Hey yes, it is I back again for another bow-saw take at the great one: William Shakespeare himself. The only brand in English besides King James so virulent, so virile, studied and indifferent to acts of documented or supposable "TRUE! FACTS IRREFUTABLE!" that shitheels and academics the world over will put it under to you on the "down low": up from their own anus, as-is usually the case:
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"We Know The Man Himself, He Didn't Do it."
Do what?
Well, in the case of Jesus N. Christ, didn't show up at all in the flesh, not one bit!! Or so claim ahistorians of a gnostic, goose-or-face-pimply self-pub'd mock turtle wearing bent. Antitheists To A Man!
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Wait. Wot? The Willie Nil Sayers?
Are women. Huge, gamboling fans of Pepper Potts in that hot role she gave up on early: wise move, "Queen of Screens." Every last one of them, women or stage women! Mennonites, whether Baconian, Elizabeth-herself-poseurs or the Dane Himself: as played by Ethan Hawke's hat.
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Act IV: Hamlet is no young man's game to play, Earthless human scum.
Says who?! You yell, in uppity dip-start riot mode. Well, it was the Klingon who did it. The Klingon! Himself! No woman he, he sat right there and did it right out in public, for the table itself to lap up and stink.
Oh, we all have a too, too-personal relationship with the Klingon at the table, whom we'd all wish to endure. Not to worry!
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Killed hilarious in Act VI: The Well-Discolored Brownface Space Moron.
Warning: SO FOUL: In history, in reality, way back up then, for real? Back to Earth, back to the present time and place? We can prove it takes and took many French acts of oral copulation on the part (one) of the man himself, writer, director, documented historical beef specialist, all well before Scorsese himself ups and jumps out "POP!" at the stage, stepped in, yelling "CUT!" PUKING from the guts themselves!
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HIS OWN, NATCH.
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Hollering about his own Lasting Temptation. Shakespearian?
Like Othello in a Chinese Bed, Ass Hump. WHY?
Well, because if at his age and in his own primal day, Olivier himself couldn't be squat-damned to pop a dump on the dole line for the benefit of Our Greatest Character Ac-TOR: R! E! GRANT, then who the hell else do you expect to mop up the swept-under rugged-out fund bank? A Jew?
The Scots? Napoleon, The Ancient Irish Debtor of Parnassus?
Chances are, you blew your own toot on that last investment of yours, and this is why you sit in a foreclosed house of cards, praying for your "memory palace" based system to come up Gin-Trumpy in Grandpa Joe's next vile, handsy, female-juggling and flesh-peddling Campaign for the Big Blue War Scout's Greek VASE-TAKE!
Rump-pum-pummmm'm'm? SUPERMAN! Is Joe Biden, off-course. It uh...it's covered in the rather too forthcoming Nicolas Cage cartoon reboot of Cher's sole career highlight. Sponsored by MEG.
Miller Extra Genuine, kids. Beats the living pus out of that Bud Plus vitaminified swill, in a glass up your ass with class, toasted and roasting for your eternal tootsie's rad-faced green-eyed pleasure! Up for a pop at your local Dream Theatre gig?
Ya.
You bet. People'd flock to that like Hitler Youth to a verbal gonorrhea festival. Full, hot hard backstage passes included! It was their way, back way in the cradle of our Disco Tent.
Don't judge. They all died in there. Too intense. But wait what's that smell and sound?
Signification?
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Fire? Foes? A wake?
Nah. Bar the door with a long, hard cast chain and see what the Paris police can make of that New Your Story overseas: In The Beliner's Own Paradise!
Berlin!
Just off Pot's Damner's Old Place! The thrift store bargain-hunter's bonanza, come to summer frocks with the bottom yard cut off and still stained with the blackest seaman's trick in history:
MONICA VS. CHANDLER 2: THIS TIME, GO FOR THE BUM, BING-MAN!
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Not seriously, surely. OK then!
Contest phase!! Any winners from last time eligible? Show up and announce your verified point total score from before in comments. My Buddy Rob will be doing the representation in person, this time, at a global location of your own. Choose now, in comments, right out hanging in public. Best dress yourself to flattering effect first--in comments! Go, go! Do, "DEW-EYE" (one eye only, please, or it's curtains and pirate noises for ya, arf arf).
"DING DONG" said the deliveryman! Or...sorry: the deliveryperson's onwned or at least least Ace-In-The-Flesh (Riley O'Natural!) stunt man or woman, coming up and down your drive! Can't find the oh gee parking spot, apparently. Go see! Could you help an American fellow, down on your luck or what...?
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Why, will you look at that driver's license and registration. Why, his name really is "Rob"!
Why looking further, it's Robin William S. Hakes! The famous half-Olmpian javelinist! A thin, reedy polymer of Space Age he's been wont to chuck at fame, since the old days when he shat the whole field in epic form, and got cut from a City-State's entire worth of Wheaties box-fronts! DON'T LOOK! It's too shameful a state he was in!
Can you picture all that shit on cardboard laminate? For children's eyes and mouths? Good.
Now. Drop it (and yours!) in comments only.
Rob-Will S'Hakes, the spirited one who wrote all that wall-screed about men's peens in the girls room at the white house down the lane. The one with the militarized ragweed gardener? You know who. The Scot!
Well, who the heinie hole knew an uneducated (nothing past German Gymnasium, then gone on religious pilgrimage for alack and a lass, plus all the funds conveniently fitting in a stage coffin the kids mocked at and threw up their jaggling whiz hands in, beating the tom for ol' WILL S.
Why saw that shit coming, and yet saw that one coming in twice again? Their own original score from before!
In comments?
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We shall see.
This time, though, it's for the whole kit bag.
WASH IT.
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