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Coals to Newcastle
When she named him Oedipus she was having a rough patch with his father, and it was only malicious in a joking kind of way.
All involved thought it was slightly less funny when Oedipus did, indeed, kill his father.
Many years later, or so it seemed to both the father and the mother, both of whom rowed on and off about various things: her father's apparent hatred for all things beginning with the letter 'D', the inclusion of David, the father, possibly at the top of the list, should he be keeping a personal 'Things I Hate' list, rows about the existence of such a list, the driving skills of his own father and the marks they (or the lack thereof) had left on the lawn last weekend when they had his parents over to visit, politics, her leaving a box of matches and bottle of whiskey out for Oedipus (unintentional, though possibly a good thing to get his experiences in early: her view; erm... whiskey, matches and a two year old and a flammable house: his), and the weather (which sadly hadn't even become a safe topic at all times, a freakish spring day being held blame in that instance)[1], the family persevered and no one died unnecessarily.
[1. The actual scientific explanation for time passing during the course of an argument being longer than time for objective, non-rowing observers has something to do with the properties of angry molecules v. normal molecules and the participants' general wish to be anywhere else at the time of the argument (unless they're enjoying it, then the saying about Time flying when you're &c. kicks into effect). That wish often results in semi-conscious mental transportation of the participant in question elsewhere infinitely preferable (an interesting note: one of the rare 'infinite cases' that doesn't result in the entire works of Shakespeare being created), where they could remain for the duration of the argument or, should it not prove to be esireable enough, another location is mentally chosen, and off they go. This travelling will often result in arguments being carried out over multiple time zones and planes of reality as it is quite rare that both participants will choose the exact same location and, if they do, the exact same route to the aforementioned destination, which accounts for the sense of Time being considerably longer during the course of an argument.
This theory is largely accepted, if only because no one wishes to spend too much time on it, which will only be prolonged by the effect, when they could be on the golf course or bathing with gorgeous supermodels in one of the science labs hot tubs where such things go on.]
All until that fateful day.
David stepped boldly off the porch, where Jezebel (no relation) was still tending the grill with a hamburger flipper thing that he imagined might scar, if it were to be applied to his skin. He thought this even though they hadn't had an argument for weeks, and he was generally happy with life and it's environs, and he imagined she was, as well, though he'd never actually say that out loud, for fear of being horribly wrong. Oedipus was throwing a bit of sand up in the air and kicking a bit of sand off to one side of his sandbox the way kids do when their parents stick them in boxes full of sand.
And David smiled at his son as he walked towards the sandbox, smiled when Oedipus turned and saw him coming and threw some sand in his general direction (which wound up being in a plant, three metres to the left of himself, actually, but he was working on being a forgiving father, and could bear with poor throwing aim in his son, in the hope that he became a decent footballer, at least). Oedipus thought it was a good effort, as kids in sandboxes chucking sand do. He laughed.
David laughed too, as the sun came out, and he felt good, good that he had a son that saw a place for sand outside the sandbox (and quite a lot of it, it seemed; in the plants, in the grass, on the chair next to the sandbox, and a handy addition on top of an anthill that had made the mistake of setting up camp within range of a three and a half year old's arms from the sandbox), good that Oedipus' throwing aim was inherited from his mother, and that there was no way she could possibly hit him with the hamburger flipper thing from where he stood now, good that his son was now turning and holding up his arms in that universal signal that he was done now, and wanted out of the sandbox, good as he bent down to pick up his little bundle of formerly sand-throwing joy.
Which is when Oedipus stabbed him with the jawbone of an ass.
"Ehm, bad Oedipus! Oh damn."
The little family, now slightly littler, was shocked for some time over the turn of events and turned visitors away from the house after the funeral for months, normal months, as there was no one to argue with and Time passed at a more normal clip and they mourned in relative solitude. Oedipus, being three and a little change, mourned by throwing dirt from the kitchen floor, as he wasn't allowed to play in the sandbox any longer, until Jezebel got around to hiring a group of exterminators to come clean out the sandbox of all other potentially dangerous and biblical weapons.
Jezebel blamed herself, partly, for the name, at any rate, and after the months of mourning, she tidied up and began to settle affairs, ringing the exterminators, who were busy, and passed her on to the local dog officer, whom she argued wasn't possibly the right man for the job of exterminating dangerous weapons from her son's sandbox, but there you had it, they said, they had no one available, and since the dog officer wasn't terribly busy these days she might try him. Which she eventually did.
And local historians, after a 'phone call from the dog officer about his findings, made further wondrous discoveries about the old donkey graveyard that used to be right where little Oedipus' sandbox was built, one of the finest examples of mass donkey burial grounds in the entire world.
Which made Jezebel slightly happier, but not a whole lot, to be honest. And it did nothing for Oedipus, who had to wait to get a new sandbox built.
disclaimer:
We have yet another note about poxy my.netscape.com this week. It doesn't really explain anything, but it gives us the opportunity to use the phrase "my.netscape.com is pants" once more.
The Q.I. Software QIParser.app is still public beta!
Again, mail to software@sanemagazine.com if you'd like more information on Q.I. Software and what the hell we're doing.
And also again (seems like a recap week, if you ask me, possibly not trusting your or our own memories) feedback on the software goes to feedback@sanemagazine.com, which we promise we'll forward it on to the still antisocial little programming twerps of whom we make unreasonable demands.
Again, it'd be nice if your feedback on the software was based on actually having used it, but that's just a vague guideline, and nothing to hang your coats by.
Not a repeat, Automatic Media, which includes Feed and our one-time nemesis Suck (when they were funny and cool and all that... which was... 1995 or so, is my conservative estimate), the bastion/beacon of hope for content on the web, has suspended operations.
A terrible shame (in Feed's case, at any rate), and we wish Steven and his crew best of luck getting back up and running one of the hipper 'zines out there.
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