An Irate Piece of Parchment Recently Discovered in the Crypt of Brother Bartholomew

Translated from 15^th Century German

Johan Gutenberg, you insufferable prick.

I never met you, but if I had I would have punched you in the face until it stopped being funny.  You ruined my life, such as it was.  I don’t know how much of a life you can have with your ass stuck to a wooden stool for twenty-five years, hunched over a desk in a freezing cold room. 

Yeah, that’s right.  Twenty-five years, asshole.  And you want to know what I did in all that time?  I made one copy of the Bible.  ONE!  I’m sorry, I meant to say “illuminated manuscript,” which is what the abbot wanted us to call it.  Man, that portly son of a bitch got on my last nerve.  Evidently that vow of poverty didn’t cover sneaking extra portions of mutton stew when no one was looking.  And don’t think I didn’t notice the steady stream of farmer’s daughters decked out in brown robes heading down the hallway to his room.

But I never complained about any of that.  I didn’t complain about having to draw fancy little designs around the border of each and every page.  Nor did I complain about the time I worked on one page for an entire week, only to have a small spasm in my hand on the very last word.  I had to take that page, burn it and bury it in the garden.  I can’t even remember what page that was anymore – I’m pretty sure somebody begat someone.

Let’s bring it back to you, Gutenberg.  I endured the bad boss, the horrible working conditions and the required anal retentive attention to detail, finish up my copy and find out that you built a machine that makes everything I’ve done with my life utterly pointless.  Do you have any idea how many months I had to train to draw the big-ass letters at the beginning of a chapter?  You know, the giant, audacious ones that serve no purpose but to screw up the spacing on the next four lines?  But now none of that matters.  All of that time could have been put to use in a much more worthwhile pursuit – like touching a woman.  Any woman.  I know they exist, and, more importantly, I know what they can do (after hearing the descriptive language screamed out by one or two of the more chatty ladies in the abbot’s quarters).  I thought I was giving up all of that for an important task.  Instead, the end result was a lifetime of sexual frustration.  I got so pissed off the day I heard about your invention that I went out into the stable and punched a donkey.

I have no purpose left – everything I trained for is now obsolete.  Given that, I have taken it upon myself to steal a barrel of ale from the kitchen.  I plan on drinking all of it and then taking a dump in the abbot’s hat.  

Thanks so much for all of this, Gutenberg.

B