The Culture Bunker

Thirteenth Night, or Whatever You Say

by William Ham
illustration by David Coscia

Note: We have chosen to pre-empt the usual combination of dead-on sociopolitical commentary and wee-wee jokes to share a major historical find with our readers. We recently discovered the following play, nestled in a catalog of pornographic farm equipment (the play, not us), in a handwritten manuscript yellowed with age (we hope). After a painstaking process of authentication that involved asking a guy who happened to be walking by at the time what he thought it was, it has been determined that this is nothing less than a lost work of William Shakespeare, owing to the unmistakable dramatic sweep of the play, his unparalleled characterizations, and that funny way he had of making “s”s look like “f”s. Elizabethan theatre scholars have further been able to determine that this play was written during Shakespeare’s “sheepish” period; that is to say, it was written under the influence of bad mutton. We present this historical find with a great deal of pride, not to mention relief that we don’t have to come up with anything new this month. We would also like to tell our wife that we were reading the catalog merely for sociological purposes and would prefer it if she wouldn’t throw our clothes out on the lawn again.

ACT ONE

SCENE ONE. An unread screen of a web page

Enter TRICHINOSIS, a dolt.

Trich. Now is the winter of our dyspepsia,
When the bellies of the bestial buttwads burst,
Durst their thirst wouldst first strike their livers worst.
Yea! When the base strumpet plays her bass trumpet,
Would the play be the thing if it ain’t got that swing?
Here stand I on the cheesy battlements of Edam,
Where Gorgonzola, third Duke of Camembert,
Worries the whey-faced Kurd with Kraft most absurd.
And yet but now and here thenceforth from the left I would be,
It is I, Trichinosis, a bristled swine well uncooked,
In this honey of a hamlet I stand guard,
A raw youth uncharred likened unto fatuous lard.
But soft! And cuddly! Another player lurks, distracting me,
From the verse of this meaningless soliloquy.
You! With girded loins! Unhand that pizzle!
Who goes in the bushes over there?
Speak now or forever hold thy codpiece!

Enter FELLATIO, a suck-up.

Fell. The worm has turned, Trichinosis, thou parasite lost!
Trich. Could it be…?
Fell. No, it’s me.
Trich. Fellatio!
Fell. My cover is blown.
Trich. Yea! My turgid friend Fellatio comes, seeking succor!
Fell. How the hecuba art thou, thine dicky Trich?
Trich. Dirty Trich, more like. The publican, King Richard, is dogged by the checkers in his past.
Fell. Thou shan’t have him to kick about anymore. He should heed all the precedents, men. Is it not all but water under the gate?
Trich. Nix on that. I am not a crookback. Nay, let me look woodward as I stand at this post. Pray, be oral, Fellatio. What news from Gaul?
Fell. (grasping crotch in pain) Good, though it still hurts when I…
Trich. Nay, nay! I speak of the Norman, Fell.
Fell. What, the roper? I know not. Lady Suzanne summers with him now.
Trich. Ha! Such a thighmaster is he!
Fell. Yea, I would don knots for him, he knows. He should rejoice, the wit, but three’s no longer company. His eyes yet a-jiggle in her sight, though they are but a pair of boobs.
Trich. Tit, tit, my bosom friend! St. Charlie, his angels still watch over you in their dynasty, for scythe. The stars in Fawcett Major still shine in their extremities.
Fell. They sparkle for six million dullards, man. And it is I that shall be their fall guy.
Trich. If, to say that, you would think to tell a vision, I fear your reception would be most poor.
Fell. You are yet unkosher, Trichinosis. The merchant of venison would sell meat most dear, the Flemish exile may yet hawk his wares near Spitalfield with moist humor, but thee, thou wilt shake and bake well before the date of your expiration. Mark my words, you are best used before that date.
Trich. I will mark it most super. I shall stop and shop through all the farms of Cumberland, seeking stores of convenience with purity supreme.
Fell. And with that, I shall check out.
Trich. Must you blow, Fellatio?
Fell. I must, I must envelop my trust in the gullible gullet of toothy Fate, and root in her canals most incisively. Salivation is at hand! Fare thee well!

Exit FELLATIO.

Trich. My upstanding friend walks away most erect, strutting like a cock, or a yardbird uncertain of the shapes of things. Yet here I stand, head in hand, a beetle-head with a rubber soul gone helter skelter. Yet I canst not let it be. Help! I need somebody!

Enter FELONIOUS and ARBITRARIO.

Felo. Here we are now!
Arbit. Entertain us!
Trich. What ho? It smells like teen spirit! ‘Tis the bane of my existence, Felonious, and his curt co-bane, Arbitrario! Come as you are, you rotten, vicious men! I mean it, maaaan! Never mind the bulwarks!
Felo. Ah!
Arbit. Trichinosis!
Trich. It has been so long since you heeded my beck and call! O, delay! I thought my brothers had turned to dust! But thou hast returned, thy bestial boys.So what’cha, what’cha, what’cha want? Speakest thou of sabotage? Merry, rap with me.
Felo. No longer, Trichinosis.
Arbit. No shorter, either.
Felo. We are not the punks of thine youth anymore.
Arbit. Times past we would seem as monkeys…
Trich. Ha! I’m a believer.
Arbit. Or mayhap the rancid offspring of a green day…
Felo. Plying our bad religion like pixies…
Arbit. Raising a black flag and smashing pumpkins in our wake…
Felo. But we shall no longer clash like the pretenders we were!
Arbit. Nay, we return from Trent with nails nine inches in length…
Felo. To nick the caves where the bad seeds lay!
Trich. Well, it doth seem that you police this place with great sting. I hear tell that thou hast spent a day the the races with our mercurial queen, under pressure, I should think. How fares she? Is Liz fair?
Felo. The queen is dead!
Trich. Nay, whiny smiths!
Arbit. Yea, and she is far more, grateful dead!
Felo. And the artisan formerly known as prince has taken over her purple reign!
Arbit. And it is we that shall lead his ministry most industriously!
Trich. You two? Achtung, baby! `Tis a black sabbath indeed.
Felo. Yea, but with happy Mondays to follow!
Arbit. Strange days, indeed. We have opened the doors to break on through to the other side! Arbitrario, Archbishop…
Felo…. and Felonious, monk!
Trich. I would fain not surrender to this cheap trick.
Arbit. Ain’t that a shame! This crazy horse would not kneel young before the harvest moon!
Felo. Come, Arbitrario, let us away to the stone temple and seek that pompous pilate, Thomas!
Arbit. Agreed. Tom waits for no one!
Felo. Good night, Cleveland!

Exeunt FELONIOUS and ARBITRARIO.

Trich. I would that those two be whipped. Pray, Jove, give them a good beating that I could dance to it! I am now less a happy man than a melancholy lassie. These lads, who I thought were dead boys, return as lords of the new church? They would wish me a cur in their funhouse, a piggy stooge, but now I want not to be their dog. I need time to ponder this. Mayhap a month would suffice.

INTERMISSION