When the Poet of Avon, Mr. William Shakespeare, this very morning, stumbled into brevity, he recognized that all other English playwrights, if indeed this is not already a sterile reservoir, will soon be marinating in morbid dread. As change is the arrow that wounds all except the archer, the notion of debuting himself this day as the writer of fewest words flung him into unkind merriment.
“Let the world find its verbosity elsewhere than from me,” he says to himself, in his new and truncated style. His work will now and forever be a port-wine reduction sauce of succinctness. “Genius is the tabernacle of the boiled down,” he gloats, ” I will leave the breadth of things to the amateurs.
“Verily,” he decides, a tad too loudly, for his mother now overhears, “I will no longer desire a theater, for after all is said, of what point is an audience?’ They are simply witnesses; bystanders distinguished only by their asses finding a seat.
No, henceforth, they will hunt for my posts on trees buildings and bushes.
Hearing this vow from her roost just outside his doors, his mother, the severely talkative Mary Arden Shakespeare dismays. Mary, a woman who could trace her long-windedness as linearly as an erection, back to the paramount exercise of pointless human wordiness, The Doomsday Book, feels her lifetime toil of maneuvering her son, about to splash into a puddle of abbreviated verbal sulkiness.
She slumps; legs splayed into a bunched nest of skirts, muttering miserably to herself, (wholly in Old English, to her credit), “I will not allow him an eternity of pithiness of verse.”
But Bill speeds by her, determined to conclude his life’s drudgery of taxing inventiveness before she can interfere.
“Romeo and Juliet,” was already redrafting itself in his mind as a love story that lasts only as long as the flavor in a piece sassafras chewing gum.
“Met Romeo today, parents way unimpressed, hook up, have a scheme, R. fucks everything up, big mess, the end.”
Shakespeare races to the Stratford’s Speaker’s corner to announce the new course of England’s scholarly conversation.
“Forever on,” Bill bellows to a gathering crowd of the muddy and toothless, “ My tragedies and comedies will come to you as “Twats.”
Be it known, that if it must be said, I will say it from inside the penitentiary of twenty-eight letterings or less. I will nail my twats to this tree as I fashion them; I will stamp each with a dollop of gruel for authenticity. Henceforth to be understood as my “gruel tag.”
My histories, poems, and essays will remain on my Facebook page.” Thank you.
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January 11, 2016
Without Racism White people would have No Friends
I can’t honestly see myself as a racist because most of my spare time is spent cheering for black athletes to succeed. Of course, I hope others fail miserably. I can just imagine the holes even intellectually flimsy liberals might find in this, but it remains the case for me.
I know black people like me when we encounter each other.
The only real fist fights I had as a kid were with blacks. My last one was in my thirties on a basketball court in the upper west side of Manhattan. I visited this court for so long that eventually I was playing with the children of my first teammates.
I have nothing important to say about race but I have always wished I was less of a Methodist and more like them, stupidly always defining them only as Baptists with rhythm. They seem to all be in a club into which I am not allowed. That’s OK because I would not trade places. Their lives are too hard. White is safer because we have advantages. I worry they will never get out of their mess.
Sex will most likely save us because we will mingle our genes eventually defeating our differences. It is comforting somehow that we find each other attractive enough to accomplish this. I figure love will conquer all as they say.
I miss the camaraderie most now. Men can only get so close. They have to have an excuse like sports or treating women whom they don’t know, like objects.
Maybe disliking other races is the only way we have to make friends.
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