Stately, plump MacBeth stood in front of the
mirror shaving the troublesome three hairs on his chinny-chin-chin that
insisted on growing at a speed in inverse proportion to his ever-diminishing
respect for life.
Wailing within.
“Damn woman, your hands are clean. Go back to conjuring the forces of
the dark side again. I liked you much better when you were doing that. Now
you’re just pathetic.”
“I’d be much more relaxed if I could get some
rest, but no, Glamis had to murder sleep, therefore his long-suffering wife
shall get her beauty-sleep no more.”
“Women. Can’t live with them, the seed of
Banquo will be Kings without them.”
Within:
“Damned Spot, always chewing my slippers. Out I say.”
“Honey, we don’t have a dog.”
And so it continued, the MacBeths got dressed, ate breakfast, and brushed their teeth. But Shakespeare decided not to show us that part because they’re meant to be superior, be it heroic or anti-heroic, but never normal. And that’s why I think Shakespeare was an elitist pig. It all adds up. Dostoevsky was a racist you know. You can’t trust writers. They rope you in and then spit their prejudices and moral flaws all over you like a delinquent squid. Anyway, if I had been in World War 1:
So I was all set
to go over the top with the other poor blighters in our platoon, and then I got
last-minute orders that as the Commander’s illegitimate son I could stay behind
and be the official photographer. My “The lads’ doomed asses” won second prize
at a contest. But after the war I decided I should have written a diary, and
did so retrospectively. And it went a little something like this:
At this point I
realised paper was scarce during the war, what with all the people losing
control of their bowels, and the official reports on everything. Anyway I
stopped doing the diary and decided to become a musician instead, and my first
album, a critical success but commercial failure, went a little something like
this:
Wasn’t that the absolute best thing ever. Now if you don’t mind I’d like to ramble inanely on about fried kidneys for a while. But where’s the Homeric parallel in that, I hear you ask. Well, I’m going to tell you what I told Gerald Ford: No. Anyway, I’m going to die now. And I think my funeral might go a little something like this:
Right, we’ve got just enough time left to do a grammatically loose, incomprehensibly-worded ending soliloquy, before we cut to the link. Are you with me?
gallons of rubbing alcohol are flowing through the strip by god, and what to do for it doth oh my god and hell freezes over. for the want of a nail ice and fire and brimstone and the bells of saint clements and sixth order o.d.e.s and that. grecian urns that tie up the access and passage to jiminy crickets wall of fear and stuff. yes. what else doth increase the peace in greece and steers the common man into the arms of the political mind-altering psychotropic lotteries of the lottery-ish fishing trawler-induced easter egg market and all those kings of egypt and ne'r a hoodlum in them to compete with me. Me that kills all hippies by the grace of grace jones and vogueish stuff of legends with j lopez and l hurley. What to do , what to do, how to live a life unfurled of the kings of israel, mellow of the yonder fruit trees and keyboards and fellow man are killing the servants and their greatness is destroyed by my longings for a death come quickly or not at all, oh alas for the insane ramblings of the dear old fruit trees of greatness with their loves of gin and gin and gin and gin is easy to type and so is dfg. Bo, the apple man cries as he jumps off the cliffs of anarchy and finds order on the other side. Ye olde realtime broadcasts on lonely high o'er hills and dales, jumping like jack rabbits that are breeding like bunnies in a snowstorm, what with the coldness and the closeness and all. Why do I explain myself my ramblings get all retrospective and I think too much. Crack your knuckles gentle people and hear my cry for help and hope and reward for my eulogies. Undeniably go far in the stultifying thing with train of interrupted thought and happiness and freedom to yell. Arse. Crank esjdsfnc didsf gf go far my beauties and you will travel and do my biddign . you do for me what no one else on gods grey earth can kill. Relax take it easy and do what you will to my immortal soul for ait awill alive aon and ado awhat it awill.
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Special thanks to Roy London