Read Politically Correct Bedtime Stories Online
Authors: James Finn Garner
Politically Correct Bedtime Stories
To the Theater of the Bizarre, including Pepe, Armando, Egon, Ted, Matteo, Nick, and Julietta; James Ghelkins, Jr., and Willie, Smitty, and Jocko of the Teamsters Children’s Puppet Theater; and Others too numerous to mention. To Carol, for help and encouragement, and to Lies, for everything.
THE THREE CODEPENDENT GOATS GRUFF
W
hen they were first written, the stories on which the following tales are based certainly served their purpose—to entrench the patriarchy, to estrange people from their own natural impulses, to demonize ‘evil’ and to ‘reward’ an ‘objective’ ‘good’. However much we might like to, we cannot blame the Brothers Grimm for their insensitivity to womyn’s issues, minority cultures, and the environment. Likewise, in the self-righteous Copenhagen of Hans Christian Andersen, the inalienable rights of mermaids were hardly given a second thought.
Today, we have the opportunity—and the obligation—to rethink these ‘classic’ stories so they reflect more enlightened times. To that effort I submit this humble book. While its original title,
Fairy Stories for a Modern World,
was abandoned for obvious reasons (kudos to my editor for pointing out my heterosexualist bias), I think the collection stands on its own. This, however, is just a start. Certain stories, such as ‘The Duckling That Was Judged on Its Personal Merits and Not on Its Physical Appearance’, were deleted for space reasons. I expect I have volumes left in me, and I hope this book sparks the righteous imaginations of other writers and, of course, leaves an indelible mark on our children.
If, through omission or commission, I have inadvertently displayed any sexist, racist, culturalist, nationalist, regionalist, ageist, lookist, ableist, sizeist, speciesist, intellectualist, socioeconomicist, ethno-centrist, phallocentrist, heteropatriarchalist, or other type of bias as yet unnamed, I apologize and encourage your suggestions for rectification. In the quest to develop meaningful literature that it totally free from bias and purged from the influences of its flawed cultural past, I doubtless have made some mistakes.
here once was a young person named Red Riding Hood who lived with her mother on the edge of a large wood. One day her mother asked her to take a basket of fresh fruit and mineral water to her grandmother’s house—not because this was womyn’s work, mind you, but because the deed was generous and helped engender a feeling of community. Furthermore, her grandmother was
not
sick, but rather was in full physical and mental health and was fully capable of taking care of herself as a mature adult.
So Red Riding Hood set off with her basket through the woods. Many people believed that the forest was a foreboding and dangerous place and never set foot in it. Red Riding Hood, however, was confident enough in her own budding sexuality that such obvious Freudian imagery did not intimidate her.
On the way to Grandma’s house, Red Riding Hood was accosted by a wolf, who asked her what was in her basket. She replied, ‘Some healthful snacks for my grandmother, who is certainly capable of taking care of herself as a mature adult.’
The wolf said, ‘You know, my dear, it isn’t safe for a little girl to walk through these woods alone.’
Red Riding Hood said, ‘I find your sexist remark offensive in the extreme, but I will ignore it because of your traditional status as an outcast from society, the stress of which has caused you to develop your own, entirely valid, worldview. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must be on my way.’
Red Riding Hood walked on along the main path. But, because his status outside society had freed him from slavish adherence to linear, Western-style thought, the wolf knew a quicker route to Grandma’s house. He burst into the house and ate Grandma, an entirely valid course of action for a carnivore such as himself. Then, unhampered by rigid, traditionalist notions of what was masculine or feminine, he put on Grandma’s nightclothes and crawled into bed.
Red Riding Hood entered the cottage and said, ‘Grandma, I have brought you some fat-free, sodium-free snacks to salute you in your role of a wise and nurturing matriarch.’
From the bed, the wolf said softly, ‘Come closer, child, so that I might see you.’
Red Riding Hood said, ‘Oh, I forgot you are as optically challenged as a bat. Grandma, what big eyes you have!’
‘They have seen much, and forgiven much, my dear.’
‘Grandma, what a big nose you have—only relatively, of course, and certainly attractive in its own way.’
‘It has smelled much, and forgiven much, my dear.’
‘Grandma, what big teeth you have!’
The wolf said, ‘I am happy with
who
I am and
what
I am,’ and leaped out of bed. He grabbed Red Riding Hood in his claws, intent on devouring her. Red Riding Hood screamed, not out of alarm at the wolf’s apparent tendency towards cross-dressing, but because of his wilful invasion of her personal space.
Her screams were heard by a passing woodcutter-person (or log-fuel technician, as he preferred to be called). When he burst into the cottage, he saw the melee and tried to intervene. But as he raised his axe, Red Riding Hood and the wolf both stopped.
‘And just what to you think you’re doing?’ asked Red Riding Hood.
The woodcutter-person blinked and tried to answer, but no words came to him.
‘Bursting in here like a Neanderthal, trusting your weapon to do your thinking for you!’ she exclaimed. ‘Sexist! Speciesist! How dare you assume that womyn and wolves can’t solve their own problems without a man’s help!’
When she heard Red Riding Hood’s impassioned speech, Grandma jumped out of the wolf’s mouth, seized the woodcutter-person’s axe, and cut his head off. After this ordeal, Red Riding Hood, Grandma and the wolf felt a certain commonality of purpose. They decided to set up an alternative household based on mutual respect and cooperation, and they lived together in the woods happily ever after.
ar away, in a time long past, there lived a travelling tailor who found himself in an unfamiliar country. Now, tailors who move from place to place normally keep to themselves and are careful not to overstep the bounds of local decency. This tailor, though, was overly gregarious and decorum-impaired, and soon he was at a local inn, abusing alcohol, invading the personal space of the female employees, and telling unenlightened stories about tinkers, dung-gatherers and other tradespeople.
The innkeeper complained to the police, who grabbed the tailor and dragged him in front of the emperor. As you might expect, a lifetime of belief in the absolute legitimacy of the monarchy and in the inherent superiority of males had turned the emperor into a vain and wisdom-challenged tyrant. The tailor noticed these traits and decided to use them to his advantage.
The emperor asked, âDo you have any last request before I banish you from my domain forever?'
The tailor replied, âOnly that your majesty allow me the honour of crafting a new royal wardrobe. For I have brought with me a special fabric that is so rare and fine that it can be seen only by certain peopleâthe type of people you'd want to have in
your
realmâpeople who are politically correct, morally righteous, intellectually astute, culturally tolerant, and who don't smoke, drink, laugh at sexist jokes, watch too much television, listen to country music, or barbecue.'
After a moment's thought, the emperor agreed to this request. He was flattered by the fascist and testosterone-heavy idea that the empire and its inhabitants existed only to make him look good. It would be like having a trophy wife and multiplying that feeling by 100,000.
Of course, no such rarefied fabric existed. Years of living outside the bounds of normal society had forced the tailor to develop his own moral code that obliged him to swindle and embarrass the emperor in the name of independent craftspeople everywhere. So, as he diligently laboured, he was able to convince the emperor that he was cutting and sewing pieces of fabric that, in the strictist objective sense of reality, didn't exist.
When the tailor announced that he was finished, the emperor looked at his new robes in the mirror. As he stood there, naked as the day he was born, one could see how years of exploiting the peasantry had turned his body into an ugly mass of puffy white flesh. The emperor, of course, saw this too, but pretended that he could see the beautiful, politically correct robes. To show off his new splendour, he ordered a parade to be held the next day.
On the following morning, his subjects lined the streets for the big parade. Word had spread about the emperor's new clothes that only enlightened people with healthy lifestyles could see, and everyone was determined to be more right-minded than his or her neighbour.
The parade began with great hoopla. As the emperor marched his pale, bloated, patriarchal carcass down the street, everyone loudly oohed and ahed at his beautiful new clothes. All except one small boy, who shouted:
âThe emperor is naked!'
The parade stopped. The emperor paused. A hush fell over the crowd, until one quick-thinking peasant shouted:
âNo, he isn't. The emperor is merely endorsing a clothing-optional lifestyle!'
A cheer went up from the crowd, and the throngs stripped off their clothes and danced in the sun, as Nature had intended. The country was clothing-optional from that day forward, and the tailor, deprived of any livelihood, packed up his needle and thread and was never heard from again.
nce there were three little pigs who lived together in mutual respect and in harmony with their environment. Using materials that were indigenous to the area, they each built a beautiful house. One pig built a house of straw, one a house of sticks, and one a house of dung, clay and creeper vines shaped into bricks and baked in a small kiln. When they were finished, the pigs were satisfied with their work and settled back to live in peace and self-determination.