, with the help of the giant’s wife, no less. Jack has set one partner against the other and has breached the sacred bonds of trust between a man and his wife, and all because he’s too cowardly to face his victim.

    4.  Jack Is A Burglar. Then on his way out, Jack steals some gold coins. So it’s not mere trespass now. It’s burglary. Should we really be encouraging our children to consider burgling the homes of minorities? Is that really a good message? Wouldn’t a better message be don’t burgle the homes of minorities? Don’t, in fact, burgle anyone?

    5.  Jack Is A Serial Offender. What does Jack do after he’s returned home? Does he, in the cold light of day, come to regret his actions? Does he show remorse? Does he head to his local police station to hand himself in or return to the giant’s house to reimburse him and offer to make amends? No. He goes back to the giant’s house and burgles it again. Twice! Jack is not only a career criminal. By picking on the poor giantism sufferer again and again, he’s persecuting a minority.

    6.  Jack Is A Murderer. What does Jack do during his final burglary? He murders the giant; a man who has already had his (sadly truncated) life blighted by an unfortunate genetic condition and who has been tyrannized by a serial burglar, is killed in cold blood by Jack in a desperate attempt to cover up his many crimes. Even Ryan Giggs hasn’t resorted to murdering people yet to cover anything up. We’d all better hope that he doesn’t read Jack and the Beanstalk. The body count could be enormous.

    7.  Jack Is A Psychopath. What manner of comeuppance does Jack receive for his numerous sordid and cruel misdeeds. Prison? Capital punishment? A community service order? A lifetime subscription to OK Magazine? No. Jack gets to marry his sweetheart – the daughter of a count* – and live happily ever after, a wealthy man. Happily! He doesn’t even suffer from the slightest bit of conscience induced existential torment. There’s no regret at all, or remorse, the lack of which is one of the most marked symptoms of psychopathy.

    Is a disobedient, feckless, trespassing, uncompassionate, home-wrecking, burgling, serial-offending, bullying, bigoted, murdering psychopath really a healthy role model for our children?** Jack even gets rewarded for his appalling behaviour. I don’t think we should be telling this story to our children at all. I think we should be reading them this one.

    *Not a typo.

    **It didn’t go well for Colonel Gadaffi’s kids.

  • 7 Reasons That You Shouldn’t Knock on the Front Door When I’m in the Bath

    7 Reasons That You Shouldn’t Knock on the Front Door When I’m in the Bath

    Yesterday, while I was bathing, someone knocked on the front door.  They shouldn’t have.  Here are seven reasons why.

    A black and white picture of a man chopping wood with an axe.  1940s

    1.  Doubt.  I’m lying in the bath.  I’m wet.  I’m not about to get up to answer the door, it’ll be bloody cold standing on the doorstep with only a towel around my waist and five chest hairs to keep me warm, so of course I’m going to lie here.  But what if it’s important?  What if there’s a gas leak and they’ve come to alert me?  What if the house next door is on fire?  What if the police have come to warn me that there’s an axe-murderer on the loose?

    2.  Foreboding.  What if it is the axe-murderer?  I’m alone in the house with my cat.  An axe-murderer wouldn’t be satisfied with hacking the cat to death, that wouldn’t even be murder.  That would be animal cruelty.  That would probably be an assault to the dignity of the axe-murderer:  It would be a demotion from axe-murderer to cruel man (with axe).  He’d be a laughing stock.  He would be shunned by the other axe-murderers.  That would never do.

    3.  Fear.  What if he’s the sort of axe-murderer who doesn’t want to chop me into a barely identifiable pulp of blood, flesh and sinew right away?  What if he’s the kind that’s on the run and wants somewhere to hide for a while; menacing my cat with his axe in the living room while I tell the police at the door that I haven’t seen anyone and that I’m alone in the house?  I don’t want one of those.  It’ll be hours before my wife comes home and I can hide behind her.  Hours.

    4.  Terror.  What if he needs to hide out for a couple of days?  What in the hell would we feed him?  We’ve had snow here for two weeks and the shops haven’t had much in; all we would have to offer him are vast quantities of limoncello and Twiglets.  And I doubt that axe-murderers even like Twiglets.  After all, I bloody love Twiglets and I’m the total opposite of an axe-murderer; I’m a no-axed-not-murderer, or as we’re more commonly known, a victim.   So, the axe-murderer will have lots to drink, but nothing to eat.  So he’ll be drunk, and he’ll be cross.  He’ll be a drunken, angry, axe-murderer which, I rather suspect, is the worst sort.

    5.  Twiglets.  What if he does like Twiglets?  Because these aren’t just any Twiglets.  Oh no.  These are the Christmas Twiglets.  The Twiglets that I’m not allowed to touch.  The Twiglets that no one is allowed to touch, or even gaze directly at for a prolonged period.  Not until Christmas Twiglet season begins at 9pm on the 24th of December.  I’ve made that mistake before and there were consequences.  And now I know better than to breach the sanctity of the Christmas Twiglets.  In fact, I seem to remember that, following the incident that has come to be known as Christmas-Twiglet-gate, my wife told me that if I ever ate the Christmas Twiglets again (outside of the clearly defined time-frame) that she would kill me.  So that’s it.  It’s Hobson’s bloody choice.  If the axe-murderer likes Twiglets I can either tell him he can’t have any and he’ll kill me with an axe, or I can let him have them and my wife will kill me without an axe (with a handbag probably, or her soup).  Basically, I’m fucked.

    6.  Reflection.  When was the last time I saw an axe-murderer?  I haven’t seen any for ages.  I don’t think I’ve seen one since The Shining.  There used to be loads of them.  Absolutely bloody loads, but their numbers seem to have declined.  They seem to have had some sort of heyday in the late 1940s when they were menacing Fred MacMurray and Ida Lupino in a remote California farmhouse most weekends, and then their numbers appear to have dwindled away to nothing.  So, in all probability, it wasn’t an axe-murderer that knocked on my door about sixty minutes ago.

    7.  Resolution.  My fingers are wrinkly, I’m cold, and my left knee has literally turned blue.  I have other things to do.  I’m supposed to be writing tomorrow’s 7 Reasons piece.  I’m not even supposed to be thinking about the Christmas Twiglets.  I’m not allowed to do that until the 22nd.  You’ve just stolen an hour of my life and caused me think dangerous thoughts and turned my knee a funny colour (somewhere between cobalt and Prussian blue).  Damn you, whoever you are/were.  Next time, I’m coming down in my towel.  To my death, probably.