19 - The Tragedy of Bushius Caesar Act 5 Scene 5

                              Enter Cheneyus, Scooterus and sundry hangers-on

Cheneyus:         Come, poor remains of friends, rest on this rock.
[he sits down]    My fate forsooth ticked by another clock
                        Than I foresaw. Yet no! I must be right!

Scooterus:        You would have fiction put the facts to flight?
                        E’en now you would persist in your delusion
                        And garb in clothes of fact your grand illusion.
                        The senate will impeach thee, thou art out
                        As Veep, as Prez. McCainus hath the clout.
                        We’ve lost! Finito! Done for! We’re kaput!
                        Get that into your nut, you nutty nut!
                       
Cheneyus:        Untrue! Thou liest, foul Qaeda-lover!

Scooterus:        Get real and see the truth, you stupid muvver…

Cheneyus:         But no, we must have won, I’m always right.

Scooterus:        As right as night is day and day is night!

Cheneyus:        O, my offence is rank it smells to heaven.
                                              
                                            Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 2

Sponsor 2:       Buy Arrid Dry at thy Seven Eleven!
                       Stops odours under arm and wetness too;
                       On earth and e’en in heaven, fear no poo.

                                              Exit sponsor 2

Will S.:            Stop, stop, thou blith’ring fool, that is wrong play!
                       Once more into Hambush do they now stray.

Cheneyus:       Could I be wrong? First Scootie, and now Will
                       Do fault me. Scootie’s crazed, and Will’s a pill.
                       I’m always right! And day is night! So there!
                       Let neither them nor facts nor what’s what dare
                       To contradict me. Aaagh! What’s that? My heart!
                       My poxing pacemaker forgot to start.
                       My Guidant’s skipped a beat, its circuit short.
                       I cannot breathe, my breastbone doth feel taught.
                       And now another miss! That effing Guidant!
                       Three more! A sixth. A ninth. My breath is strident.
                       My head doth swim, my throat doth choke, mine eyes
                       Do cloud. Thus is it that great Chenie dies?
                                                                                     
                                                            Cheneyus falls
                     
                              Alarum. Enter McCainus, Georgie P. and hangers-on

Georgie P.      What man is that?

McCainus:                                    Why, that’s the Chenie prone.
                        Ha ha! Thus doth he lie upon cold stone.                              
                        My talk is straight but not the Guidant’s circuit.
                        It tripped his heart. And Hastie’s, it will jerk it.
                        For thus my plan progresses, fortune-kissed.
                        Look how he lays there stilled, mouth all a-twist.
                       
                                       Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 1

Sponsor 1:        He was the noblest snowman of them all.
                        Forever was he at our beck and call.
                        At Halliburton, while he was the Veep,           
                        We filled our pockets full and wide and deep.
                        For oil policy he was our guest,
                        His pol’cy team all picked at our behest
                        From industry alone. Our interest
                        He guarded jealously. It was the best
                        Of times. And no-bid contracts in Eye-rak   
                        Did put our earnings into blackest black,
                        Secured and guaranteed, he at our back,
                        Ensuring lucre’s wind proffered no slack.
                        Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing
                        Thee to thy rest!
                                                          
                                                             Exit sponsor 1

Will S.:                                        What is this Hambush thing
                        That they here do purloin as in a daze
                        And intermingle verses from wrong plays!

                                     Alarums, excursions, sennet. Enter Hastertus

Hastertus:         Chenie is gone. I'm in, I am the Prez.
                         Hand me my topper, crown, whate'er, my fez.
                         As Speaker of the House I'm next in line.
                         I'm C-in-C now that th' White House is mine.
                         The Senate names thee, Anus, as new Veep 
                         My heir apparent. Arghhh! What is that beep?
                         My heart doth pitter patter muchly fast,
                         It races, bursts, explodes. I breathe my last,
                         Short-circuited. Thus doth poor Hastie sink.

McCainus:         Tee hee, I slipped a Guidant in his drink. 
                         At last, as Prez I cross the White House portal.
                         Sing Hail to the Chief - that's me - immortal.                        
 
                          Alarums, excursions, sennet. Enter Caesar to swelling
                                                            strains from Götterdämmerung

Georgie P.:       The Kenny Bushie Caesar lives ag’in!
                      
McCainus:        The leaker-'n-chief has leaked, 'sblood, right back in.
                         'Tis Bushie, zounds, no ghost, no phantom shade,
                         But flesh and blood he rains on my parade. 

Caesar:             Hello! You’re right! It’s me! I’m back! Tra-la!
                        Now come and listen all, from near and far!
                        You say bells resonate. I say they resignate.
                        You say commensurate, I say commiserate,
                        With keeping peace. You say at the drop of a hat;
                        At the whim of a hat, say I. Not only that:
                        You say relations are, I say relations is.
                        And that is just for starters. Deal with it, gee wiz!
                        I say thus hold hostile when you say hold hostage,
                        And human fallacy, when frailty’s the adage.
                        I said accept their tenants, when tenets ‘s what I meant...
                        Well, language after all’s just begging to be bent.
                        I said that I got pillared, instead of pilloried
                        In cartoons and the press. You think that Hillary’d
                        Do all that better? Then think all the fun you’d miss.
                        Who else would say OB/GYNs aren’t able – take the piss –
                        To practice love with women - and many, many more?
                        I’ll think up new ones, too – lockbox becomes lockjaw;
                        From pleasantry one letter leads to peasantry,
                        To mourn becomes to moon, dissenters dysent’ry;
                        For hissy fit there’s fishy shit. Fudruckers? Guess!
                        The English tongue, you think that I have made a mess?
                        To Grecian I’ll do worse. All grammar I’ll reset:
                        The level are, the children is… You ain’t seen nuttin’ yet.
                                                
Vox populi:        No child left behind? King of illit’racy,
                        Thyself thou’rt way behind, boil-brained pox populi.

Caesar:             Nor does it stop at words, my actions speak more loud
                                                 
Grammarian:     That’s louder!

Caesar:                                 Hopefuller, you said, is not allowed.

Grammarian:      That is more hopeful there.

Caesar:                                                         You stab me in the back.
                         But let us to the facts now go! Look at Eye-rak!   
                         Top C-in-C am I, and wars I do collect.
                         No WMDs? Ten million I detect.
                        There are no toxic arms? I conjure up galore
                         Hyped data, lies, half truths, myths, all to go to war.
                         For alpha male am I, fulltime war president;
                         For battles, clashes, fighting I’m incontinent.

Vox populi:        Yet when way back he could, he never dared to fight,          
                         Lily-livered, from Nam to Texas he took flight.
                         And thence to Alabama, AWOL, did he flee,   
                         That chicken-hearted codpiece, foul pox populi.


Caesar:              Let my axis ‘f anvil tenfold expanded be

Wordsmith:        That’s evil, cockered clown!

Caesar:                                                         From sea to shining sea,
                          Till all the world's a stage…

Will S.:                                                           That’s As You Like It, knave!
                          World? Stage? Not e’en in sandlot couldst thou e'er be brave .

Caesar:               From North Korea, Iran to France and Germany
                          My evil anvil…

Wordsmith:                               Axis, codpiece!

Caesar:                                                                          Italy
                          Embrace I in my axis, and Australia,
                          Japan, Tajikistan, Outer Mongolia,       
                          Siam; and from Brazil I’ll march on to Tibet.
                          Thought’st Eye-rak was the last? You ain’t seen nuttin’ yet.

Vox populi:        This saber-rattling dastard now just wants to be
                         What he did fear when young, milksop pox populi.

Caesar:              And talking evil anvils, evil…

Wordsmith:                                                              Axis, cow!

Caesar:             Move on that I can show you on the taxes how
                        I’ll ease the wealthies’ burden, all their taxes cut,
                        Reward the one per cent with fattened coffers’ glut. 
                        Death tax, capital gains, soon will I end them all
                        To shower the affluent with opulent windfall.
                        And how can I afford to grant them all that loot?
                        Food stamps and Medicaid, the poor man’s cup to boot,
                        I’ll slash and burn and mow and slice and strip and cleave,       
                        Till not a single cent for them will I, zounds, leave.
                        Slash, burn, mow, carve to gut the social safety net!
                        Thought’st tax cuts were the last? You ain’t seen nuttin’ yet.

Vox populi:        More gruel, said Oliver in Dickens’ history,
                         But less than Twist we’ll get from our pox populi.  

Caesar:             They whine and whinge and moan at yawning deficit?
                         Yawn on, in hissy fit! Or is that fishy shit?
                         I’ll spend on tax cuts all; in that no one outbids
                         My generosity; the gap’s for our grandkids.
                         I’ll ope the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge                             
                         For energy, for Halliburton’s profits huge.
                         Nor there I’ll stop, my friends in industry, fear not!
                         I’ll smite at Yellowbone…

Wordsmith:                                                     That’s Yellowstone, you clot!
                         E’en national parks in word and deed you rape!

Caesar:                                                                                        …to find
                         More oil and minerals. Our land is under-mined.
                         I’ll ope Yocemet’ry..      

Wordsmith:                                           Clotpole! Yosemite!

Caesar:             For oil, gold, timber, too. It’s no calamity
                        As toxic greens do claim. And that’s just on-land digs.
                        Offshore I’ll go to war and seed a billion rigs
                        In pure Pacific waters, Gulf of Texaco.

Wordsmith:      Thou maggot-pie, malt-worm! ‘Tis Gulf of Mexico.

Caesar:            Greenhouse gas heats the earth and warms the seas? Hey man,
                       That way we use less energy to get a tan.
                       But climate change they cite as clear and present threat?
                       I’ve barely started, friends. You ain’t seen nuttin’ yet.

Vox populi:      With him there’ll ne’er survive a single poxing tree,
                       All felled by brutish mammering pox populi.

Caesar:           On th’ home front I stand guard, e’er ready to protect
                      With Brownie’s FEMA’s legions, free from all defect,
                      Homeland Security’s hosts ready to rush in
                      At th’ whim ‘f a hat yet one more victory to win,
                      As with Katrina in New Orleans fair town
                      Thanks to my fast response and heck-‘f-a-job Mike Brown.
                      Maligned were we, defamed by evil media,
                      Yet no response since Noah’s time was speedier.
                      I, chief responder, asked ‘Now what would Jesus do?’
                      He’d walk upon the waters! Let them walk there, too!
                      They sink? ‘Tis not our fault, ‘tis ‘cause they do lack faith.
                      They gripe? Then let him cast th’ first bone as Jesus say’th…

Wordsmith:     ‘Tis stone, not bone, clack-dish, coxcomb, bonehead of stone!

Caesar:           Thus with our fast response we have naught to atone. 
                       Why should I let Katrina’s waters interrupt,
                       Or terrorist attacks, expected or abrupt,
                       Encroach upon my reading of that Goat my Pet.
                       Just wait, next hurr’cane seas’n! You ain’t seen nuttin’ yet.

Vox populi:      O mercy, gods, we beg! Will we ne’er e'er be free
                       From knotty-pated, swag-bellied pox populi.  
                       
                                                        Exeunt omnes, dancing a square dance   
                   
                                                 FINIS                                                                                          

18 - The Tragedy of Bushius Caesar Act 5 Scene 4

                       Enter Cheneyus, Scooterus and sundry hangers-on

Cheneyus:         We are defeated? Yet hold up your heads!
                         McCainus won? It is not as I saids?

Grammarian:      Saids? Said, you toad! The Bushie speaking tic
                         Becomes an all consuming pandemic.

Scooterus:         Defeat’s foul filth, zounds, soils us to a man.
                       
                                   Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 2

Sponsor 2:        Confined abed?  Futuro’s the bedpan
                         To keep thee clean, noiseless, full-size, lightweight,
                         With edges smooth, contoured, a true bed-mate.
                                                                     
                                                                Exit sponsor 2

Scooterus:         Where go we now? What does the future hold?

Cheneyus:         Where go we now? If I may be so bold,
                        We’re not defeated, it is just the media
                        (Which by the way each day gets mighty seedier)
                        That concentrates alone on neg’tive news
                        In order to gainsay our halcyon views.
                        They say the troops are dying? We have won!
                        The WMDs do want? Here’s one!
                        Insurgents rule the day? We are supreme!
                        There’s nought can ruin my idyllic dream.
                      
                                         Alarums, excursions, sennet. Enter Caesar
                       
                                        Ruckus, screams, shouts. Exit Caesar, limping

Scooterus:        Dream on, sweet prince, if thou dost vict’ry see
                        I fear that thou art barking up wrong tree.

Cheneyus:         Beyond the media look, I do thee bid;
                        Our victory beneath bad news is hid.
                           
                                             Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 1

Sponsor 1:        Did I hear bid? ‘Tis no-bid that’s the fun,
                        At Halliburton, start before the gun!
                                                    
                                                      Exit sponsor 1
     
Scooterus:        Dream on! Or is it wing on? Either way
                        The facts gainsay all that which thou dost say.

Cheneyus:         It’s not as feared, I swear it by my beard.

Scooterus:        You have no beard. It is just as I feared.    
                       
                                Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 2

Spnosor 2:        Hirsute is not your suit? Unwanted hair?
                         For legs, bikini areas, use Nair!
                       
                                                   Exit sponsor 2


Cheneyus:         This was, and is, and will be a slam dunk!
                         So stop your whining now, and quit your funk!

Scooterus:         I fear you misinterpret all the signs.

Cheneyus:         Thou art balled-up. Now read between the lines!
                        We won, we win and will win ev’ry fight.
                        We’re hot as some whorehouse on nickel night.

Scooterus:        Thou speakest brogue and twang and slang and slanger

Will S.:             Thus do we near the end of our cliffhanger
                       
                                  Exeunt omnes, jitterbugging

17 - The Tragedy of Bushius Caesar Act 5 Scene 3

                            Enter Rummeus and Wolfowitzus

Rummeus:            O Wolfie dear, how goes our cunning plan
                           To worst, or is it best, that Anus man?

Wolfowitz:           Worst, schmorst, best schmest, it meaneth all the same
                            E’en if each verb hath contradict’ry name.

Rummeus:            Then go unto the Hill, that they approve
                            Our cunning scheme McCainus to remove
                            From Senate ere he tar us with same brush
                            That we concocted to impeach the Bush.
                            Find Senate clerk, to know just how it goes.
                            Sit down with him and find out what he knows
                            That he doth not know, find if he unknows
                            What he doth know and yet unknows...

Wolfowitz:                                                                        You pose
                            A puzzle with ‘knows know’ and ‘know not knows’
                            As with your ‘known unknowns’ and ‘unknown knowns,’
                            That brought around the world so many groans.
                            My mind doth boggle, zounds! So, please explain
                            The sigmoid twisting colon of your brain.

Rummeus:            Just go and get the gossip.
                       
                                                                   Exit Wolfowitzus
                             
                                               Alarums, excursions sennet,. Enter Caesar
Caesar:                                                           It is me!
                           And you did think that you were Bushie-free!

Rummeus:           ‘Oh my God! They killed Kenny! You bastards!’
                           Yet back he comes…

Will S.:                                                A rhyme? Yes!

Rummeus:                                                                   like fast herds
                           Of raging buffalo…

Caesar:                                               You plume-plucked hen
                           Yo mama is so fat her arse…

Will S.:                                                           Pox!

Writing C.:                                                              Men!
                       
                                       Ruckus, screams, shouts. Exit Caesar, limping

                                                            Enter Wolfowitzus

Wolfowitz:          The Anus man is in your pants, my lord.

Will S.:               That’s tents, not pants, puke-stockinged worm! O Gawd!
                          The Bushie virus spreads.
                       
                                                Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 2

Sponsor 2:                                                For underpants
                         For adults with the wetties: if by chance
                         Thy bladder overfloweth, then with ease
                         Contain the leaks with Tena! Hide your pees!
                      
                                                                 Exit sponsor 2

                                           Alarums, excursions, sennet. Enter Caesar

Caesar:              Did I hear leaks? I am by myself outed

Vox populi:        Gay Caesar? Brokeback?

Writing C.:                                                 Nay! Just laws he flouted.
                          Now come on men, remove him once for all!
                       
                                                         [Ruckus]

Caesar:              Ouch! Ooh! Ooch! Ow! Eeh! Oh! Ay! My left ball! 
.                      
                                                                Exit Caesar, limping

Rummeus:          My pants? Good golly, I did feel them full.
                          Oh, tents! Then we are done for.

Wolfowitzus:                                                         Fanciful
                         Then was the victory that you predicted
                         But yesterday, to myths and lies addicted.

Rummeus:          I do believe what I said yesterday,
                         I don’t know what I said, but anyway
                         I know what I do think, and I assume
                         It’s what I said.

Will S.:                                      Methinks he doth presume. 

Writing C.:         Nay, that is how he speaks in real life,   
                         His bumbling tongue's not pure as Caesar’s wife.

Rummeus:         Well, um, you know, something is neither good
                         Nor bad but thinking makes it so (or should),
                         I do suppose, I think, as Shakespeare said.

Will S.:              How dare he take my name. I’ll have him dead.
                         Once more the cast rebels, all of its own
                         Takes on a life, ignores my text

Writing C.:                                                          Don't groan,
                         Dear Will! With his good-bads, I think he meant
                         The reference to thee as compliment.
       
Wolfowitzus:      Good, schmood! Bad, schmad! Your words are mighty stale. 
                         You said with all our troops we would prevail.
                         And now we’re in the shitter, in the lav!

Rummeus:          You go to war with the army you have
                          And not the army you might want or wish
                          To have at later time.

Wolfowitzuss:                                     You make me pisch
                          As we do say in Yiddish. What comes next?

Rummeus:          I would not say the future (where’s the text?)
                          Is less predictable than is the past;
                          (I’ve lost my place again. Where is it? Fast!)
                          I think the past was not predictable
                         When it did start.

Wolfowitzus:                                  O mind inscrutable!
                          O what on earth mean’st thou and what in hell?

Rummeus:           If I know the answer, then I will tell
                          You the answer, and if I don't, I'll just
                          Respond cleverly: that is, if I must.

Wolfowitzus:       But what do we do now with this train wreck?

Rummeus:           Now, settle down, do settle down now. Heck,
                          I'm an old man, it's early in the morning,
                          I'm gathering my thoughts here.

Wolfowitzus:                                                      Is it dawning
                         What we should do, now that this pow’r slugfest
                         We’ve lost?

Rummeus:                           We’ve lost? Ah, yes, we’ve lost. Then blest
                         Will be the day that from this mortal coil
                         I’ll shuffle me and far away me hoil.

Will S.:              ‘Struth! Hoil? ‘Tis hurl!

Writing C.:                                              Now into Brooklynese
                          The rump-fed pignut slips.

Will S.:                                                     Then all his pleas
                          I grant to shuffle off, his coil and all.

Rummeus:          Then e’en without a Guidant do I fall.
                         
                                            Rummeus falls

          Alarum. Enter Cheneyus, Scooterus and sundry hangers-on

Cheneyus:         Where, where, o Scootie, doth his body lie?

Scooterus:         Lo, yonder, shrouded ‘neath many a fly.

Cheneyus:          O Bushius Caesar, thou art mighty yet;
                         Thy spirit walks like Kenny’s.
                       
                           Alarums, excursions, sennet. Enter Caesar

Caesar:                                                          You can bet
                         Your bottom dollar!

Writing C.:                                 Wordsmith! Grammar-man!
                                                    
                            Ruckus, screams, shouts. Exit Caesar, limping

Cheneyus:          Such grievous harm and mayhem to our plan
                          The churlish boil-brained boar-pig now done did

Grammarian:       Done did! Ye gods!
                       
                                         Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 1

Sponsor 1:                                      For contracts without bid
                         At Halliburton we are number one,
                         Olympic champions are we bar none.
                         Done did? Did done? We couldn’t care a hoot
                         For grammar, s’ long as we pile up the loot.

                                                           Exit sponsor 1

Cheneyus:         ‘Tis three o’clock, and Romans, yet ere night
                         We shall try fortune in a second fight.
                       
                                           Exeunt omnes, dancing a vigorous twist

16 - The Tragedy of Bushius Caesar Act 5 Scene 2

                               
                     Alarum. Enter Cheneyus and Scooterus

Cheneyus:          Ride, ride, o Scootie, ride, and take this bill
                         Unto our legions gathered on the Hill, 
                         That they prepare and ready our defence,
                         And not sit growing fat in indolence.
                         O, Scooterus, ride on like Paul Revere!
                       
                                                             Exit Scooterus
                                         
                               Alarums, excursions, sennet. Enter Caesar

Caesar:              It’s me again! The Bushie Caesar’s here.

Cheneyus:          ‘Oh my God! They killed Kenny! You bastards!’
                          He's back again, as welcome as are cows’ turds
                          He doth fore’er return, as Rummie said
                          To rain on my parade, back from the dead.

Will S.:               The Bushie Frankenstein once more kidnaps
                          Act 5, scene 2, the theme, the plot. Perhaps
                          As he doth sow destruction, havoc, mayhem,
                          They say if you can't beat them then just join 'em,
                          Perhaps, O Coach, let us out-Frankenstein
                          The Bushie Frankenstein, let us define
                          With lines anew the text that he's hijacked,
                          Give to his role the form that it has lacked
                          Since he returns unbidden to the stage
                          On auto-pilot. Here, take this new page.

                                             He hands a sheaf of papers to Caesar 

Caesar:              O good! Officially I'm reinstated
                          To play my part, my smirks and swaggers slated
                          Once more to grace the scene. Now let me read
                          My lines anew highlighted in this screed.
                          Err. Thus thou plott'st to burp me…

Will S.:                                                                   That’s usurp me,
                          Thou mewling scut!

Cheneyus:                                         Kiss my codpiece, bum-bailey!

Caesar:               O Chenie, slut, why evil did’st thou do?

Cheneyus:           To be the President, zounds, in name, too.

Caesar:               I am Swift Boat for Truth, I’ll sink your boat,
                          I’ll tell the Congress that I learned by rote
                          Each lie, each hype on WMDs,
                          From thee, and on mobile laborat’ries,
                          And bull on Saddam-Al Qaeda links,
                          From thee alone. If I smell, then you stinks.

Grammarian:      That’s ‘stink,’ illit’rate whore’s melt!   

Cheneyus:                                                                    Bushie dear,
[twists mouth      You judge me wrong; now come, lend me your ear.
ever more           I’ll get you re-instated as the Pres
slyly]                   If you just come and do all that I says.

Grammarian:      O Gawd, he’s got the Bushies. Save my verbs!

Cheneyus:          But first let’s leave these Washington suburbs
                          And go to Texas on the hunting trail.
                          Hee hee! That you and I go shooting quail.
                         ‘Tis an experience you won’t forget.
                         Just ask old Harry Whittington. I bet
                         He’ll vouch for me; his polka-dotted face
                         Bears witness to my shooting; in first place
                         Came I with multi-buckshot, giving pause
                         To those who doubt the worth of our star wars
                         Missile defences. South of Corpus Christi
                         At Kath'rine Armstrong's ranch he was so pissed, he
                         grabbed at his holed face and groaned a lot.
[aside]               For Bushie I'll use nucular buckshot
                         And end for ever all his foul intrusions
                         With radioactive lead bullet infusions
[to Caesar]        Come, Bushie, you'll have fun, just ask Armstrong!

Caesar:             Thy twisted gob warns not to trust thy song.
                         Now render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s…

Writing C.:          Nay, that verse, Bush, is not the bardic geezer’s.

Will S.:              Indeed. I wrote not that. He doth adlib

Caesar:             Yo Mama is so fat she ...

Will S.:                                                     He doth crib
                         It from the Gospel Matthew twenty-two.
                                                       
Caesar:             Then tell me, smart arse, what would Jesus do?

Cheneyus:         Thou snub’st my offer, then go to perdition!  

Caesar:              I’ll hit you first, then, with extreme rendition,
                         I’ll send you shackled to the Saudis’ lands
                         Where they’ll chop off your head, your ears, your glans.
                                          
                                          Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 2

Sponsor 2:         It standeth not? Dysfunction erectile?
                         Viagra’s blues will soon restore thy smile.
                         Thy glans will swell; to stiffest stiff from bland
                         Grow thou thy member for an all-night stand.
     
                                           Exit sponsor 2

Caesar:              I just staged an erection in Eye-rak.

Will S.:              Ye gods preserve us! Stop the play!

Writing C.:                                                              Hold back!
                         The show, it must go on. That is the rule!

Cheneyus:          Think’st thou to stop me now, thou skunk-brained fool?
                          Rank piece of snail’s smegma, feet of clay!

Caesar:              In insults I can beat you any day
                         Yo mama is so fat, her double chins…
                       
                                    Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 2

Sponsor 2:        To stay in shape, eat Kotex ultra thins!
                       
                               Alarums, Exursions. Writing coach jumps up and down, breathless

Writing C.:        Nay, nay, o fool, thou errest! That’s Wheat Thins!

Sponsor 2:         O oopslet! Poxlet! Here the page did slip:
                         Use Maxi Pad thins with absorbent strip
                         For feminine protection.

Writing C.:                                            Ah, thou’rt right,
                         The Wheat Thins ad is for tomorrow night.
                       
                                               Exit sponsor 2

Cheneyus:         My obloquy, vile cur, and brickbats shall
                         Foil your illit’rate momas…
                       
                                           Alarums, excursions. Enter sponsor 1

Sponsor 1:                                                    Think ye Hall-
                        -iburton oil, for that’s the name ‘f the game,
                         Both lit’rate and illit’rate, ‘t is the same,
                         At Hal’s we’re letter-blind. It is the dough
                         That we do seek and crave for and love so.

    
                                                        Exit Sponsor 1

Caesar:              Shall foil? Your evil plots I've e'en now foiled,
                          The ambushes you thought were so well-oiled...

                                           Enter Sponsor 1
                         
 Sponsor 1:         Did I hear oil?

Will S.:                                       You've had your say. Get out!
                           You overstay bought ad-time, saucy lout.
                           Enough now! Writing coach, let's give them hell,
                           Or else our play's finale we'll ne'er tell. 
                       
                         Ruckus, screams, shouts. Exeunt omnes
                                                   in whirling scrum of flailing limbs