Alas, poor Yorrick, I knew him Horatio. By the time Juliet got done banging Romeo, Hamlet and King Lear, there was no one left for her to conquer, except maybe the Merchant from Venice, but ya know, age difference and all. We Tamed the Shrew during the Midsummer Night but it was hotter than a day trip through the many many levels of Italian prose.
STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP IT!
What is your major malfunction?
I will not have you quoting gobs of Shakespeare to the washed and squeaky clean masses on this blog. This is a highly respected Joe Lunchbucket type of blog, and there is no room for pseudo intellectual malfeasance.
You heard me. Now, get it on with it, or I'll pull your creative license and make you live out your worst nightmare.
Speechwriter for The Donald.
That, my useless compadre, is not a nightmare. A four year old wired out on five pounds of sugar can slap together two pages of gibberish and it wouldn't anti-matter. That's strike one.
Spokesman for Hillary Clinton.
You can pull a homeless drunk off the street, clean him up, slap a bottle of Jim Beam in his hands and stick him in front of a microphone. He'll make a hell of lot more sense than Hillary. That's strike two.
I got it! I got it! I got it! Songwriter for Justin Beiber!
Please, that is not a nightmare. That's easy money. I can learn three chords, borrow an electric piano and hammer out ten songs, each one containing lest than 25 words, all on a variation of one single theme. That's strike three. So now you get to suffer your worst nightmare.
The preceding post is a sterling example of what happens when the logical side of the brain attempts to muscle in where it doesn't belong, manly the man cave of creativity: he gets taken back to ye olden woodshed for a "meeting of the minds".
My name is G.B. Miller, and I approved this drive-by Bch slapping of my common sense.
(c) 2015 by G.B. Miller. All Rights Reserved.