That American Shakespeare Thing - TAST

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					                That American Shakespeare Thing

                      by Kirk Wood Bromley


Channels 1 - 16
Lorelei Barbaloot Free
Chipper Vapid
Big Rock Candy Mountain We Love You
Reporters 1 - 6
There‟s Something Sticking Out of Your Nose
Aide to Big Rock
I Live in the Past In the Past Cuz It‟s Mostly White
Cranky And Bitter
The Compromised Synaptic Connections Clan: Gloom, Doom,
Bloaty, Blighted, Bland
A Big Theater Asshole
Stiff Durable Plastic
Just Like Everybody Else
Woman on her Knees
Obvious Mouthpiece
Students 1 - 3
Brazen Rapture/Double Agent Ethnocentric Self-Interest
G-Honky/Double Agent Fellopia Meat Substitute
The Great AmShak

Lorelei Barbaloot Free is in her apartment, channel surfing.

Ch1-           I‟s like „f‟yo pooty be‟s a party yacht,
               Dey calls it Mopey Schtick ain‟t gots a shot!”
Ch2-           Look, government is not the answer,
               It's the "I don't understand the question."
Ch3-           To dream the indigestible dream!
Ch4-           Who were these tiny people that lived
               Under this rock so very long ago?
Ch5-           I just don't think the on-parole mother
               Of an alcoholic fetus should be cracking
               Jokes about slamming blood sample slushies
               From the freezer of an Irish Flight School.
Ch6-           You get Undue Recognition Barbie
               With the Laconic No-Try Attitude!
Ch7-           And Naphtha sayeth to the Promosexual,
               Solipsius of Phallustine,
               "Sex sells, but fear turneth a profit."
Ch8-           I'm speaking with Susan Skintag, author of
               "Kitsch as Kvetch - Learning to Love the Lies We
Ch9-           Is your antipsychotic leading
               To wasteful acts of charity?
Ch10-          It's a wonderfully repetitive film
               For the growing man-child market
               About seminude irreverent teens
               Absorbing a fuzzy bevy of transient
               Truths re infant mortality
               After facing arrest for illegal
               Download of new digital genitals.
Ch11-          Lordor battle Mooshoo takem Gingadong!
Ch12-          But Maritza, freedom is a strangeness
               In the self, so do not quail y blench
               At my gruesome guacamole explosion.
Ch13-          Support the troops!
Ch14-          Abort the troops!
Ch15-          Support the troops!
Ch16-          Abort the troops!
Lor-           Man, there is everything on TV.

She flips the channel again.

Chipper-       This is Chipper Vapid of ADD News
               And The Way Too Late Show. In sloppy seconds
               We'll be going semi-live to the Department
               Of Nonexistent Emergency Exaggeration
               For the Purposes of Achieving Military Industrial
               Where top Anti-Really-Scary-Shit Czar,
               Big Rock Candy Mountain We Love You,
               Is about to appear to announce
               The unannounced appearance of
               An appearance no one ever thought
               He'd be announcing the appearance of,
               Apparently. What it is, where it baggd
               Its mack daddy shizzits, how it tastes
               On crank, who stuck the gag toy in its sad gland,
               Why there's not yet an adult cartoon
               About it, and when anyone will do
               Anything relevant to its arrival
               Remains to be inadequately
               Ascertained. All that we know now is that
               There's much too much to know, so go spastic!
Enter Big Rock Candy Mountain, his entourage of deceptive
              experts and empowered idiots, and gullible

Big Rock-      My fallow citizens, America
               Is under attack. No, not by spyware,
               Or men with falafel-flavored lip cozies,
               Or environmental regulations,
               Or the redneck remnants of a failed secession,
               Or death-metal bi-serious Why-Schoolers,
               Or any other crap rap you‟d swallow,
               But by a force far more deadly and fictional.
               This faux fatal freaky force foments
               The recantation of our dear hypocrisies,
               The dilation of our shrunk mentalities,
               The sophistication of our pop inanities,
               In short, this force will stop at nothing
               To affect us in ways that feel weird.
               And tho I can't reveal the specifics
               Of the ruse on which my impunity depends,
               Our top flaw enforcement officials
               Now call this force quite strangely what it is:
               “That American Shakespeare Thing.”

There is a great clamor from lots of unimportant places.

Big Rock-      Silence, people! Do not "embrace freedom"
               Or "get book learnin" or "act all different,"
               Cuz that's exactly what it wants you to do!
               We best defeat these evil acts of theater
               By stubbornly remaining as we are:
               Busy plastic unpoetic jingo gizmos.
               Now, if you'll sedate yourselves, I'll take questions,
               As long as they're not too questioning!
Rep1-          What is that American Shakespeare Thing?
Big Rock-      It's a form of theatrical praxis
               That records, celebrates, and enriches
               Our culture thru extravagant verse plays
               Rife with demographically diverse characters,
               Intense emotional conundra, and
               Philosophically engaging discourse
               In a lavish metaphorical mix
               Of complex prose and myriad meters.
All-           What?
Big Rock-      It's sorta like Shakespeare, but American.
Rep 2-         Who's behind that American Shakespeare Thing?
Big Rock-      We've very scant, corrupted information
              On the offending entity, but we
              Believe he's some form of theater fag
              With highly pretentious textual ambitions.
Rep 3-        How can we protect the little children
              From that American Shakespeare Thing?
Big Rock-     Don't go to the theater! Especially
              If it's in verse.
Rep 4-        Actually, I've seen it, and it's not that bad.
Big Rock-     Remove her to the theater fag
              Torture center, aka “The Heartland.”

They remove Reporter 4 to “The Heartland.”

Rep 5-        What extrajudicial steps are you taking
              To stop that American Shakespeare Thing?
Big Rock-     We're doing everything outside our power:
              Basing arts grants on community service,
              Obstructing theatrical invention
              Thru entrenched free market extorsions,
              Defiling the Constitution to reflect
              Our fear of things that seem kinda gay,
              But most of all, we're wasting our resources
              To kill or dumb-down that American Shakespeare.
Rep 6-        Do you have any entertaining evidence
              Of that American Shakespeare Thing?
Big Rock-     We do. We have a serious monologue
              For men, 25 - 40, large build,
              Perfect for subpar lotharios, rakish
              Pouty types, or leading man killers,
              And we‟d like to do it for you now
              That should you observe any sorta shit
              That‟s half this trippy dippy, you can scurry
              Your sorry ass to the nearest "Stop Doing
              That American Shakespeare Thing" HQ
              And report it to our selective listener.
              Here now to perform this scandalous soliloquoy
              Is our anti-theatrical specialist,
              There's Something Icky Sticking Out Of Your Nose.
There's-      We believe this speech comes from a play
              Entitled "The American Revolution."
Big Rock-     Conspiracy!
There's-      It is spoken by Benedict Arnold.
Big Rock-     Traitor!
There's-      And it's delivered after he has learned
              That Congress has chosen George Washington
              Over him to serve as Commander-in-Chief.
Big Rock-     Questioning the President? Is that American?
             No! It's that American Shakespeare thing!

                                                  Benedict- So this
             is what America will mean?
             The smarm of imperfection‟s victory,
             Where process triumphs over prodigy,
             Fake quantity over fine quality,
             Ineptitude over ability,
             And master majority over me.
             Second? What is second? It is a loss!
             Second to span the globe? To tag a teen?
             To coin some gorgeous phrase? All, and so none.
             Second‟s next, forgotten, some other‟s other,
             His hopes in higher heads, his body bound
             To awkward march, himself in selfless mere,
             Lacking status, place, or recognition.
             I will not be for one more second second!
             This wishy Washington, this highbrow southern,
             This democratic King will botch it all!
             O stillborn revolution!
             Your protocol's promoted worst to first,
             And left your best to be a tag-along,
             A helper, a shadow-man, a second.
             What now, Dark Eagle? Quit or carry on?
             Maybe you‟ll do both. Hide in what you hate,
             Be what you deny, excel obscurity!
             I‟ll be the greatest second ever known
             And fight so fierce and forward that the first
             Shall be the only power worth my wrath.
             Second? Second? O second I will be
             And thru this rank rise to rankless glory!

There's-     That was kinda cool.
Big Rock-    Remove him to
             The Textual Re-Orientation
             Facility, aka “My Bedroom.”

They remove There's Something Icky Sticking Out Of Your Nose
to Big Rock‟s bedroom.

Big Rock-    I've got to go pour drano down my ears
             To burn off all those thick, hairy phrases,
             But let me garble this inanity
             Before I abandon you to your empty
             Paranoid, polluting pseudo-places:
               America is an "I've Got Better Things
               Not To Think About Right Now" Nation,
               Founded on the desultory principle
               That none of the so-called people should make
               Some of the other-type people feel
               Stupid all of the time, okay, assholes?
               Yet on blathers that American Shakespeare Thing.
               America is a "Dog Eat Dog Shit Income Gaps"
               Nation, dedicated to the defeatist dream
               That the only way to waste your life
               Other than laboring (man as door-jam)
               To win the "We Make Mosto Presto" Contest
               Is to attend grotesquely vindictive
               Mob sermons on total fucking bullshit
               (Pardon my common sense), yet on and on
               Blathers that American Shakespeare Thing.
               America is a "The First Step To Denying
               You Have A Problem Is To Destroy
               Any Fuckhead That Claims You Have One" Nation,
               Defending its two-testicles, two-votes values
               From non-commercially-viable girlie men
               Who say things to insecurity moms
               Like "Why close your eyes when you're being raped
               If that angry face just might be the love
               You‟ve always been lookin' for, baby?"
               Yet on and on and on blathers
               That American Shakespeare Thing.
               This is war, America. This is war
               On wild, wonderful, womanly words.
               This is war on creative expressions
               That defy our hate-of-the-art
               Simulation chamber econo-ethics.
               This is war on manamanal theater fags
               With in-verse perversity reversions.
               And here is my self-profiting pledge
               To your cute junior pink flower-print panties:
               I will stop that American Shakespeare Thing
               Even if it means bankrupting our nation
               And selling it to myself at a discount!
               Goodnight, be safe, and don't eat your poop!

Big Stick steps aside.

Big Stick-     Damn, I did it again! Every fuckin‟ time
               I try to say "God Bless America”
               I say "Don't eat your poop."
Aide-          As a social policy statement, sir,
               It does perhaps carry more value.
Big Rock-      Remove her to the Liberal Disenchantment
               Chamber, aka “Reality.”

Aide is removed to “Reality.”

Chipper-       And there you have it! America
               Being bitch-slappt by the me-first trauma
               Of that African Fake Spear Thing,
               With a so sensual solo licky
               From “Fingerlickin Retribution”
               With Derelict Barmaid preaching
               Prejudice against "that squishy paragon,
               That nine-pound mother, that pre-socratic fling,"
               And chanting "fecund, fecund"
               Like a soy farmer felching blood money,
               But let's go now to our resident air-head,
               Actor, pig lover, and silly balloon puppet,
               I Live In The Past Cuz It's Mostly White.

Enter I Live In The Past Cuz It's Mostly White, who is a silly
                balloon puppet.

Chipper-       So, tell us, you bonacide boredologist,
               As an expert in his lone prairie,
               Was the career crash you just observed
               With your tiny black indelible ink dot eyes
               The work of the Blunderful Whiz-tard
               Of Got No Flaws in an Uncle Sambo Suit,
               Or something else entirely less jiggy?
I Live-        Before we the point begin to misseth,
               I must needs remonstrate that the glover's son
               Of Stratford didst not screed that lofty lit
               T'which we ascribeth epithet Shakspere.
Chipper-       So is this that Marlovian Reappear Thing
               Or that Oxfordian Overseer Thing
               Or that Baconian I'm Not Here Thing,
               Or that Globe Theater Yankee Fear Thing?
I Live-        This be that Infinite Monkeys Thing
               Typing on Infinite Keyboards Thing
               Inside the Unarticulated Delusions
               Of my Pampered Pagan Gonads Thing.
Chipper-       Are you saying that actors are too flaky
               To suffer the stultifying reifications
               Of a static, over-formal self structure
               That produce such acts of penis genius
               As fuel inefficient mega trucks,
             Men's mags and the electoral college?
I Live-      I'm saying in my Sir Sir Fruity Voice
             That the moist and wiggly worms of night
             Too lusciously obscure all perspication
             Regarding who canst own these vulgar yawpings:
             Of what institution wast he instructed
             In the art of ignoring one's instincts?
             Ist that a mask upon his maw, or ist he
             By nature so pasty and unfetching?
             Why dost he not litter his wombstone
             With garish garlands? Where ist the socks
             He wore upon yon yestermorrow eve?
             Why, be he "all that," doth his petty peers
             Not shower him with laudatory urines?
             How hast he writ so many witty bits
             Yet faileth to save his shopping receipts?
             Why didst he not freeze his ego embryo
             For latter types to melteth cheese upon?
             Why dost these non-issues and needless more
             Spur me to quite serious biases
             Against any unworkable notion?
             Is this air in my head or merely
             The idea of air? Who blew me up
             Before he go-go? Cuckold? Cuckold?

Chipper pops him.

Chipper-     Thank you on-staff heliumunculus,
             My Dad Could Embarrass Your Dad.
             Let's go now to God Awful, Alabama,
             With roving city snob, Cranky And Bitter,
             Where overgrown men are screaming
             Like a hemorrhoid on a hot tailpipe:
             "Well, I be damned by my own faith!
             It's that Barbarian Papsmear Thing!"
             Can you corroborate that distortion
             Just for the swell of it, Cranky And?
Cranky-      Why else would I be aggressively slouching
             In this holler of personal misfortune,
             So feudalesque in its superstore vacuum
             Of bigot fumes and incurious blub
             It makes you want to invaginate
             A Nigerian porcupine just to feel
             Exotic, save to wrestle cluelessness
             From the tragically average Gloom and Doom
             Compromised Synaptic Connections,
             And their three untaken birth-control options,
            Bloaty, Blighted, and Bland,
            Who claim to have been visited by
            That American Shakespeare Thing.
            Give us, O Gloom, the high-jinx low-down.
Gloom-      Well, we was prayin as a family.
Bloaty-     The Lord Savior is my sausage donut
            In times of cacaphonic pork and puke.
Doom-       I can see you faggotts thru the camera!
Cranky-     And then what happened, other than
            A general atmosphere of no-reply?
Gloom-      We heard a ruckus out near the garbage.
Blighted-   Like people talkin what ya can't understand.
Doom-       You keep your eye fingers of my man boobs!
Cranky-     And did you get off your flippers and seek
            The source, or is that too liberal?
Gloom-      We walked to the window.
Bland-      I waddled to the terlet.
Doom-       "Loaded bible, holy gun,
            Two great hates that hate great as one."
Gloom-      And we saw it.
Cranky-     Saw what, O irrefutable evidence
            That evolution‟s not just a theory
            But a lifestyle many choose to ignore.
Gloom-      That American Shakespeare Thing!
Doom-       Lesbian types doin what I loathe most of all.
Gloom-      Actin like they somethin that they ain't.
Cranky-     Can you describe this flaming hoarde for us,
            Or do I have to kill you, cut out your brains,
            And extrapolate those neuronal barrens
            Into some misleading content-poor pop-up?
Gloom-      We could do it for ya.
Cranky-     Do what?
Doom-       That American Shakespeare Thing.
3 girls-    It's inside us now.
Cranky-     O, gee, no thanks.
            Theater makes me crave bad movies.
Doom-       This here's an early scene
            From Want's Unwisht Work,
            In which a group of women
            At the University of Georgia-Athens
            Start a house of feminist studies
            That excludes men, only to then discover
            A male transvestite is living
            In the attic and he's none too pleased
            That a gender-divisive ideology
            Is sprouting up in his lower levels.
Bertha-          May woman, utera of knowings new,
                 Within this dreamt-of house her self reclaim.
                 May she, the caring, altruistic sex,
                 Replenish here her fruitful, fertile traits.
                 And may she, who lames life if she is lost,
                 Fresh menses from her moral organ feel.
                 Now, Corme, Marla, Lydia, to you,
                 In Georgia's Athens, Sophia of the South,
                 This house is here awarded, that, as one,
                 You concentrate against your degradation,
                 And build the femine shelter of our world.
                 For man, fear's nepotist to relevance,
                 With acts revolting, does its berth assault.
                 For man, fat war and form-forcing suppression
                 Quick-stagnant gifts to devolution are.
                 For man, his staged, stage-frighting, a-social self
                 Thrusts into woman, rupturing her peace.
                 Woman, man's beginning, has he betrayed.
                 Therefore, I formally request you now:
                 Of woman's truth alone can you research?
                 Will you sans man discourse on sex and urge?
                 Can you, not thru men, not for men, not by men,
                 Be altered to your own discoveries?
                 Marla, can you promise this to woman?
Marla-           That won't be hard. To me, man's optional.
                 At tigress pride, he lingers t‟importune.
                 No men, I say, and feel it natural
                 As restriction of the weapon from the womb.
Bertha-          Honest, ravaged Marla. You may enter.

Marla goes in.

Bertha-          Lydia, can you promise this to woman?
Lydia-           It's women who genetic change emote.
                 Man's a necessary-nothing, a go-between,
                 A futile fringe device, creating bloat.
                 I won't be used like easy oxygen.
Bertha-          A victim, Lydia, you proudly are.
                 You may enter.

Lydia goes in.

Bertha-          You will, of course, Corme, our promise try.
Corme-           By this promise, all's tried by us but us.
Bertha-          Speak plain, Corme. We are all sisters here.
Corme-           Suits woman wrath? Can she, in hiding, flourish?
                 Her problem's route I've followed, her issues
               Have pervaded me, yet new stimulus
               I wish us to attract and not diffract.
               Let's balance rage and reticence, and accept
               Into our congress of inclusive strife
               An acting arbitration with all life.
Bertha-        But Corme, you have signed the grant with pen,
               And see its strict deletioning of men.
Corme-         I've done as much. It was inhuman.
Marla-         What are we, Corme, moon to moon convenience?
               One hour developing? Instant obedience?
Corme-         What of those countless comedies, where men
               Adopt the closure of depraving rules,
               Which then they break, yet mend to squelch again,
               In stupid, cycling symbolry of fools?
               Must we relive this universal farce,
               Copying man's limits but not his range?
               Can we across the ancient scriptings parse,
               To then all errors barely rearrange?
               For woman, truer study is expressed
               Rebonding molecules of every style,
               And making motive of another's mess
               Of strain and stress, she dissipates his guile.
Lydia-         When resistance wiggles, none can resist;
               Will cancer cure by cooing 'please, don't spread'?
               The stress of man marks beauty to a cyst,
               Dividing life to cells that grow when dead.
Marla-         Man's a homicidal basket case.
Corme-         Yet open baskets calm what they embrace.
Lydia-         We want to be a part by being apart.
Corme-         Your parts will then for parts well-known depart.
               If, to project past man, you act like him,
               He'll harder jut, turgescing at the thrill.
               So let your better self his better win
               By war of woman's inclusant words and will.
Marla-         The rule is set.
Lydia-                         Isn't it, Ms. Lerner?

Vazoline, crossdressing, enters.

Bertha-        Who are you?
Vaz-           I'm the sun after the brainstorm. Who are you?
Bertha-        Bertha Lerner, director of the women's studies
               And the university's granted me this house.
Vaz-           Oh, ain't that sweet?
               I thought this menudo nest was mine,
               Living in its attic since the embryo,
              But 'long comes senorita manicure
              And her pearly swine.
              Sorry, babe, but this norm grotto‟s mine.
Marla-        What are you?
Vaz-          I am a peloric lily, perfectly unnatural. What are
Lydia-        We are women.
Vaz-          What, do say, is a we-men?
Lydia-        Woman is life's only perpetual resource.
Vaz-          O, then she is death.
Marla-        Woman is the backbone of society.
Vaz-          Society needs less backbone, and more forebrain.
Bertha-       No men is now a bylaw of this house.
Vaz-          Oh, but how can a bi-law say no men?
Lydia-        Are you a man or are you not?
Vaz-          I am a man, though to manliness I am awol.
Lydia-        Why a wall?
Vaz-          I am absence without leaving.
Bertha-       You cannot stay, being a man.
Vaz-          If I can't stay being a man, I become a woman.
Lydia-        If you must become a woman, then you are a man,
              and may not enter.
Vaz-          Being a man, I can only enter;
              Being a woman, you may never.
              So don't you see? Your law is inapplicable
              When applied. Besides, it's very dull.
Marla-        Whatever you are, you're a man in a woman's house.
Bertha-       Women, let's claim our rights!

Bertha, Marla, and Lydia enter.

Corme-        Hello.
Vaz-          O hell.
Corme-        I didn't catch your name.
Vaz-          Because it's Vazoline, and it slippt away.
Corme-        I'm Corme.
Vaz-          Did these subdermal birthmarks
              Of black hole funny faces suck you in?
Corme-        Your chatter is all clatter.
Vaz-          Then I will suck
              My speech like a vacuum: Corme, do you swear
              To dance in this booth, this holed booth, and to
              Nothing in this booth, so helpless dog?
Corme-        I've joined them, hesitantly, yes, I have.
Vaz-          Then listen, girl, and I will teach
              The fact that no fact-finders reach:
               Neurotic is that saming game
               Of dying to rename a name.
               Every object errors light,
               And thus eradicates on sight.
               What you are is what you're not;
               Identity is mental clot.
               So let no group or plot define
               Hers and his, yours and mine.
               Get it?
Corme-         Yes.
Vaz-           Then give it!
Corme-         Goodbye.
Vaz-           Bye, good.

Corme exits.

Vaz-           Ever pleading after power,
               When will each be its own flower?
               Once again, in my own brambles,
               I must bray, and stir up shambles!

Cranky-        Specious Christ, I think I've died and gone to seed.
Gloom-         You like?
Cranky-        That was awesome!
Doom-          It's the drug that keeps on drugging.
Cranky-        I'm not cranky and bitter anymore!
3 girls-       We're not bloaty and blighted and bland!
Gloom-         Now I can masturbate in church!
Doom-          Now I know what macho really means.
All-           We are free!

They sing.

               This is the second coming
               Of the complex yet popular play in verse,
               The multiplot character-rich play in verse,
               The play in verse, the play in verse!

Chipper-       A scene from Hate's Unblemisht Perk
               By that Amphibian More Beer Thing,
               Turning dirt farmers into dirty femmes
               And housewives into uppity hussies
               With lines like "the uterus is always new,"
               And "I'm so gay I only buy samples,"
               But hey, let‟s get normal and consult a kook:
               Some networks have a big theater critic,
               But here at ATM News and the Socially
           Acceptable Pedophilia Show,
           We have a big theater asshole,
           Who, due to justified death threats
           On the part of failed, fat ingénues
           (Or, in PC speak, “female directors”),
           Must defend his offensive identity
           By throwing his voice thru a supermodel,
           One Kielbasa Kleenex Killvergnugen,
           Who, for reasons we‟ve been paid to conceal,
           Is dresst as Hitler‟s soft feminine side.
           So, tell us, Ubermodelen with a big
           Theater asshole in her verbal jelly,
           Was this the work of an accomplished reject
           Making a living by copying the dead
           Or were my Orangutan Mcnuggetts
           Swearin they wouldn't barrel pronto-like
           Into the bio-adverse woodyland
           Of my lie-in-ambush behind-o-sphere
           Not the only time today that I been punk‟d
           Like a stray puppy lickin puppy scraps
           Off a Chinaman's itchy bitch cleaver?
Asshole-   Are you fucking serious?
Chipper-   No, I'm fucking the soundguy, and if you keep
           Tasting my precious slime, he'll shock your mic
           And cook you crimson as a buff albino
           Sunbathing on the reflective wing
           Of an ozone depletion research plane
           With nuthin but some SPF 15
           On his in-flight snack-sack, so schmooze or cruise.
Ass-       Then, fart on me, but was that a black thing,
           Cuz I don't understand. The only story
           Was the top one, offa which he oughta jump.
           You call those characters? I call them you
           Don‟t care about actors. They're as deep
           As an accidental belch. Those stick figures
           Are so emotively emaciated
           They couldn't convince a hypochondriac
           To feel like living hell. Just cuz “big word”
           Is a “big word” don‟t mean you can probe me
           With a dictionary. O, and guess what,
           Professor Smug Cartel at F-U-C-K-U?
           People talking bullshit ain‟t dialogue,
           It‟s dial 911 and report a crime
           Against humidity, cuz your hot airs
           Got me dry as the No-Sabe Desert!
           The only thing this schlock does slightly well
           Is advocate its own botched abortion
               With the kind of suicidal joie de vivre
               Not seen since the workshop production of
               “Actors Respond to Audience Feedback.”
Chipper-       Yes, but what does it mean?
Ass-           Lemme see. The feminist shit represents
               The fact that the playwright won't ever get laid.
               The crossdresser shit, that's an indication
               That the playwright should dress in black
               And cross a busy freeway at night.
               O, and the really stupid shit near the beginning?
               That stands for the really stupid shit near the end.
Chipper-       Should this writer be compared to Shakespeare
               Or Gertie Zwieback, retired cashier,
               Whose own children call her Christmas cards,
               "Further proof that mom should be put to sleep"?
Ass-           This writer should be compared to a toddler
               Trying to achieve orgasm by rubbing
               His miniscule, unfunctioning privates
               On the goiter of his imaginary friend,
               Mr. Counter-Intuitive Clunky Chump.
Chipper-       Are you sure you're not just some
               Ego-adipose parasite destroying
               The very life form that supports you
               By valuing the foregone conclusions
               Of the blasted past over the ongoing
               Experiments of the bumper present?
Asshole-       Are you sure you're not just a prick puppet
               Posing as a woman on the verge
               Of another profitable prostration,
               You limp excuse for a national monument?

She shoots and kills him, then points the gun at the super model.

Chipper-       Speak for yourself, super model.

The supermodel exits.

Chipper-       Sometime my job so hard I wanna fuck it!
               But let's go now to somewhere else.
Stiff-         Good Evening. I'm Stiff Durable Plastic,
               Undercover at Anything Gringoes,
               A swanky blitzo-tech ball-mart binge-barn
               On the border twixt Misery and Company,
               Where young, hip, free-thinking Americans
               Flock like worms on an undiscovered corpse
               To contract a nasty case of crotch-ulism.
               I‟m here to report an eternal trend
         That has health experts chain-smoking condoms:
         It seems that certain extreme elements
         Of the popular crowd are engaging
         In illicit verse theatrical acts
         While under the liberating influence
         Of that American Shakespeare Thing,
         Giving new meaning to the phrase,
         "Callst thou me a non-absorbent sponge, dude?"
         But hark! What slab on yonder coldstone jiggles?
Just-    Hi. I'm Just Like Everybody Else.
         What's your name?
Stiff-   Guy.
Just-    Hi, Guy!
Stiff-   Hi.
Just-    Are you drunk yet, or should I wretch down your
Stiff-   I think I'm drunk. I mean, heck, you‟re lookin hot.
Just-    Thanks! I like it when guys like me
         For looking hot, cuz then I hate myself
         For liking that, which makes me more likable
         To guys that like girls who look hot
         Because they hate themselves for it.
         So, how do you make your egregious millions?
Stiff-   I shield Republicans from the law.
Just-    Bitchin! We're in the same runaway debt!
         I let private security firms flash
         Advertisements for Dick Chunky‟s Bombs-R-Us
         Across my twirling beef hooters.
         Hey, you seem sorta stiff, but durable,
         Like plastic. Have I got you pegged?
Stiff-   Like the last butterfly to the trillionth ream of foam.
Just-    Awesome! Speaking of species death by direct mail,
         Feel these: 100% mystery shit,
         Minus the powdered bones and teeth
         Of underage Romanian flesh traffic.
         So, how should we utilize each other
         To distance ourselves from each other?
Stiff-   O, I dunno.
Just-    Maybe you could get lodged in my birth yurt
         And heckle my eggs as they try to fly!
Stiff-   Sorry, but I'm up-close-intolerant.
Just-    How about I drag you down to my level
         And then do what comes natural to a clone?
Stiff-   I'm interested in more than just a friend.
Just-    Hey! I know! I'll dress up like something
         The cat dragged in, and you can eat me
         Behind everyone's back, cuz you‟re so poor!
Stiff-        That does sound yummy, but I just had
              Some thrill-kill on a negro cracker.
Just-         Gee, I'll do anything, long as it's wrong!
Stiff-        Well, I was thinking it might be nice
              To do that American Shakespeare Thing.

Just Like Everybody Else maces him.

Just-         Let me make myself perfectly obtuse,
              Senor Never Ever Serve Me Fucking Fakin Bacon!
              My golden retriever ain't gettin slammd
              Into the dirty little pussy pound
              By no undercover badgebitch
              With promotional perfumes
              In his brain farts, so you crawl
              On back to your cooshyhood precinct
              And tell Sergeant Suck My Gritty Mucus
              That the next nookie-rookie he ships
              Into KissMyWetWhiteAss-istan
              Goes home in a parts-of-the-body bag
              Stitcht a your mama's melanomas,
              Hab Ich mein Schizomania klargemacht?
Stiff-        I'm not a cop, I swear on the tribal.
              I'm just a lonely married man
              Looking for unilateral love
              In the spookiest place I know.
Just-         And you want that American Shakespeare Thing?
Stiff-        More than a kid wants the right kind of jeans.
Just-         Are all your riddles in a row, you pesky Mexican?
Stiff-        No, but I'm a seedy old risk-taker
              Who's lickt a lot of oatmeal-looking
              Stuff off questionable public places.
Just-         It'll cost you mad purple green.
Stiff-        I just refinanced my Arsissisticnay
              Ersonalitypay Isorderday,
              So money means about as much to me
              As the latent hostility I refuse
              To deflate by embracing contradiction.
Just-         Allright, but I've never done this before.
Stiff-        Virgins of verse, unite!
Just-         I think it's best I wear this latex
              Head-satchel to protect us both
              From poetically transmitted desires.

She puts pantyhose over her head.

Stiff-        Meeting a twat-bot with safety concerns
              Makes me realize the importance
              Of voting on values infliction.
Just-         Did you just call me a safety concern?
Stiff-        Hey yeah cool way to go uh hu sweet!
Just-         So, this is a scene from the Burnt Woman
              Of Harvard, in which a female burn victim
              Stalks a male Harvard student
              To get him to write an ode on her beauty,
              And this is their first meeting. You ready?
Stiff-        I can barely keep my personae in my dramatis.

Meg-          What is it draws me dreaming to my man?
              That makes mind‟s melody his body‟s note?
              Not ruf or soft, not crucial width or span,
              And he may be as shy as the world is gloat,
              No measure calls me dreaming to my man.
              It‟s not in hope, in acheless, helpless power,
              In luring stillest space his motions gest,
              In words that show he knows to trick the hour,
              It‟s not his lacking nor in his excess,
              For no design has markt me for my man.
              His flower face, his peer with all that dies,
              His humble, proud, deranging urge to in,
              His life-long blink, his animal surmise
              Of what must be because it‟s never been,
              No certain thing has formed me to my man.
              His being‟s not yet born to be abused,
              His respite grueling nature has refused,
              When final innocence clears the first accused
              He‟ll laugh and long again the life perused,
              O none but this congrues me to my man.

Enter Mark.

Mark-         Why are you following me?
Meg-          I am the one that is followed.
Mark-         No! You were at my class, at the party,
              With Clara, and now here, stalking, blaming,
              Making yourself seen, making me seen. Why?
Meg-          You are so beautiful, I lackt the courage
              To speak with you.
Mark-         You are more unafraid,
              More present, prouder than any of us;
              It‟s I who pillage beauty for my courage.
Meg-          O, no, for you are O so brave already,
              And you can speak. I have seen you, heard you,
              Nor need you pillage beauty, for she‟s yours.
Mark-   You‟re all fucking burned. Your face, legs, your
        Twisted and fire-gnarled. Beauty? Shite!
        What are we talking about? What is beauty?
        The flame we feed? To live forever fake
        In fear of rut? To laminate our flesh?
        Why follow beauty if its furor leads
        To this? This despoiled evagination?
Meg-    Because beauty is good and perdures most.
        It orders us, without where-wondering,
        Falls on us, visits us late-night, early-day,
        Sanctions us, counts our merits, provides
        Our uncoupled organs with symmetry,
        Ovation the discongruent soul requires
        To unsleep. Beauty is the outstanding
        Unqualitous nuance, mobile and set,
        Of our initial, eternal desire,
        Prudent for abandon, phobaphobic,
        Mining for power in memory‟s lack,
        And without beauty, all would go extinct,
        All conflict, no concession, all pain, no pet,
        All tease, no elation, and we would be
        Only what we are, crabs on a scrap heap,
        Clawing for sparks in the dusk, rummaging
        Thru a long-shut sale, a skin shedding
        Its source, a nulling design, endlessly
        Driving forward to find perfection‟s past,
        Living like a thrill in a box, ugly,
        Mutilated, a burn victim haunting
        The shady silva of some bright squalor,
        The filthy squalor of some great splendor.
Mark-   Why me?
Meg-    Because I saw you talking once
        With a blond girl in Au Bon Pain, I saw
        Your horror at my appearance; others
        Pitied or reproved, but you were as sick
        As I; the empathy of revulsion
        Has bonded us within this conflagration.
Mark-   But I saw you first in class, thru the window.
Meg-    O, no. You‟ve seen me many times before,
        Only now are you ready for the truth.
Mark-   So what do you want?
Meg-    I want you to look at me,
        To touch me, to say “O you are lovely,”
        “You are my love,” to show your awe,
        To stand before me rapt, to shower me,
        To call me beautiful, to meet my needs,
              To say all‟s just begun, that all is done.
Mark-         It would be untrue.
Meg-          I will be so high
              The sound itself will devise the intent,
              And I will be soothed.
Mark-         I can‟t.
Meg-          Close your eyes.
Mark-         Why?
Meg-          That once I‟m near, and you open them,
              My eyes, the only part of me unscarred,
              Will be all you‟ll see.
Mark-         I can‟t.
Meg-          Close your eyes.
Mark-         I‟m sorry.
Meg-          Close them, beautiful.
Mark-         They‟re closed.

She nears him and sings.

Meg-          When you were born, I fell asleep;
              When I awoke, you hid.
              As I lookt round, your stifled weep
              My dewy vision bid.
              Now I am here, you close your eyes
              As if to look in mine
              Might lure you to realize
              A need none may resign.
              But do not fear, for I am dead,
              Live only in your trace,
              And when you look, your beauty dread
              Perceives within my face
              Its own desire, by light allied
              Of common, kindling sun,
              So in me now, eyes new and wide,
              Reflect oblivion.

Mark opens his eyes.

Mark-         So close, you are not burnt, but beautiful.
Meg-          When she walks in wind, her dress
              Shows her body‟s curves.
              When in sluiceless calm she moves
              Abstracted are her nerves.
              Not beautiful, but frail and bedazzled.
Mark-         They tell me you make poets.
Meg-          I make poems
              For those who dare to hear.
Mark-       What must I do?
Meg-        You must sleep in the lightning.
Mark-       So I will.
Meg-        You must swim with the raining.
Mark-       So I will.
Meg-        You must take first in the farcical games,
            The big-top tiger of the sun-down circus,
            Fanged for random and regimen both,
            The newest enemy of the oldest term,
            You must live all delusions.
Mark-       So I will.
Meg-        And yet, to be a poet worth his words,
            You must touch me.
Mark-       No.
Meg-        Please, for I am dry,
            Trembling for the flesh‟s fluid recess,
            And you, to my thirst a sweet consent,
            Swirl in potent, resonant display,
            Hovering above me capacious clouds
            Of symbolry. O I am burning mad
            Until you mist my hopes with ripples cool.
Mark-       No.
Meg-        Touch me.
Mark-       No, I can‟t. O what have I done?

He exits.

Meg-        You run from truth? O you are no poet!

Stiff-      That was strange, but squishy.
Just-       I found it wet, yet toasty.
Stiff-      My affective vegetable body
            Is opening like an inner-space
            Oyster, revealing the warm creamy
            Pearl of non-financial consciousness.
Just-       My cup had been broketh under
            By the center-maintainment industry
            Shipping me blinding electronic blips
            Performed by a select uber-slop
            Of normo-synthetic proto-goons
            Who perpetuate the culture bores
            By doing bad crap in a sexy way,
            But this versifactional incident
            Of enacting true human dilemma
            Thru a spectrum of symbols all
            Interlocking a wild barrage of sublime
            Energies grounded in desire, well,
             It fills me to the brim with who knows what!
Stiff-       I'm suppling, I'm bending, I'm going dermal.
Just-        That‟s the power of poetry!
Stiff-       Dramatic poetry!
Just-        With characters pursuing objectives!
Stiff-       Spoken in one's own vernacular!
Just-        But with a twang of tradition!
Both-        At last, I'm alive!

They sing.

             Ya say ya want prosaic realism,
             Well, ya know, we all wish that you were dead.
             Ya say ya want mainstream productions,
             Well, ya know, why don't ya shoot yourself instead?
             Cuz if all ya want on the stage is the shit you think,
             Ya might as well die and come back as a kitchen
             Don't ya know it's gonna be in verse, etc...

Chipper-     A scene from the Irked Foreskin of Kierkegaard
             By that Partisan Atmosphere Thing,
             Being “grody boner,” being “pedantic romantic,”
             Being “boinky boinky I love cocaine,”
             Being “For fuck sake, someone fist me facially,”
             So let's go now to the man on the street,
             Or, in our case, a woman on her knees,
             Since the man on the street has been sent
             To Swedenland, where loser fucks like him
             Live off the sweat of the man on the phone.
             Woman on her knees, what do you make
             Of all this lush conflictual verbiage
             Piddling its wagslabber pudgy nunchkins
             All over Chimerica like aeriated mercury
             Massaging uninhabitable preschools?
Woman-       Frankly, it frightens me. As a woman
             On her knees, all this talking goes so far
             Over my head, I live in constant
             Fear of being poopt on by something
             I don't really get, aimlessly speaking.
Chipper-     Do you believe the government's response
             To this threat is sufficient or would you
             Like to see more massive white guys
             With injun breath combing the suburbs
             For random fruity people and shit?
Woman-       The government has no right to limit
             Me from limiting other peoples' rights,
              And I‟d stand up for my right to do so
              If I weren't a woman on her knees.
Chipper-      Let's say, for the sake of frightening you
              With impossible hypotheticals,
              That you were to meet that Pedestrian
              Deepfear Thing. Would you:
              a) Surf it all the way to the surfer school;
              b) Fellatiate the Great Protestant Toil;
              c) Host a Disathon for homosexual weapons
              d) Yes and no.
Woman-        I'd say "Just cuz I'm a woman on her knees
              Don't mean I wanna see your silly willy!"
Chipper-      Okay, and to thank you for blowing our show,
              We've arranged for you to be fatally healed
              By a gift all demand yet none desire.

Two men enter, place a noose around her neck, and raise her up.

Woman-        I can stand!

She dies by hanging.

Chipper-      Proof in point - Little dogs are the nastiest.
              This just in! That Conservatives Are Queer Thing
              Has been spotted at the Cambridge Change Cafe
              Near the campus of Rich Insular Gated
              Community College! For the latest on that,
              Here's another chunk of mindless filler.
Obvious-      Good morning. I'm An Obvious Mouthpiece
              For the Author Who's Awfully Angry Because
              He's Received Too Many Rejections
              From Lame Institutions Incapable
              Of Appreciating Him For What He Is:
              An Author Who's Awfully Angry, etc…
              To my rosey rear now engaggles
              The Organization for Desperately
              Overserious Graduate Students Studying
              Writing Because They're Too Afraid
              To Admit That Educational Indoctrination
              Hampers Individual Expression.
              For the last 236 minutes,
              Give or take at will, I've been screaming
              At them, "This area is under Code Port Wine
              Stain Alert for a possible That American
              Shakespeare Thing theater event!
              Evacuate now or suffer dangerously
             Enlightening verse drama abrasions
             To your unknown organs of mimesis!"
             But being ridiculously under-realized
             Graduate students studying writing
             Because they're too endowed to confess
             That institutional legitimation
             Disembowels aboriginal imagination,
             They are not given to swallowing
             Toxic truths. As for me, my conscience
             Is as clean as the whistle of an annoying
             Giddy co-worker, the authorities are rushing
             To the scene in arbitrarily impounded
             Vehicles, and all I can do is stand here
             Like the obvious mouthpiece that I am.
Student 1-   "Awe"thorial pre-flex no/wherative
Student 2-   Most:capitalist hege(?)ironical charismo=cratic
Student 3-   Faux*lexemic methodo.stochastical religiofascist
Obvious-     Adorable inane banter soon to be
             Insufficiently support-squelched by
             An unflattering, elite populism.
1-           I don't agree, because then I'd appear
             Less intelligent than you.
2-           I don‟t care, because then I‟d appear
             More hung-up than you.
1-           What's your take, O brave and lonely
             Soldierette of the Rhythmic Rhymolution?
3-           I think we should simply consider
             Doing that American Shakespeare Thing.
Obvious-     The fan, the shit, the hitting, O my!
1-           Qua?
2-           Speak verse?
1-           Act different?
2-           Show desire?
3-           It might make us feel better.
1-           I feel fine.
2-           I don't.
1-           I don't either.
2-           Last night I tried to elegantly suck
             Skinny shrimps from soggy shells
             With that panda-ghost I call my mouth
             And I fell like a fact-averse neo-con
             Into a pretentious depression.
3-           My boring faculty luncheon thighs clench
             Together with the inexplicable ache
           Of long-lost autistic test-tube twins
           Who dress in the same uncomfortable doubts.
1-         I'm obsessively casual about the issue
           Of how a cold heart can warm itself
           Without significant external input.
2-         I can't stop laughing at myself
           In a cruel manner.
3-         I can't stop talking about things
           That don't interest me.
1-         I eat my own poop.
2-         I'm dating a golfer.
3-         We should try that American Shakespeare Thing!
Obvious-   Here you see how this pre-then post-now
           Dramatic fuzz plays on the grippery
           Grope of the gullible mood meat,
           Wrapping barenaked bullish self-
           Promotion in petty repetitive skits
           Which only callow-ruse-delighting
           Bad-theater-attending frown and pouters
           Could ever enjoy or call "worth sneaking into."
1-         But I hear that American Shakespeare Thing
           Is hard, and no fun, and really long.
2-         I hear it's like finding a bloody scalp
           Stufft inside your Thanksgiving Turkey.
3-         I hear it's like making phat succubus love
           On ecstasy to a cute and punkish
           16 year old mulatto violinist
           Named Gorgeous Woodenspoon who dives
           So deep into your Specific Ocean, you shoot
           Water spouts stockt with holy mackerel.
1-         So?
2-         What have we got to lose?
3-         Nothing. We're transcendently anomated
           Graduate students studying writing
           Because we're too professorized to see
           That peer-review is next to germ-water
           In the pantheon of healthy think-drink.
Obvious-   And there you have it. That American
           Shakespeare Thing infiltrating
           The hollow halls of hired yearning
           With its exquisite waste of time, forcing
           All you sore-asst suckers to sit thru
           An impromptu performance of a scene
           From "Midnight Brainwash Revival,"
           In which the nefarious land developer
           Mordecon comes to Moab, Utah,
                 And via local mormon lawyer, Swagart,
                 Disenfranchises huckster hippy Hooch
                 Of his rightful property inheritance,
                 Wherefor Hooch slips dope on Swagart, thereby
                 Discrediting him and avenging his greed.
                 O where is the Central Intolerance Agency
                 When you need it to protect the tiny
                 Wartorn oil sheikdom of America
                 From its own renewable creative juices?
3-               We're short an actor. Care to join us?
Obvious-         Love to!

Hooch-           Children, come in close, and receive thy tutelage.
Kid-             Awesome fatty, Hooch!
Hooch-           This, by appearance, is a perfectly proper gringo
                 cigar, but within the scurfy tissues of its puritan
                 puffing phallus is compacted such a killer clat of
                 dopes, one toke could make a mormon think
                 himself a Latin hunk.
Kid-             Rock like a Shock Jock! What‟s inside, Clyde?
Hooch-           Uncle Hooch‟s Salad of Grandiloquent Delusions,
                 patent pending, being a mesclun of peyote buttons,
                 angel dust, Jamaican tie, and nutmeg, for that zesty
                 holiday zing.
Kid-             Slide it down, don‟t make me frown.
Hooch-           Nay, this bud is not for you. Toot this diet fag.

They light up.

Swag-            Whoever you are, I sniff that smoke, and come to
Hooch-           Act like nothin‟s happenin.
Karma-           No problem.

Enter Swagart.

Swag-            Ha! I shouldst have known! Where there‟s stink,
                 there is Satan. Sir, no smoking on the grounds of
                 Triple Zero.
Hooch-           No one‟s smoking, sir.
Swag-            Then why the smoke?
Hooch-           No tellin, sir. I can‟t see thru the smoke.
Swag-            What‟s that behind your back?
Hooch-           I‟ve wondered all my life, sir, but everytime I turn
                 around it stays behind my back.
Swag-          Nay, nambypamby not me. I refer to the object you
               so perfunctorily passt to your posterior portions
               during my opening argument.
Hooch-         O, that! Nothing.
Swag-          Nothing concealed is something. Display the item,
               and tell your friends to stop making those faces.
Hooch-         But that‟s their angel nature, sir. Kids make faces to
               give to adults who are always losin face.
Swag-          Revealeth thou!

Hooch takes out the cigar from behind his back.

Swag-          A stimulant!
Hooch-         Little does he know.
Swag-          You mumbled, sir?
Hooch-         I said, give my tweens death-row, cuz we all know
               where smokin leads: First, they‟re lightin up. Then
               pretty soon they‟re pimpin Kornsop Poonkob,
               shootin baby porn into their eyelids, sluggin
               recycled Valvoline, and livin on mac and cheese.
Swag-          Giveth me it!
Hooch-         Yes, sir.

Swagart takes the cigar.

Swag-          All of you report to my office, and once I‟ve
               examined this specimen, I shall pronounce your
Hooch-         He won‟t be able to pronounce his own name.
Swag-          Sorry?
Hooch-         Thank you, sir.
Swag-          My office!
Hooch-         Yes, sir, but it‟s hard to go, since I heard that‟s the
               tastiest butt this side of Castro‟s toilet.
Swag-          My office!
Hooch-         Yes, sir.
Swag-          Such a sweet, innocent youngster...
Karma-         Hands off, bible humper.

Hooch, Kid and Karma exit and hide to the side.

Kid-           You think he‟ll toke it?
Hooch-         Swagart sneaks out every night behind his camper
               and tickles his tobacco jones. Mira! Like a vagrant
               on a donut.
Kid-           I call roach.
Karma-         Get a life.
Kid-            You are my life.
Hooch-          Hush!
Swag-           Sir? Well, I am alone. And what have we here? Ah,
                pure Havana! How did that clod of mildew
                acquisition such a treat?
Kid-            You‟re my clod of mildew treat.
Kar-            You‟re like whatever.
Hooch-          Hush, I said.
Swag-           I will smoke it tonight. Yet, it shall stale. Now it is
                as fresh as a new playmate.
Kid-            You‟re my stale playmate.
Kar-            Trippin.
Hooch-          Quiet!
Swag-           Nay, I best enjoy it now, in revel of the sale to
                Mordecon, from which will flow, as natural as the
                letdown from a dam, regional growth, my selection
                as Mayor, and something more befitting my gifts
                than a semi-luxury mobile home.

He lights up.

Hooch-          O my life for this moment!
Swag-           Now here is such a mind massage, I‟ll soon be rid
                the stress of mangy Hooch.
Kid-            Wanna massage?
Hooch-          Shut, or it‟s a spankin.
Kar-            Wanna spankin?
Hooch-          You two lovebirds cut the chirps or I go get my
Swag-           Yea, the good lord, in his endless wisdom, hath
                given each man a vice, and mine is smoke. When
                smoke is in me, I feel puffy, turgid, rich. When
                smoke escapes me, I am a dangerous dragon roaring
                for his pig knuckles. And when smoke lingers about
                me, I feel its foggy worship, like a tiny genie in a
                string bikini gesturing come hither.
Kid-            Come wither.
Kar-            Get away.
Hooch-          Chilluns, begloze the glory! The dummy scint, the
                dullard sharp, the tight and nosy loose and easy.
Swag-           I am quite affected by this blend. Perhaps I drew too
                deeply in my pre-deal zeal. Such changes, such
                sensations. Ah! The good lord is my shepherd and
                he shall not let me stray.
Hooch-          Thy shepherd, you stooge, is off behind the barn a-
                bangin sheep.
Swag-        Wow! Have I got big plans for this town! First, we
             convert City Hall to a Christian Conversion Center,
             where I shall serve as both mayor and pastor. Yea,
             my title shall be master.
Hooch-       Sorry, Swagart, no more public service - you
Swag-        The wayward youth shall come to me for moral and
             mental guidance, and for example, I shall judge the
             derelicts! Here‟s Hooch and his hippy friends now!
Kid-         Shikes! He sees us!
Hooch-       Wait! The us he sees ain‟t us.
Swag-        Please, Master Swagart, don‟t jail us for drugs. And
             here am I, sternly staring down from my faux-
             mahogany bench, “thou substance-infested
             transients, I sentence thee to the slammer!”
Hooch-       We‟ll see who‟s gettin slammed, you salt-lake
Swag-        Away they go in chains, adequately chastised, and I
             head home for the evening, to be greeted by my
             three obedient wives; Jemima, browning my cakes;
             Bathsheba, drawing my bath, and Eve, nude in the
             garden; After our welcome rituals, they prepare my
             hair and garment for the Jesus Jamboree!
Hooch-       O where‟s my mother now?
Swag-        We take my limo to the Arches Auditorium, linger
             with my fans awhile midst pork-kabobs and gummy
             bears, then I, MC Swagart, go a-prancing onto stage
             for my Teen Mania Ministry! After a rousing lecture
             on the evils of art, science, and all things
             alternative, my Christian rock band,
             Nebuchadnezzar‟s Nightmare, plays Cocaine,
             ironically. Beside me, scantily-clad dancing angels
             celebrate my organizational skills, as above us, in
             glowing cages, muscular gladiators in orange tights
             battle the Prince of Negritude with huge jiggling
Hooch-       It is done. His brain is now a county fair of swirling
             fatty acids. Ready, children, to do as planned?
Kid-         Yeah, let‟s do as planned. What‟s the plan?
Hooch-       Just follow your Karma.
Kid-         Like spring follows summer.

Hooch jumps out.

Hooch-       Swagart, man, you were right! I shoulda confesst
             my wrongs! O, forgive me!
Hooch exits.

Swag-          What is this? Has my Jesus Jamboree converted

Enter Kid and Karma.

Kar-           The lord is come!
Kid-           Come, come.
Kar-           The Apocalypse!
Kid-           Lips, lips!
Kar-           Get right or meet they doom!
Kid-           Vroom, vroom!

They exit.

Swag-          The lord is come? Can it be? There have been many
               strange occurrences of late. Sex, violence, recession.
               Ah! The end-times are upon us! O, my lord, you are
               come and I accept you. But, your message is get
               right. O, I am not right!

Enter Hooch, dresst as Yahway, Karma and Kid as angels.

Kar-           Hepatitis.
Kid-           Hoky poky.
Kar-           Gingivitis.
Kid-           Stinky soaky.
Hooch-         I am Yahway, cometh to end these things.
Kid/Kar-       Yahway.
Swag-          What is this vision before me? The ancient father
               and his cherubs dainty? It surges from my craving
               for redemption. I‟ll shut my eyes and open them
               again. Nay! Still present! Art thou, O baffling form,
               my creator?
Hooch-         I ameth.
Swag-          O what wouldst thou with me?
Hooch-         I demandeth your depression.
Swag-          Sorry, lord?
Hooch-         I demandeth your depression!
Swag-          Dost thou mean confession, lord?
Hooch-         Nay! Some drunk monk made a typo, confession for
               depression, and ever since thou peopleth have been
               getting it all wrongeth!
Swag-          Ist the process still the same, my lord?
Hooch-         Ist ist, and proceed.
Swag-          My confession...
Hooch-     My depression!
Swag-      My depression is that I am proud. Forgive me, lord!
Hooch-     Forget me, lord!
Swag-      Pardon?
Hooch-     The phrase is forget me, lord. Another error
           thanketh to drink!
Swag-      There‟s quite a difference betwixt forgive and
           forget, isn‟t there, lord?
Hooch-     Use the proper phrase!
Swag-      Forget me, lord.
Hooch-     Thou art forgotten. Continue thy depression.
Swag-      I am covetous, lord.
Hooch-     Wretched winner!
Swag-      What?
Hooch-     It is not sinners I hate, but winners.
Swag-      I am no winner, lord.
Hooch-     You can say that againeth.
Swag-      I am no...
Hooch-     Silence, winner!
Swag-      Name the act of contrition.
Hooch-     The act of emission!
Swag-      Another typo, lord?
Hooch-     After his depression, the winner is forgotten if he
           commits the act of emission.
Swag-      Thy monks are sloppy, lord!
Hooch-     Exceeding sloppy.
Swag-      Be there any other typos I might need to know of,
Hooch-     Yea, there art as many typos as thy lewd
           transgressions, of which thou hast not named the
Swag-      Don‟t make me name it, lord.
Karma-     Name the shame, lame the blame!
Kid -      Sayeth Yahway the Huge!
Swag-      I have, my lord, touched myself.
Hooch-     This is too much information for even the
Swag-      Forget me, please!
Hooch-     Thy depression is itself the act of emission. Thou art
           forgotten for winning.
Swag-      Thank you, lord.
Hooch-     Now shall I name the chosen one!
Swag-      And I shall follow him!
Hooch-     Swallow him.
Swag-      Swallow him.
Hooch-     Thou shalt know him by his symbols three.
Kid/Kar-   The symbols three!
Hooch-        A fish-shaped birthmark, a swaying way, and a
              sense of unky.
Swag-         I hear, O lord, but what is unky?
Hooch-        The end is neareth!
Kid/Kar-      Neareth, neareth!
Hooch-        Find the savior!
Kid/Kar-      Savior, savior!
Hooch-        Fish-shaped birthmark, swaying way, and a sense of
Kid/Kar-      Unky, unky!

They exit.

Swag-         Lord, O lord! I must find the man who has these
              symbols three. He is the savior! But what? Don‟t I
              possess a birthmark, here, on my hip? It‟s somewhat
              like a fish, or a squid. A squid‟s a fish, isn‟t it? Yes,
              it is! I possess the first symbol. But the second
              symbol - a swaying way. Have I a swaying way? I
              have been known to sway, though it is not my
              primary ambulatory style. Perhaps it means to hold
              sway as I do in my community? No, that‟s
              stretching things. Ah! Sway is like Swag, and my
              name, Swagart, taking art as method or way, means
              I am swaying way, my name, Swagart, swaying
              way! O! The second symbol! Yet the third symbol -
              a sense of unky...

Enter Hooch, Kid, and Karma.

Hooch-        Swagart, man, what‟s that on your head?
Swag-         Hair, I imagine.
Kar-          Wo, it‟s a halo.
Swag-         There‟s a halo on my head?
Kid-          Lead us, O savior!
Swag-         Can this be true? My mother always said that I was
              special, but a halo on my head? Well, one thing
              leads to another. Get me to a mirror!
Hooch-        Use the birdbath!

As Swagart looks at himself, Kid holds a frisbee up behind his

Swag-         O my god, I am god! The son select, the flesh made
              word, O I am the man! Is there still a halo on my
Hooch-        Still it looms like fog on a mountain crest.
1-             My shit so crunkin, yo, I gotsta shizow!
2-             Shizow to Affirmative Inaction and dat
               All Niggaz Be Created Evil Crew.
Obvious-       Shizow!
3-             Major shizow to Meadowlark Demon,
               Frag Skizzy Tip, and my op-dead posse
               Down at Mixt-Up Medical Records.
1-             Information's innoculation, s'nuf!
2-             And fast on da beast, a mitesty shizow
               To Gigolo Fizz and Snaj T6,
               Da Hickerator!
Obvious-       Shizow Pizzow!
1-             Dis one's for all you‟s otha-klunkaz be flowin
               Dat accentual syllabic meter
               Wit dem occasional rhyming quatrains, yo.
2-             Make it fake fo‟ real, my drama queens!
3-             And never misunderstanza me, a'ight?
Obvious-       Shizow!

They sing.

               We are the thespians, my friends!
               And we'll keep on over-acting to the end!
               We are the thespians,
               We are the thespians,
               No time for working
               Cuz we are the thespians
               Of the inverse university!

There's a knock at the door of Lorelei Barbaloot Free.

Lorelei-       Password?
Voice-         All the world‟s one massive corporation
               And we are merely theater fags working
               At that massive corporation, wishing we
               Were acting on some lavish kinky stage.
Lor-           Come in.

Enter Double Agent Ethnocentric Self-Interest, who is posing as
her boyfriend, Brazen Rapture.

Brazen-        You good to go, sweetmeat?
Lor-           Word is my action.

Double Agent Ethnocentric Self-Interest brings in Double Agent
Fellopia Meat Substitute, who is posing as a reporter, G-Honky.
She is blindfolded. Double Agent Ethnocentric Self-Interest
removes the blindfold once she's in the room.

G-Honky-      Dag, dis snoop best be da scoop, cuz I ain't been
              Dat humilibriated since Loquacious Dump
              And Princess Dirty Ol' Mayonnaise
              Gone hifi on my lowbrow bankin' snizzitch.
Lor-          This is our country's most important
              Investigative journalist?
Brazen-       She's big with the “watches anything” market.
G-Honky-      I get you to da peeps wut matters, yo.

Brazen gets behind the camera.

Brazen-       And we're on.
G-Honky-      Wuzzup, You Blighted Fag-Baiters of Hysterica?
              Dis be yo hostess wit da yo-yo-yo-stess,
              G-Honky, aka da bunka bustin botat
              Wut got dat mad devotion lotion motion,
              And I's here in some undissolved location,
              Havin had my horsy lashes all twist up
              In dat gettin-der boshiz, to snig da wuzzup
              On dis here special wacko. You knows me:
              On it like a wannabe on a Warner Brutha.
              So, tells us who you be, por favoreo cookie.
Lor-          I am William Shakespeare.
G-            S'wut? Call me a child left on her behind,
              But weren't he born in like 200 BS
              And weren't he like a man?
Lor-          I was born in 1563, and I am a man.
G-            Then my senses be douchin me, yo!
Lor-          Because you are perceiving my host body,
              Which was born in 1976
              As Lorelei Barbaloot Free.
G-            Losin me, Boobaloot G!
Lor-          This substance is merely a device
              Whereby I have returned to earth
              To create more exquisite literature.
G-            So, like, you an alien, or re-incarcerated, or wut?
Lor-          You may use whatever metaphysical
              Terminology best assuages your anxiety
              At the terribly imminent unknown,
              But I prefer to speak the simple truth,
              Which is that I am William Shakespeare.
G-            Yeah, and I'm Jewish Caesar! Joke, yo!
              No e-rage, please. I'm as anti-semantic
              As Challah-wood. So, like how long
       You known you dat Bard of Avon Lady?
Lor-   For many years I struggled under
       The too-common delusion that I
       Was an above-average American girl
       Of negotiable intelligence and ignorable
       Inspiration, destined for instammatic
       Denouement in a non-orgasmic household,
       But then, just after I got into college,
       I started having these strange urges.
G-     Me too, girlfriend, me too!
Lor-   Urges to record, celebrate, and enrich
       My new culture thru extravagant verse plays
       Full of demographically diverse characters,
       Intense emotional conundra, and
       Philosophically engaging discourse
       In a lavish metaphorical mix
       Of complex prose and iambic pentameter.
G-     So you knew you crazy!
Lor-   So I knew that I was William Shakespeare.
G-     A'ight, a'ight. So tell us this, Lord Geeky Speak:
       It been personly unconformable
       Inhibiting a physical physiquage
       Wut don't ezakly scream out "Elizabohemian
       Poet wit da double-bubbled snot gun"?
Lor-   When I came out to my parents
       They were ingratiatingly bemused
       At first, but once they discovered
       I was saying something more permanent
       Than "I want to be a writer and live
       In your basement til I finish my book,"
       They sent me to a shrink.
G-     A shrink wut sucky!
Lor-   Why sucky?
G-     Cuz, Mista Sista, you ain't cured!
Lor-   Would it be curing to convince me I'm not
       The greatest writer ever, when I am?
G-     Aw, quit spritzin bong water on my thong butter!
       This be sum sorta pubicity stunt!
       You don't really think you's the super queen
       In pouty wig and sheer energy wut wrote
       Homeo and Giblet and Lots To Do For Nothin'
       And dat nasty yawn bout sum faze nigga
       Wut let Little Ho Peakid get his grouch
       All up and funky, duz ya?
Lor-   When you possess a talent rare as mine,
       You know who you are.
G-     Yeah, well, as you said, "Da poof is in da pooty."
Lor-         I never said that.
G-           That weren't you?
Lor-         No, it's a common misconception
             That I said "the proof is in the pudding,"
             But I didn't. Nor did I say "Hell hath no fury
             Like a woman scorned," or "Let them have
             Their cake and eat it too."
G-           But you did say
             “Nothing‟s known but thru immersion swum,”
             And “Hunger is a point not well debated,”
             And “He was better than he knew how to be,”
             Did you not?
Lor-         Nope, that‟s not me either.
G-           That ain‟t you?
Lor-         I‟ve never heard those phrases in my life,
             Nor, frankly, would I have written them.
G-           Well, then, this is the question:
             Did you write the plays?
Lor-         As sure as I am I and you are you.

Enter Big Rock Candy Mountain We Love You.

Big Rock-    Busted like a nut on a tampon!
Lor-         Big Rock Candy Mountain We Love You?
Big-         The babbling yook that spins the sham
             That prods the grunts who grind the gears
             That eat the earth to stuff the gruff
             Who feed the fear of babbling yook
             Drif their glory hole sewage trophies
             From my omnivorous high-greed buttsky modem.
Lor-         What?
Big-         Don‟t bother me! I‟m celebrating internally!
Brazen-      Shall I bind her in bragadocious metals?
Lor-         Wait a minute! You‟re not Brazen Rapture,
             That cute, clever, if not somewhat unshowered
             Political activist dreamboy I met
             At the “It‟s a Planet; So Plan It, Damn It!”
Brazen-      My real name is Double Agent Ethnocentric Self-
             And I specialize in devious pillow-talk.
Lor-         That means you‟re not G-Honky, aka
             Nex Tize Ya Play Me, Stretch Mobsta,
             My Doom Be Mad Bitch Ample, A‟ight?
G-           No, but did ya buy it? I‟m thinking
             Of leaving flaw enforcement and getting
             My Third Degree in Gabby Tits and Ass.
Big-      Double Agent Fellopia Meat Substitute!
G-        Sorry, boss, but once in a man-scarred moon
          An endangered brand-expansion jingle bird
          Slips thru time‟s opportunity boycott
          And lands on my inhibitory receptors.
Brazen-   Leaving you forced to forego the fruits
          Of senseless auto-deforestation.
Big-      Stop speaking in poetry and book the poet!
Brazen-   William Shakespeare, you are under arrest
          For the crime of that American Shakespeare Thing.
Big-      The war against theater fags is won,
          And the rest is primetime violence.
Lor-      Excuse me? You think I wrote that crap?
          Pu-lease Police!
Big-      You confessed to writing the plays!
Lor-      I said I wrote my plays, not those plays.
          O, yeah. Here‟s some fine fuckin detective work!
          She‟s Shakespeare, she‟s American,
          She‟s that American Shakespeare!
          Just cuz something‟s true don‟t make it
          A good idea. You think I‟d respond
          To this splendid American mess with
          Iambic Pentameter 2.0?
          The world needs new verse plays like I need
          Another hypothetical biography.
          You wouldn‟t catch me dead writing for the stage.
          No money no funny. Theater is
          Something you do between fucking up
          And getting your shit together.
          I write movies! Ya know, like “Get Real, Harlem!”
          “Our Children Must Never Stop Believing
          In the Myth of Progress Thru Pollution.”
          “Can You Smell My Itchy Spot From There?”
          Yo, I am way too into my instantly
          Obsolescent electronical shit
          To ever put on some dumb-ass costume
          And scream nonsense at a bunch of empty seats.
Brazen-   I‟m so confused, I feel like a puppy
          Who‟s lost his squeaky toy, so he‟s trying
          To teethe on his tiny heart, but it‟s complex,
          Cuz if I chew thru my chest, I could die!
G-        It‟s hard to find your focus
          When you‟re focused on your finder.
Big-      Stop being deep so I can think!
Lor-      And you thought you could spin some fancy ending
          On William Shakespeare? Stupid Americans!
Enter a messenger.

Mess-          Big Rock Candy Mountain We Love You?
Big-           The babbling yook that spins the sham
               That prods…present and unaccounted for.
Mess-          Message from that American Shakespeare.
Big-           Kill the messenger!
G-             Then we won‟t hear the message!
Big-           Right! Nevermind! Proceed!
Mess-          The message is inside this envelope.
Big-           So?
Mess-          So open it and do as it demands,
               Or the cultural carnage continues.
Big-           I don‟t negotiate with theater fags!
Mess-          Very well. Verse plays! Get your verse plays here!
Big-           Wait! In this instance, I shall make
               An executive disorder stating
               That “to negotiate” shall hereby mean,
               “To most delicately save one‟s guilty ass.”

Big Rock opens the envelope.

Big-           He wants me to act? I‟m a politician!
               My integrity and all that bullshit!
               You tell that American Shakespeare that I,
               Big Rock Candy Mountain We Love You,
               Defy him with all the horsy power
               That my “Elvis Has Left A Sample”
               Pelvic thrusts can conjure up in croneship.
Mess-          I will tell that American Shakespeare
               Another must play the part that‟s writ for you.
Big-           Stop! Writ pour moi?
Mess-          That‟s right.
Big-           What part?
Mess-          Benedict Arnold.
Big-           But he betrayed his country!
Mess-          That‟s right.
Big-           I will do it!
Mess-          This is a scene from the American Revolution
               In which a young British Officer,
               Major John Andre, who‟s been sleeping
               With Benedict Arnold‟s wife, Peggy,
               Sneaks onto rebel grounds and convinces
               General Arnold to betray America.

Enter Andre.
Andre-       So here I wait in ambush for my victim.
             Yet why the wait? Am I not my victim?
             Does not the weasel shimmy thru my soul?
             O, it is revolting, this deception
             That would kill a man to have a woman.
             Of course, I am not lacking precedent,
             So am I but a puppet to the past,
             Unfolding from a bad original,
             Bearing nothing new into the world?
             O what disgraces love will drag you to!
             Yet think on this - it‟s not just any woman,
             But pretty Pegeen, as precious a prize
             As ever sent coward to secretly shoot
             A man, nay, a husband, nay, a hero
             Far greater, and much fiercer, than himself.
             It is the special character of love
             To simultaneously sink and raise,
             To plunge us into gross depravity
             While elevating us to sacrifice
             So sweet, so sick, so beautiful, so base.
             I am the victim of my Peggy‟s charms,
             Betraying decency for my delights.
             So, to my break, and silence, save for cocking.

Arnold comes up behind.

Arn-         Fair midnight, sir. Why are you in that bush?
And-         Who would know?
Arn-         General Benedict Arnold.
And-         Ah! The very man I‟m waiting to meet!
Arn-         What‟s your name and rank?
And-         Major John Andre,
             British Third Division, but what a thrill
             To stand before the greatest Yankee General!
             May I with such a violent man now shake
             A friendly hand.
Arn-         You may not.
And-         Of course,
             We are at war and must detest each other.
             Proper, very proper, but dear General,
             I‟ve come to make you an offer.
Arn-         You lie,
             And so shall die the death you meant for me.
And-         Good General, no!
Arn-         Shut up and pray.
And-         To you
             As to my God! O great American,
       I could not kill the thing I worship past
       All worships past; fresh archetype of hope,
       I‟d doom the species snuffing you; new man,
       New breed, it‟s you shall soon revitalize
       This weary world. No praise is flattery,
       No hatred just, as freedom‟s flesh alone
       You bravely bear thru gauntlets envy draws
       From spiteful, lesser heads, yet envy‟s e‟r
       A bludgeon beats the beater. Kill my god?
       I‟d sooner kill myself, so, envy, die.
       I love, myself be damned, what love deserves.
Arn-   Weird words from a royal British soldier.
And-   I am the royal weird, a prototype
       Of English Yankee-love in Yankee-hate
       Enriddled, as I clearly see the day
       When this vast continent our tiny isle
       Shall dwarf, or save, or, yea, appropriate,
       So, as a father forced to watch his son
       Grow powerful beyond his origins,
       I abhor and adore America.
Arn-   You speak my mind.
And-   And that of your wife.
Arn-   What of my wife?
And-   Your wife, who loves you dearly, spoke to me
       Of your financial and emotional
       Distress due to lacking in promotion,
       And I wish to be of some assistance.
Arn-   My wife said that to you?
And-   To ease your grief, and hers, I now am come
       To grant the pay and power you deserve,
       First by trading pounds for the West Point plans,
       Which your wife said you hold.
Arn-   My wife? O Peg! Traitor, die.
And-   So kill me,
       But how you thereby cure your own despair
       I do not know.
Arn-   I feel no despair!
And-   Why then do you listen to my offer
       If the general fracture tween what you have
       And what you want dispatches no despair?
Arn-   Of what I have and want you may not speak.
And-   Well, then, but you may always speak to me.
Arn-   This other you describe, it is my self.
       I live in that infection you but catch
       And cure. What you revere imprisons me.
       I am American, so do I love
       And hate myself, as freedom‟s charges must,
       Exuding out my pores what you see far
       And safe, an inner-storm so fierce I find
       No shelter save my thin and crumbling self,
       Which is the storm that I seek shelter from.
       America fears me, so I love her.
And-   Your lover feels your love, and fears you so,
       For great love is more deadly than indifference,
       But I am come to offer you new love,
       A love I‟ll never fear, nor hate to hear.
Arn-   You meant to murder me!
And-   Great General, no!
Arn-   You did, and I respect it. Run away.
And-   Respect it? Why?
Arn-   Because I‟ve wisht for you.
And-   I‟ve wisht for you as well! O General Arnold,
       Fight for England!
Arn-   Selling maps for money
       Is despicable, but killing Yankees
       I would not do for any purse or peach.
And-   What great man would not kill his friends for
Arn-   What power can I hope for in your system?
And-   Whatever might exceed your own ambitions.
Arn-   I already so overly exceed
       My own ambitions, I‟ve no ambitions left.
And-   What? You seek not power? Who seeks not power?
       Dear General, let‟s at least be honest sneaks.
       If this is true, what, may I ask, are you?
       Consciousness itself is but a struggle
       For position, as when that struggle‟s left
       What‟s left but bondage, impotence, decay,
       Whereby you wander aimless as a speck,
       Innocuous, the thing in anything?
       Make history, or history will make you.
Arn-   I will make history, as an American.
And-   America will not remember you
       Tomorrow if today it sees you not.
Arn-   I am loyal.
And-   Loyal to a loser?
Arn-   I love my country.
And-   But does she love you?
Arn-   Yes, but not as much as she might.
And-   Dear General,
       I am available to your frustrations.
Arn-   Yet be a traitor? Hatred‟s closest kin?
       Proud of his slouch, honest to artifice,
       Selling trust for trinkets, all despise him
          As bodiment of disembodied doom,
          The poison nature ever tries to puke
          In reverse of birth, fearful of its own.
          Such treason incapacitates our thoughts,
          So saturated are we by deceit,
          We cannot trust the self we show ourselves.
Andre-    Treason, General? No, for we but betray
          Who‟s loyal to us, so you make yourself
          Loyal to the cause of self-loyalty,
          And there may trust your traitor thoughts again,
          For that is the cause of every human.
Arnold-   Betray my beloved land for status?
          What then will I be? This new pernicious cause
          Will ever ratchet its effects to me,
          So will my individual be done,
          And at my side will ride this traitor self.
          Where am I, I will ask, and it replies,
          Here I am, so I look, but there I find
          Mere shadow, emptiness, others‟ echo,
          A mind in motion to defy its map.
          So, grasping at what is in what is not,
          I touch the traitor where there once was truth,
          And it is I, or I beyond my eyes,
          Behind my eyes, or with another‟s eyes,
          Or with no I but all what I am not.
Andre-    Sir, you have a wife. She requires care.
          Your wife, sir, has a child, your child, and it
          Requires care. And you, sir, have a heart,
          And it requires care in careless dose,
          So, on their behalf, I say “seek power,”
          Which is the manufacturer of care.
          Where there is no power, there is no care,
          And where there is no care, there is nothing.
Arnold-   I care for America.
Andre-    As you should,
          So should you betray her to her better,
          That she might better be. What is the cause
          Compels this rebellion? It is greed.
          Want it, take it. That is America.
          So, you are most American when you
          Are most yourself, and you are most yourself
          When you attain the most. We offer you
          The most, so do we offer you yourself,
          And herein most you help America,
          For is she not a traitor to herself
          To have as her cause her own destruction?
          Be true to America: betray her.
Arnold gives him the plans.

Arnold-         God save the King.

Arnold exits.

Andre-          God save the traitor.

Andre exits.

Big-            I don‟t get it.
Brazen-         Very confusing.
G-              But it was pretty good.
Lor-            I‟ve done better.
G-              You have not.
Lor-            Have so.
Big-            Have not!
G-              Actually, Bill, I find you kinda stiff,
                But durable, like a plastic codpiece.
Brazen-         That one thing in the middle, that was made
                In such stuff as you‟ve never dreamed at.
Lor-            Have you hicks gone totally cheeseburger
                Or what? Americans can‟t write verse plays!
                Your people lack that certain je suis qua
                Required to produce the stage sublime.
                American Shakespeare? That‟s Muslim Redneck.
Big-            I will not have some justly famous
                Dead white English theater fag
                Badmouthing some unjustly unfamous
                Race-unknown American theater fag
                Even if the Brit‟s a much better writer!
                War on that Hifalutin Shakespeare Thing!

They sword fight.

Lor-            You can‟t beat me; I don‟t exist!
Big-            But I‟m from a broken home!
Mess-           Drop your rubber swords.

They drop their swords.

Mess-           Big Rock, step away.

Big Rock steps away.

Lor-            What overwhelming genius renders me
                Inept as the comedies of Marlowe?

The messenger reveals that he is the Mighty AmShak.

All-            It‟s a word, it‟s a brain, it‟s that American
G-              Aka the Mighty AmShak.
AmShak-         On your knees, Shakespeare.
Lor-            I‟m not Shakespeare!
AmShak-         Would you shut up for once?
Lor-            Hey, you wrote it.
AmShak-         It‟s over tween us, Willy. Yeah, okay,
                We had this one-way thing, and it was weird,
                But I‟m thru. The problem is you‟re perfect,
                So when we share the stage, it‟s like I‟m lost
                In the bowels of a beauty I desired
                To be, and so to which I fed myself.
                Admire, imitate, compete, and eject,
                That is, I suppose, love‟s sorry progress.
                But you do yourself so well, what can I do?
                It started, I think, when I crackt your code:
                Antithesis, imago, pathos, demoi,
                Logos, melos, gnomé, mythos, bathos,
                Metaphorein, and intoxicants.
                But striving to decode another‟s mind
                Is but a fear to delve into our own.
                My only hope‟s to hit the trail untread,
                Cuz even if it gets me where I am,
                Going nowhere as yourself sure as shit
                Beats going anywhere as someone else.
                Ha! American Shakespeare! None but I
                Could make a dream of such a dud
                With my desire to live among the dead
                Who, craving anything that moves, love me.
                Yet as sick as I am of her babble,
                America, that stupid sage, says true:
                If something‟s been done, do something different.
                You are my greatest error unregretted,
                For tho I never should have begged you bear
                What only thrives when born of me, it‟s been,
                As you might say, a wonderful defeat.
                Yes, as I have said, emulation‟s death.
                So I‟m outta here. I love you, Willy,
                Too much, it seems, at times, for my own good,
                But not enough to lose to what I love.

AmShak exits.
Lor-          Fare thee well, my darling, and remember:
              Our days are strangers til we meet our last.

Big Rock stabs Shakespeare in the back.

Lor-          Well, all‟s well that ends will.

Shakespeare dies.

Big Rock-     I hereby announce the establishment
              Of a ridiculously huge theater,
              Call it, “The Universe,” whose mission is
              “Making the world playful and plentiful
              For inverse theater fags.” O, and tell
              That American Shakespeare Thing
              To write more talky talky parts for me!

They sing.

              Speak in verse, America.
              Learn how to love,
              From poetics
              In theatrics
              You can get the most
              Amazing fuckin‟ buzz!
              Be a sissy,
              Be a hippy,
              Be a crazy
              Great Unknown!
              Speak in verse, America.
              It‟s just a poem!

Chipper-      This is Chipper Vapid, milk-opponent,
              Hypo-allergenic revenge spore,
              And the hole that echoeth no music.
              NRA News and the Let‟s Talk Down
              To Latinos Show have just illegally
              Obtained a mixed-up message medium
              Showing abusive father figures doing
              That Humanitarian Bombardier Thing
              Where even crooked accountants fear to tread.
              What to say when your mouth is full of babies?
              Executives are adjudicating legislation,
              Happy campers are speeding insanely
              Thru the smog of another industrious day,
              And the fallout from this carpeted catastrophe
           Is inconveniencing several homeowners.
           As for now, we can but openly pander
           To your worst fears with our slickest twaddle:
           You free or not you free, that is the question.