That American Shakespeare Thing by Kirk Wood Bromley Characters: 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 Live." 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 Expansion, 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 reporters. 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 department, 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 you? 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 wear 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 throat? 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 hands, 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 sink. 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 research; 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 [soso]consciousness. Student 2- Most:capitalist hege(?)ironical charismo=cratic dis(insistency). Student 3- Faux*lexemic methodo.stochastical religiofascist giganto<phobia>. 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 Aesthetic-integrity-bankrupt 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 confiscate! 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 sentence. 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 slingshot! 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 inhaled. 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 goomba. 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 light-sabers. 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 Hooch? 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, lord? Hooch- Yea, there art as many typos as thy lewd transgressions, of which thou hast not named the naughtiest! 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 omniscient. 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 unky! 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 head. 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 head? 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!” Convention. Brazen- My real name is Double Agent Ethnocentric Self- Interest, 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 power? 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 Shakespeare! 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. THE END.