Sunday, October 10, 2010

9 - The Tragedy of Bushius Caesar Act 3 Scene 1

       Flourish. Enter Caesar, Cheneyus, Rummeus, Ashcroftus, McCainus, Nortona, Scooterus in drag,  soothsayer and other senators and petitioners

Caesar:              The ides of March are come.

Soothsayer:                                                    But not yet gone. 
                          Count not thy chickens ere they’re hatched upon.
                          Beware the ides of March, my lord, I say.

Caesar:              You can’t fool me, for ‘tis already May.

Soothsayer:        Don’t be a pedant now; so give or take
                          A month or two. Beware for heaven’s sake!

Caesar:              There is an old saying in Tennessee –
                          I know it is in Texas, probably
                          In Tennessee that says, fool me once, shame     
                          On – shame on you. (Pssst! Val’rie Plame’s the name)
                          Fool me, err err, you can’t get fooled again.

Vox populi:          You adage-mangling ass, you are insane.
                          'Tis thou that leak'st the name of Madame Plame,
                          As thou dost follow through thy dirty game,
                          Discrediting all those that prove 'tis fake
                          To claim Saddam sought Niger's yellowcake
                          To build atomic bombs. The CIA
                          Prohibits naming agents' AKA

Soothsayer:         O Caesar, listen! Diss me not! Alas!

Caesar:               Yo mama is so fat, to round her ass
                           You need to make two trips.

Writing C.                                                     You penned, Will, there
                           Such smut?

Will S.:                                        I did not put that in, I swear.

Caesar:               My Poppy taught me that to twit my Mum,
                          With words not preppy, but from some Bronx slum.

Will S:                Not only doth he mangle what I write
      `                   He adds, adlibs at will, turns day to night.
Caesar:               Yo mama is so fat, I have to ride
                           A fast train just to get on her good side.

Writing C.           Control him, Will!

Will S.:                                          I can’t, he’s worse than Newt.

Scooterus:           O Caesar, take this letter, ‘tis my suit.
                           Delay not, Caesar, read it instantly.

Caesar:               I quoth, as Poppy taught me mordantly:
                          Yo mama is so fat, fattest I’ve seen,
                          So crap-full, she's a true mobile latrine.

Writing C.            Ye gods, o Will, whatever shall we do?

Will S.:               Aha, his gaze doth focus, sane anew.

Rummeus:          What, urge you your petitions in the street?
                          Come, Caesar to the Capitol tout de suite!
                          Caesar goes forward, the rest following    
Cheneus:            Trust not McCainus, Rummie! His straight talk
                          Doth mask a hundred twists, nor does he walk
                          The walk. You think that he is walking tall?
                          No way, my friend! He weaves, a true curveball!
                          Forsooth, is he with us or Caesar still?
                          Who knows? Adzooks! Let’s move him down the Hill.

Rummeus:          Indeed, o wise one, king of twist-mouthed guile,
                          I’ll get Fristus to seat him way down th’ aisle.
                                 Exeunt Fristus and McCainus

Cheneus:            At last we do approach; the time is nigh
                         When we wish Bushie Caesar ciao, goodbye.
                                     They reach the Capitol

Caesar:             Are we all ready? What is now amiss,
                        That Caesar and his senate add to this:
                        Friends, Romans, count…

Will S.:                                                    Not now, you stupid twerp
                        That struts the stage like poxing Wyatt Earp!
                        Why dost thou this to me? They’re not thy lines!
                        Can’st not e’en read the teleprompter’s signs?
                        But let us try to reason with him, coach,
                        That to the play’s main nub he might approach. 

Writing C.        Brutish is he, but animally shrewd.
                        Let’s try again now, Bushie!

Caesar:                                                        OK Dude!
                        We few, we happy few, we band of brothers,
                        We coalition of the will…

Will S.:                                                     What others
                        Will he drag up fore’er? Wrong day! Wrong play!
                        That’s not the ides of March, that’s Crispin’s day!
                        And King Bushie the Fifth that is, you fool!
                        Dare not again my text to overrule!

Caesar:            Gadzooks! To be or not to be…

Will S.:                                                             Ye gods,
                       How can a man and brain be so at odds.
                       That’s Hambush, scurvy dolt; nor is it meet
                       For now, but for your last election feat 
                       When for a month thou knew’st not if wast bent,
                       To be or not to be our president,
                       Until the Court, Supreme in idiocy,
                       Resolved to undermine democracy.

Writing C.       Do follow now the Bushie Caesar text!
                       Let each succeeding verse lead to the next.
                       It’s like the constitution that you swore
                       In vain t’ uphold; you ought t’ obey the law.

Caesar:           I’m Bush! But me no buts, ought me no oughts!

                                    Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 2

Sponsor 2:      For spots and moles and zits and anal warts
                      Meet Dr. Zizmor, as seen on TV,
                      The dermatologist, by Jove, for thee!
                                       Exit sponsor 2

Writing C.      Ignore him, Will, and let us skip a page
                      To where we terminate him.

Will S.:                                                       Thou art sage.
                      Thus will we save our play, give it its due.
                      Move on, move on now, Fristus, ‘tis your cue
Fristus:           Speak, hands, for me! Beyond our idle speech
                      To action now! To vote and to impeach!
                            As Fristus’ hand stabs up, the others’ also rise; Cheneyus casts the 
                           decisive vote.

Caesar:          Wet too, Chenie?

Will S.:                                      Of all the lines he doth upfuck,
                      Most famous of them all, the brainless, blith’ring schmuck!
                      Et tu! Et tu! Et tu! Now cease my lines to maul!

Caesar:           Et tu, (by George, I’ve got ‘t). Et tu, Chenie? Then fall,

Will S.:                       At last, thou butcher ‘f grammar and of tongue,
                     Thou poxing alchemist of golden verse to dung,                
                     At last, thou foul defiler, bumbler excellent,
                     Of malaprop the king, in bloops incontinent,
                     At last thy poxing effing role doth end!
                                  Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 2

Sponsor 2:    Incontinent? Wet, too? Then use Depend!
                    For fitted briefs, for adult pampering,
                    For tamping up sly moisture’s tampering,
                    Use thou Depend! Go free thyself forth-hence
                    From bladder and from bowel incontinence!
                    Do thou protect thy front and thy back end,
                    Lock fluid away with gathers! Use Depend!
                                              Exit sponsor 2

Writing C.    At last Chenie’s the chief - an evil tongue,
                    But language-wise upon a higher rung.

Grammarian: His verbs, his syntax most grammaticus

Wordsmith:   His words and phrases most scolasticus.

Vox populi:   Methinks that they must be sarcasticus;
                     His cogitation is most spasticus. 
                     But Bushie’s end let us now celebrate
                     That from misusage doth emancipate
                     Our ears. For Bushie’s gone, that I vouchsafe,
                     And now at least verbs, grammar, words are safe.

Rummeus:     Take thou the message to the rabblement
                     ‘Liberty, freedom and enfranchisement!’

Cheneyus:       Ay, that I will. Ambition’s debt is paid
                      When puppet o’er the puppet-master laid
                      A shadow.
                          Exeunt omnes dancing a samba, except the conspirators

                                      Where's McCainus?
Rummeus:                                                     Fled amazed
                      Unto his house.

Cheneyus:                                Now, ere the cry is raised
                      Of ‘Peace, Freedom, and Liberty,’ let’s sluice
                      Our arms in Caesar’s bloo… I mean peach juice.

Rummeus:       Stoop then and sluice. Now every man away!
                      Chenie shall muster our progress to sway
                      The citizens.
                                       Enter McCainus

Cheneyus:                          McCainus, hail and hi
                      To thee!

McCainus:                    O mighty Caesar, dost thou lie…
                      But wait, his power is gone, my fealty too.
                      Yet of these greatest lines I sing a few:
                      O mighty Caesar, dost thou lie so low?

Cheneus:         I told you, Rummie, is he friend or foe?

McCainus:      Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils

Rummeus:       Indeed, beware him, lest our plans he foils

McCainus:      Shrunk to this little measure? Fare thee well

Rummeus:       Accost him, Chenie, force him now to tell.
Cheneyus:       Be thou with us, O Anus!

McCainus:                                                Just explain
                       The reasons for your act.

Cheneyus:                                              We will, quite plain
                       And clear, tonight TV-wise.

McCainus:                                                  I’m with you
                       Then. But a favour grant! Let me speak, too!

Cheneyus:        You shall, McCainus.

Rummeus:                                        Cheyn’, a word with you.
[Aside]            Do not consent. You know not what you do.
                       Know you how much the people he may move
                       And thus derail our plots from ill-oiled groove?
                                Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 1

Sponsor 1:       Thy groove is rusty? Then our oil, good grief,
                        To rusty plots will bring instant relief.
                        Hall'burton is almighty god today
                        Now that our former boss holds supreme sway.
                                                          Exit sponsor 1

Cheneyus:         Fear not, for first and foremost will I speak
[aside to           And make it known that from us did he seek
Rummeus]        The right thus to deliver all his rot.

Rummeus:         I know not what may fall. I like it not.

Cheneyus:         McCainus, in your speech, do not blame us;
[aloud]             No murmur ‘gainst us, no contrarian cuss.                     
                        But with our leave you speak, and I will go
                        Before you, first on TV’s prime time show.

McCainus:        I do desire no more.
                                Exeunt omnes goose-stepping to the strains of Hail to the Chief, but McCainus stays

                                                         Now if I play
                        My cards full well, then this will be my day.
                        O pardon me thou bleeding…

Writing C:.                                                   Will, not that!
                        No deaths! Recall’st? The secret service cat
                        Will out the bag at words of death and threats
                        To snare us muchly in their Gitmo nets.

Will S.              Thy warnings I did heed; I cut those lines
                        But as I said before, these Frankensteins
                        Take on a life ‘f their own, defy my verse;
                        Deem’st this is bad? I fear it will get worse

Writing C:.       All bets are off, then. Let them now proceed
                        T’ incriminate us in this bloody deed.

McCainus:       As I was saying… bleeding piece of earth,
                       To make it rhyme I’ll have to lithp, I curth
                       These butchers. Victor of Eye-rakistan,
                       Thou art the ruins of the noblest man
                       That ever lived in the tide of times.
Writing C.:       Eye-rakistan?

Will S.                                    He needs it so it rhymes.

Writing C.:      Thou helpest him?

Will S.                                         A little.

Writing C.:                                                 My, oh my!

McCainus:     Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,
                      Which like dumb mouths do ope their ruby lips…

Vox populi:    Those ruby lips that launched a thousand slips,
                      A hundred thousand poxing malaprops;
                      In that, forsooth, the Bushie was the tops.

Weiting C.:     Do speed him up, Will, that I do entreat,
                      Or else our play we’ll never e’er complete.

Will S:            I will. I’ll thrust him on to end this speech,
                      Fast forward my iconic phrase to reach.
McCainus:      I’ll unleash strife upon these sons ‘f a whore.
                      Cry ‘Havoc!’ and let slip the dogs of war.
                                          [Barking Mad Mix]

                      Who let the dogs out? Who, who, who, who, who?
Writing C.:      First Bush doth butcher, now McCainus too?

Will S.            Zounds, ‘sblood, my finest lines, and finest-er
                      Than them are none, and none sublimest-er.
Grammarian:   The deadly grammar plague e’en to the bard
                       Doth spread its evil bane, his verses marred.
                       Superlative, o Will, can never take
                       Comparative’s ending, for goodness sake!

Will S.:            I know that, but this foul cast’s wrecking binge
                       With my best verses doth my tongue unhinge.
                       McCain hath slipped the leash!

Writing C.:                                                   Stop, stop, I say!
                       Add not your stupid jive unto this play!
                       You’re acting, Anus, like the Bushie. Stop!

McCainus:       Who let the dogs out… Shake it Mamma…

Writing C:                                                                         Drop
                       Thine own additions, cur, do nothing add!

Will S.:            Unleashed he’s raging, rabid, barking mad .

McCainus:       Havin' a ball, ha… heard a woman shout…
                       You flea infested mongrel…

Will S.:                                                     Anus, out!

McCainues:     Who? Who? That's why they call me ‘pit bull.’                    

Writing C..:                                                                         Shut your face!

McCainus:       But Baha Men can get me whole new voting base.     

                     Exit McCainus on all fours, barking, to the crescendo sounds of Who Let the Dogs Out 

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