There’s so much more to me than impaling. I paint watercolors. I run half-marathons. I am a father, many times over, all across the Wallachian countryside. In fact, it’s statistically likely I’m a #girldad—and so, obviously, I’m also a feminist.
Although I contain these multitudes, everyone assumes that a leader known as “Vlad the Impaler” is the epitome of vicious cruelty.
But what’s the real violence? When I capture a guy from a Saxon village, bring him back to Wallachia, and impale him in the public square? Or when you subsequently bully me with the hurtful nickname Vlad the Impaler? At least my impaled enemy (whose name, incidentally, was also Vlad—most fifteenth-century Eastern European men are named Vlad) had the mercy of a stake through his viscera to put him out of his misery. Meanwhile, I survive, tortured for the rest of my days with this Vlad the Impaler epithet. It depresses me so deeply I ought to be called Vlad the Sad.
I’ve impaled, sure, but it seems a stretch to label me an impal-er. I mean, yes, when I said I only impaled that one guy, I was lying—I’ve impaled hundreds of political enemies, Saxon villagers, and messengers from the Sultan whose job was merely to negotiate a truce. But by the numerical logic that led you to call me Vlad the Impaler, you should instead call me Vlad the Liar. I impale a lot, but I lie about impaling way more.
Furthermore, the ruthless plundering that preceded the impalements affected far more villagers than the impalements themselves. So how about some truth in reporting? Call me Vlad the Plunderer.
Impaling is hardly the greatest modern threat to civilization. Ever since the printing press was invented a couple months ago, sensationalist journalism has become far more responsible for rending the fabric of the social contract. We’ve all heard the clichés about the news: If it bleeds, it leads. Tales that impale never fail. Speared spines make headlines.
But what about the detailed stories beneath the doomscrolling (that’s what I call it when that guy comes around with the big scroll of bad news)? How about a deeper dive into the motivations behind my impaling? It might not sell as many broadsides, but a more nuanced nickname would be Vlad the Maintainer of a Precarious Resistance to an Ottoman Takeover via the Perceived Threat of Impalement.
No one’s willing to call me Vlad the Foodie, but I love fine dining, and I cook daily (not counting plunder days). At the end of a long, sad-Vlad day trying to shake my unwarranted reputation, I find making shish kebabs very therapeutic.
How about Vlad the Knitter? Just imagine how sweet and unintimidating I look with a sharp stick in each hand.
Or Vlad the Avid Gardener: I love the feeling of plunging a pointy stake deep into the earth—for my bean vines to cling to! Sheesh, everything comes back to impaling with you. It’s a real fixation. I should call you Vlad the Impaler: You’re obsessed with impaling. You’ve driven a stake through my feelings, and given our era and region, I can safely assume your name is Vlad.
In short, Vlad, I demand you quit it with this reductive, frankly impolite Vlad the Impaler title.
And if the mean nickname doesn’t come to a swift end, I think you know I’ve got a knitting needle just long enough to put a swift end to you.
