Tis Naught But Folly

[Editor's note: I recently approached a friend of mine, who happens to be a writer, about posting on Copious Vitriol. He agreed immediately. We are, in my opinion, lucky to have him. Join me in welcoming none other than William Shakespeare! --Kurt]

The tyme is nigh for the assencion of President O'Bama. Verily, as an Englishman from 'cross the pond, I looke forward to the day when the Irishman O'Bama assendeth to the throne in the Whyte House.

(Author's note: It hath come to my attencion that Barrack O'Bama is not Irish. Zounds! Prithee, how canst a name like O'Bama not be Irish? Fie!)

(Second note: It hath also come to my attention that the United States doth not have a throne, other than the one in the privy, which I daresay seems to be the throne 'pon which the outgoing President sat most oft. I have been assured that whyle the Oval Office have not a throne, the chairs are indeed most comfy.)

Before going furthr, pray indulge me. I come to this blog, Copious Vitriol, at the requeste of one of the editors, Sifu Kurt. Kurt and I go back many a year, and since writyng plays is not as profitable as once it was (wherefore on the Internet does one look for patrons?), I have decided to ply my unworthy quill for this purpose. Kurt, I thank thee mightily for this opportunity. Indeed, thou dost keep thy pimp hand stronge.

This being my first poste 'pon this blog, I'll thus write about a few items that doth prick me like a thorn. Item the first, Ben Jonson. Think thou art a playwright, Ben Jonson? Thou art a saucy spur-galled varlet! A sheep-biting hedge-pig! Forsooth, since our 1598 production of your play "Every Man in His Humour" have I wanted to say this to thee. Thou hast the manners of a goat and the writing skill of a churlish mole. Thou hast been served, biahtch. Do not cross me again, lest I be forced to decant a flagon of whoop ass.

What else vexeth me, thou might ask? O, but be softe; there is but one thing that doth gall me beyond all measure. Pray thee, William, do tell, do tell. Very well; tell I shall. Methought I had seen times most harsh, but the current economic tempest leaves me feeling like storm-tossed flotsam. I, considered by learned scholars to be the best writer in the English language (John Milton may bite my bulbous bits as well), am forced to scratch out what meager existence I may writing on blogs. It maketh my heart weep. Oft have I scoured Craigslist for employ as playwright, but both my hands and my purse remain empty.

Hope doth glimmer, tho. Yesternight, 'pon my return walk for evening victuals (I supped at an eatery most royal, called "Burger King"), I set my eyes 'pon a playbill promoting a raucous event called a "Poetry Slam," during open mic night at a local pub. I know naught of this "open mic" of which they speak, but the playbill proclaimeth that any and all may read their poetry to the poetry aficionadi in attendance. Verily, have I much poetry that I could read! Methinks a selection of bawdy sonnets wouldst please the attending ears. Mayhap even a patron may be in attendance, hanging 'pon my every word. Though I am no braggart, I shall leave the throng in stunned silence at the skill of my pen.

The Poetry Slam doth take place this Saturday night. I, as your faithful correspondent, shall report here on the success of my performance.

W. Shakespeare