In 1070, — wait. I know it is a long time ago, but this one, I could not resist.
In 1070, Arnulf III the Hapless becomes Earl of Flanders.
Imagine, being you in 1070. You wake up, there in Flanders. Beautiful Flanders, which today would be considered the northern portion of Belgium. After having a nice hot cup of something, and a yummy bowl of porridge, you walk out of your cottage, stretch, and looking over the rolling green pastures, before walking through them, on the way to Town Square.
You can’t pick up a newspaper, because they don’t exist. In fact, you probably can’t even read. But there is the Town Crier. Crying. Up on some box, in the middle of the square sobbing.
Here Ye. Here Ye. Or do they say it, Hear Ye. Hear Ye. Do they summon people there with “here”, or just tell them to listen, with “hear”? Either way, it is in some old foreign language. Most likely it is Dutch, or German. “Hier Gij. Hier Gij.” So you walk over with the rest of the Flanderites. Or are they Flanderians?
It’s 1070. As you can see, I’m sketchy on the details.
Anyway.
That’s when you hear the news. Arnulf. Yes, Arnulf the Hapless, is now the Earl of Flanders. You put your finger in your ear and wiggle it around, squinting one eye, turning that ear toward the Crier. And there it is again. Arnulf the Hapless is now Earl of Flanders. All Hail Arnulf.
Bob, the Poopsmith walks up next to you, poopy pitchfork in hand, and says, “Did I hear him right? Arnulf, the Hapless is now Earl?”
Shaking your head, you say, “Yes Bob, that’s right. Could you stand back a little man? Your flies are terrible today.”
He steps back, then says. “You are one smart cookie. Tell me. What does hapless mean?”
Still, shaking that head, you reply. “It means unfortunate. Unlucky. Ill-fated.”
Bob scratches the back of his head. “And he’s going to be Earl of Flanders?”
“I know.” You say. “I know.”
But what I want to know is how in the hell someone named Arnulf the Hapless gets to be the Earl of some golden and amazing country like Flanders? He is ill-fated for crying out loud. He’s doomed, cursed, jinxed.
Oh.
Wait.
Somehow the U.S. hired an absurdly ridiculous reality-show host to run our country. It doesn’t get any more wretched than that.
Even the Poopsmith would agree.
I guess history does repeat itself.
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“I’m a greater believer in luck, and I find the harder I work the more I have of it”
― Thomas Jefferson
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“He was just a coward and that was the worst luck any many could have.”
― Ernest Hemingway, For Whom the Bell Tolls
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“You know, Hobbes, some days even my lucky rocketship underpants don’t help.”
― Bill Watterson
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