Wednesday, October 13, 2010

10 - The Tragedy of Bushius Caesar Act 3 Scene 2

               Enter Cheneyus, Rummeus, anchors before host of TV cameras

First anchor:     The noble Chenie is ascended. Silence

Cheneyus:         Romans, countrymen, lovers, heard me…
Will S.:                                                                     Wrong tense!
                        Ye gods, he too becomes linguistic slob.
                        Doth language-slaying now go with the job?
                        Once pure, his language falters fast. ‘Tis hear,
                        Not heard, O Chenie. For our tongue I fear,
                        If he the Bushie Caesar follows so
                        In slips and bloops.

Writing C:                                      Give him another go.               
                        Perhaps it’s nerves. He’ll get into his stride,
                        Perchance his tongue will make a better ride.

Cheneyus:         Impeached was he for his naked ambition.
                        For this we carried out our sacred mission.
                        Who is so base that would a conman be….

Will S.:             And there he goes again! Oi vey for me!
                        ‘Tis bondman, knave, not conman. From the Bush,
                        Who language oft extracted from his tusch,
                        I did expect such horrors; but from those
                        Who grammar-wise and language-wise in prose
                        And poetry spoke true… Cancel the play.

Writing C.         Nay nay, I say, nay nay, nay nay, nay nay!
                        For persevere we must. Do thou discount
                        The Chenie solecisms howe’er they mount,
                        And let grammarian or our wordsmith
                        Correct, that we miss not essential pith.

Will S.:             So be it! For as quotes go, naught of note
                        Gave I to Brutus Chenie to misquote.

Cheneyus:         Not that I loved the Bushie less, but more
                         Loved I the constitution. When I saw
                         He was prepared to undermine its rights
                         To freedom, privacy with oversights
                         Illicit, clandestine, without a court
                         Full granting all the warrants as it ought,
                         ‘Twas then I knew I must stop the dictator.
                         What’s more I know well how to spell potato,
                         Not like some dumb-arse Quayle…

Will S.                                                                      Abominator
                         Of all my verses, Bushie imitator!
                         Adlibbing, changing lines, thou incubator
                         Of malapropos, Frankenstein’s thy pater.
                         Nowhere put I potato, Quayle; this spate o’
                         Foul foreign drivel’s thine. Sooner than later,
                         Wrote I, ‘tis meet to end the Bushie, data
                         So clear and to the point, but thou didst cater
                         To fevered improvising, false translator.
                         His muse, o writing coach, do terminate ‘er.

Cheneyus:          I need to show as Vice no bumbling slouch
                         Am I as was the Quayle. Ouch, ow! Ow, ouch!
        Sennet, alarums, scuffles. Exit Cheneyus, kicking, dragged by Writing Coach and Grammarian
First anchor:      Live, Chenie, live! Bring him in triumph home!

Second anch:    Great speech! He is the people’s metronome.

Third anchor:     Let him be Caesar. Caesar’s better parts
                         Is he. In war on terror he imparts

Fourth anchor:                          Here McCainus comes.
                                             Exit Rummeus. Enter McCainus

McCainus:         Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your beers…

Will S.:              Alack! Ye gods! It’s worse than my worst fears.                   
                         Zounds! ‘Sdeath! Straight-talker’s caught the Bushies, too.
                         It’s spreading virulently like bird flu.
                                              Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 2

Sponsor 2:         O Will, cheer up! Contain thy discontent!
                         ‘Tis but the time for thy Maalox moment.
                         ‘Tis true, yond Anus gave a nasty turn,
                          But take a pill or two for thine heartburn,
                          Or three or four or five of great Maalox!
                                                Exit sponsor 2

Will S.:               A plague on all our sponsors, and the pox
                          On all our characters. ‘Tis ears, not beers.

McCainus:         And yadda, yadda, yak… if you have tears
                         Prepare to shed them now… Caesar did love
                         Chenie full well, looked up to him above,
                         Sought his advice for each and ev’ry mission,        
                         Did this in Bushie Caesar seem ambition?
                         Yet Chenie cast the vote for his downfall.
                         He is the most unkindest slut of all.

Will S.:              ‘Tis ‘this’ not he, and ‘was’ not is, and ‘cut’
                         That I did pen where he did put foul slut.
                         The spreading Bushie bird flu runs amok
                         Chenie, McCainus, now they all upfuck
                         My virgin copy. I’ll ne’er e’er be back
                         In third millennium Washington. Alack!
Writing C.         Be stout of heart, sweet Will, do nothing rash
                         Grammarian and Wordsmith will them bash
                         Into good shape for future shows, you’ll see.
                         Do stay in Washington! Please do not flee.

Will S.:              Alright, I’ll wait to see another day. 
                         Now let’s get on with poxing effing play!

Grammarian:      But wait a mo, sweet Will, thou too didst make
                         A boo-boo, for unkindest should not take
                         A ‘most’ since ‘tis a full superlative
                         That needs no more. Who says ‘most best’?

Will S.:                                                                               Forgive
                         Me, marry, if I dub thee crock of shit,
                         Since in my day we learned in English lit
                         That, though scarce scant grammatical, for stress
                         Is licit usage, not a verbal mess.
                         Now if y’all wish and will that I should stay,
                         Shut up y’all and get on with poxing play.

McCainus:         Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up
                         To mutiny that with this bitter cup
                         Yond Chenie did reward such love. Yet more,
                         Were I to tell the love that Bushie bore
                         For y’all, you’d rise. I speak it not. And yet
                         ‘Twas the most greatest love I’ve ever met
                         I am no orator, as Cheynie is,
                         No twisted mouth, nor disingenuous wiz,
                         But as you know me all, a plain blunt man
                         That coined the well-known phrase ‘O, yes we can!’

Will S.               Adzooks! McCain adlibs, appropriates
                         Obama’s lines from future play, backdates
                         My Obamello masterpiece. O coach,
                         Remove the malapropping base cockroach!

      Sennet, alarums, scuffles. Exit McCainus, kicking, dragged by Writing Coach and Grammarian

First anchor:      McCainus nine, old Chenie nil, I think,
                         In that contest.

Second anchor:                         Indeed, Chenie did stink,
                        While Anus stoutly did the heartstrings pull,
                        E’en if all that he said was utter bull

Third anchor:    I do concur. McCainus played the hand
                        Of great emotion.

Fourth anchor:                             Chenie, he was bland.  
                      Exeunt anchors, singing the Chipmunk Song. Re-enter McCainus,  followed by messenger

Messenger:      Octavius Georgie P., youthful nephew
                       Of dear departed Georgie W,
                       Hath disembarked upon this sacred ground.

McCainus:       Where is he?

Messenger:                           At the Bushie’s main compound.

McCainus:      And thither will I straight to visit him.

Messenger:     I’ll take thy message thither verbatim.

                                             Exeunt omnes, dancing a fandango

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