Is it just me, or can you just not say anything these days? I mean, you can’t even massacre a neighboring village because they’re a different religion from you without someone getting offended, ya know? And don’t get me started on serfs. It’s not our fault if you’re too poor not to be indentured. Oh, but, ya know, I guess I can’t say that anymore, can I? God I hate this village.

Anyways. I was talkin’ to this chick the other day, completely riddled with the plague and I told her “Hey. Your organs may be eating themselves, but at least you lost a few pounds.” Last time I give a woman a compliment, am I right fellas? EVERYONE’S OUT TO GET ME BECAUSE I’M OUT HERE TELLIN FOLKS THE TRUTH.

Hey, Service Wench over there scrubbing the floors. Call me a Calvinist, because I’m predetermined to squeeze those sponges. CHECK PLEASE! Any couples in tonight? You sir, how long’s it been since you’ve fired the old cannon? Don’t worry, brother, I once fell in love with a woman with a chastity belt, too. Turned out that the entire jousting team had a spare key.

Hey now, settle down, I love women. IN MY CHAMBERS HEYO! Alright. I’m taking a seat. I’m taking a seat. We need to talk. Used to be, a jester could tell a few jokes about the king’s mistresses, maybe mock the size of his lance, and the worst that would happen is what? Public flogging? A little disembowelment? Now, you say one thing about the queen’s weight and suddenly you’re “problematic.” I’m like, yeah, I’m problematic. My problem is paying rent in this godforsaken castle. No one wants funny anymore.

“Oh, Geoff, can’t you do something wholesome? Maybe a little pun about the harvest?” No. I want to talk about the real issues. Like how I haven’t seen my jester pension in six moons. Also, I’ll say it, the King isn’t God.

Neck snaps in gallows.